Конкурс: Дуэль переводов

Весенний привет поэтам! 



У нас новая дуэль. Это перевод. aequans и MoMuD Andrew будут переводить стихотворение нобелевского лаурета по литературе, ирландского писателя — Шеймуса Хини. А мы будем обсуждать, у кого же получилось интереснее и удачнее)


Задание: перевести стихотворение «Whatever You Say, Say Nothing». Автор: Seamus Heaney. 


UPD! К участию принимаются переводы от всех желающих) 


Если у вас (как и у меня) проблемы с англ., то машинный перевод можно посмотреть с помощью гугл переводчика, например. Просто скопируйте стихотворение в окно переводчика, открывшегося по ссылке. 


Whatever You Say, Say Nothing


Im writing just after an encounter
With an English journalist in search of views
On the Irish thing. Im back in winter
Quarters where bad news is no longer news,
Where media-men and stringers sniff and point,
Where zoom lenses, recorders and coiled leads
Litter the hotels. The times are out of joint
But I incline as much to rosary beads
As to the jottings and analyses
Of politicians and newspapermen
Whove scribbled down the long campaign from gas
And protest to gelignite and Sten,
Who proved upon their pulses escalate,
Backlash and crack down, the provisional wing,
Polarization and long-standing hate.
Yet I live here, I live here too, I sing,
Expertly civil-tongued with civil neighbours
On the high wires of first wireless reports,
Sucking the fake taste, the stony flavours
Of those sanctioned, old, elaborate retorts:
Oh, its disgraceful, surely, I agree.
Wheres it going to end? Its getting worse.
Theyre murderers. Internment, understandably ...
The voice of sanity is getting hoarse.


Men die at hand. In blasted street and home
The gelignites a common sound effect:
As the man said when Celtic won, The Pope of Romes
a happy man this night. His flock suspect

In their deepest heart of hearts the heretic
Has come at last to heel and to the stake.
We tremble near the flames but want no truck
With the actual firing. Were on the make

As ever. Long sucking the hind tit
Cold as a witchs and as hard to swallow
Still leaves us fork-tongued on the border bit:
The liberal papist note sounds hollow

When amplified and mixed in with the bangs
That shake all hearts and windows day and night.
(Its tempting here to rhyme on labour pangs
And diagnose a rebirth in our plight

But that would be to ignore other symptoms.
Last night you didnt need a stethoscope
To hear the eructation of Orange drums
Allergic equally to Pearse and Pope.)

On all sides little platoons are mustering-
The phrase is Cruise OBriens via that great
Backlash, Burke-while I sit here with a pestering
Drouth for words at once both gaff and bait

To lure the tribal shoals to epigram
And order. I believe any of us
Could draw the line through bigotry and sham
Given the right line, aere perennius.


«Religions never mentioned here», of course.
«You know them by their eyes,» and hold your tongue.
«One sides as bad as the other,» never worse.
Christ, its near time that some small leak was sprung
In the great dykes the Dutchman made
To dam the dangerous tide that followed Seamus.
Yet for all this art and sedentary trade
I am incapable. The famous
Northern reticence, the tight gag of place
And times: yes, yes. Of the «wee six» I sing
Where to be saved you only must save face
And whatever you say, you say nothing.
Smoke-signals are loud-mouthed compared with us:
Manoeuvrings to find out name and school,
Subtle discrimination by addresses
With hardly an exception to the rule
That Norman, Ken and Sidney signalled Prod
And Seamus (call me Sean) was sure-fire Pape.
O land of password, handgrip, wink and nod,
Of open minds as open as a trap,
Where tongues lie coiled, as under flames lie wicks,
Where half of us, as in a wooden horse
Were cabind and confined like wily Greeks,
Besieged within the siege, whispering morse.



This morning from a dewy motorway
I saw the new camp for the internees:
A bomb had left a crater of fresh clay
In the roadside, and over in the trees
Machine-gun posts defined a real stockade.
There was that white mist you get on a low ground
And it was déjà-vu, some film made
Of Stalag 17, a bad dream with no sound.
Is there a life before death? Thats chalked up
In Ballymurphy. Competence with pain,
Coherent miseries, a bite and sup,
We hug our little destiny again.



1. Переводы должны быть новыми, написанными для данной дуэли, нигде ранее не опубликованными.
2. Правила сайта и законодательство нарушать нельзя. Просьба о политике и пошлости не писать.
3. Дуэлянты не голосуют.
4. Желающие проголосовать отдают голоса за обе работы, ставя их на 1, 2, 3 места.
Второе и третье места приносят дуэлянтам равное количество баллов.
5. Запрещается забирать стихи во время голосования.


Обсуждение переводов приветствуется))). 


Стихотворения (1)

Конкурс завершён! Спасибо за участие!
Кураторы: Любовь Ландина

Итоги конкурса:

1 место - aequans

Комментарии (71)

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MoMuD Andrew20.04.2021 23:35
Щас всё сделаю, если ещё кому-то надо
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