LL-L "Literature" 2006.05.05 (04) [E/Spanish]

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Fri May 5 23:31:23 UTC 2006 

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L O W L A N D S - L * 05 May 2006 * Volume 04
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From: R. F. Hahn <sassisch at yahoo.com>
Subject: Translation

Happy Cinco de Mayo (Mexican Day of Liberation) to everyone that
celebrates it, especially to our Mexican subscribers!

Since these days we're in a poetic mode (of sorts) and have been talking
about translation, and although this isn't Mexican but Argentinian, yet at
least Spanish (Castilian) and at the same time has a Lowlands theme, I'm
sharing with you my English translation of a poem, following the original.
 A nod to our Arthur and others who are fond of early Germanic themes.

The name of the poet mentioned is unknown.  The poem appears to be "The
Battle of Brunanburh," whose Old and Modern English versions I will
append.  (I do not know who translated it into Modern English.)

Enjoy if you can!

Regards,
Reinhard/Ron

***

   A UN POETA SAJÓN

   [Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986)]

   Tú cuya carne, hoy dispersión y polvo,
   pesó como la nuestra sobre la tierra,
   tú cuyos ojos vieron el sol, esa famosa estrella,
   tú que viviste no en el rígido ayer
   sino en el incesante presente,
   en el último punto y ápice vertiginoso del tiempo,
   tú que en tu monasterio fuiste llamado
   por la antigua voz de la épica,
   tú que tejiste las palabras,
   tú que cantaste la victoria de Brunanburh
   y no la atribuiste al Señor
   sino a la espada de tu rey,
   tú que con júbilo feroz cantaste,
   la humillación del viking,
   el festín del cuervo y del águila,
   tú que en la oda militar congregaste
   las rituales metáforas de la estirpe,
   tú que un tiempo sin historia
   viste en el ahora el ayer
   y en el sudor y sangre de Brunanburh
   un cristal de antiguas auroras,
   tú que tanto querías a tu Inglaterra
   y no la nombraste,
   hoy no eres otra cosa que unas palabras
   que los germanistas anotan.
   Hoy no eres otra cosa que mi voz
   cuando revive tus palabras de hierro.

   Pido a mis dioses o a la suma del tiempo
   que mis días merezcan el olvido,
   que mi nombre sea Nadie como el de Ulises,
   pero que algún verso perdure
   en la noche propicia a la memoria
   o en las mañanas de los hombres.

   ***

   TO A SAXON POET

   [Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986)]
   [Translation: R. F. Hahn, 2006]

   You whose flesh--now dispersion and dust--
   once weighed upon the earth like ours,
   you whose eyes saw the sun, that famous star,
   you who yesterday did not live in rigidity
   but in the never-ending present,
   at time's endpoint and dizzying peak,
   you who in your monastery were called
   by the epic's ancient voice,
   you who once wove words,
   you who once sang the victory of Brunanburh
   did not ascribe it to the Lord
   but to the sword of your king,
   you who once sang with riotous joy
   the humiliation of the Vikings,
   feast of crow and eagle,
   you who assembled in military ode,
   ancestry's figurative rituals,
   you who at a time of no history
   saw yesterday in present-day
   and in Brunanburh's sweat and blood
   a crystal of ancient auroras,
   you who, as much as you loved your England,
   called it no name,
   today you're nothing but words
   commented on by Germanists.
   Today you're nothing but my voice
   when your words of iron come to life.

   I implore my gods or the sum of time
   that my days be worthy of oblivion,
   that my name be Nobody, like that of Ulysses,
   but that a certain verse may last
   may make memory good at night
   or in the mornings of mankind.

***

THE BATTLE OF BRUNANBURH

   Her Aethelstan cyning, eorla dryhten,
   beorna beag-giefa, and his brothor eac,
   Eadmund aetheling, ealdor-langetir
   geslogon aet saecce sweorda ecgum
   ymbe Brunanburh. Bord-weall clufon,
   heowon heathu-linde hamora lafum
   eaforan Eadweardes, swa him ge-aethele waes
   fram cneo-magum thaet hie aet campe oft
   with lathra gehwone land ealgodon,
   hord and hamas. Hettend crungon,
   Scotta leode and scip-flotan,
   faege feollon. Feld dennode
   secga swate siththan sunne upp
   on morgen-tid, maere tungol,
   glad ofer grundas, Godes candel beorht,
   eces Dryhtnes, oth seo aethele gesceaft
   sag to setle. Thaer laeg secg manig
   garum agieted, guma Northerna
   ofer scield scoten, swelce Scyttisc eac,
   werig, wiges saed.
   West-Seaxe forth
   andlange daeg eorod-cystum
   on last legdon lathum theodum,
   heowon here-flieman hindan thearle
   mecum mylen-scearpum. Mierce ne wierndon
   heardes hand-plegan haeletha nanum
   thara-the mid Anlafe ofer ear-gebland
   on lides bosme land gesohton,
   faege to gefeohte. Fife lagon
   on tham camp-stede cyningas geonge,
   sweordum answefede, swelce seofone eac
   eorlas Anlafes, unrim herges,
   flotena and Scotta. Thaere gefliemed wearth
   North-manna brego, niede gebaeded,
   to lides stefne lytle weorode;
   cread cnear on flot, cyning ut gewat
   on fealone flod, feorh generede.
   Swelce thaere eac se froda mid fleame com
   on his cyththe north, Constantinus,
   har hilde-rinc. Hreman ne thorfte
   meca gemanan; he waes his maga sceard,
   freonda gefielled on folc-stede,
   beslaegen aet saecce, and his sunu forlet
   on wael-stowe wundum forgrunden,
   geongne aet guthe. Gielpan ne thorfte
   beorn blanden-feax bill-gesliehtes,
   eald inwitta, ne Anlaf thy ma;
   mid hira here-lafum hliehhan ne thorfton
   thaet hie beadu-weorca beteran wurdon
   on camp-stede cumbol-gehnastes,
   gar-mittunge, gumena gemotes,
   waepen-gewrixles, thaes hie on wael-felda
   with Eadweardes eaforan plegodon.
   Gewiton him tha North-menn naegled-cnearrum,
   dreorig darotha laf, on Dinges mere
   ofer deop waeter Dyflin secan,
   eft Ira lang aewisc-mode.
   Swelce tha gebrothor begen aetsamne,
   cyning and aetheling, cyththe sohton,
   West Seaxna lang, wiges hremge.
   Leton him behindan hraew bryttian
   sealwig-padan, thone sweartan hraefn
   hyrned-nebban, and thone hasu-padan,
   earn aeftan hwit, aeses brucan,--
   graedigne guth-hafoc, and thaet graege deor,
   wulf on wealda.
   Ne wearth wael mare
   on thys ig-lande aefre gieta
   folces gefielled beforan thissum
   sweordes ecgum, thaes-the us secgath bec,
   eald uthwitan, siththan eastan hider
   Engle and Seaxe upp becomon,
   ofer brad brimu Britene sohton,
   wlance wig-smithas, Wealas ofercomon,
   eorlas ar-hwaete eard begeaton.

***

   In this year King Aethelstan, Lord of warriors,
   ring-giver to men, and his brother also,
   Prince Eadmund, won eternal glory
   in battle with sword edges
   around Brunanburh. They split the shield-wall,
   they hewed battle shields with the remnants of hammers.
   The sons of Eadweard, it was only befitting their noble descent
   from their ancestors that they should often
   defend their land in battle against each hostile people,
   horde and home. The enemy perished,
   Scots men and seamen,
   fated they fell. The field flowed
   with blood of warriors, from sun up
   in the morning, when the glorious star
   glided over the earth, God's bright candle,
   eternal lord, till that noble creation
   sank to its seat. There lay many a warrior
   by spears destroyed; Northern men
   shot over shield, likewise Scottish as well,
   weary, war sated.

   The West-Saxons pushed onward
   all day; in troops they pursued the hostile people.
   They hewed the fugitive grievously from behind
   with swords sharp from the grinding.
   The Mercians did not refuse hard hand-play to any warrior
   who came with Anlaf over the sea-surge
   in the bosom of a ship, those who sought land,
   fated to fight. Five lay dead
   on the battle-field, young kings,
   put to sleep by swords, likewise also seven
   of Anlaf's earls, countless of the army,
   sailors and Scots. There the North-men's chief was put
   to flight, by need constrained
   to the prow of a ship with little company:
   he pressed the ship afloat, the king went out
   on the dusky flood-tide, he saved his life.
   Likewise, there also the old campaigner through flight came
   to his own region in the north--Constantine--
   hoary warrior. He had no reason to exult
   the great meeting; he was of his kinsmen bereft,
   friends fell on the battle-field,
   killed at strife: even his son, young in battle, he left
   in the place of slaughter, ground to pieces with wounds.
   That grizzle-haired warrior had no
   reason to boast of sword-slaughter,
   old deceitful one, no more did Anlaf;
   with their remnant of an army they had no reason to
   laugh that they were better in deed of war
   in battle-field--collision of banners,
   encounter of spears, encounter of men,
   trading of blows--when they played against
   the sons of Eadweard on the battle field.

   Departed then the Northmen in nailed ships.
   The dejected survivors of the battle,
   sought Dublin over the deep water,
   leaving Dinges mere
   to return to Ireland, ashamed in spirit.
   Likewise the brothers, both together,
   King and Prince, sought their home,
   West-Saxon land, exultant from battle.
   They left behind them, to enjoy the corpses,
   the dark coated one, the dark horny-beaked raven
   and the dusky-coated one,
   the eagle white from behind, to partake of carrion,
   greedy war-hawk, and that gray animal
   the wolf in the forest.

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