Egy barátom jóvoltából, érdekes videót láttam a neten. Rögvest meg is osztom Veletek.
Hozzáteszem ez egy túlságosan hű fordítás, és mint ilyen a rímek meglehetősen hiányoznak belőle. És érdekes módon azt vettem észre, hogy ezáltal a varázsát is elvesztette. Vagy attól lehet, hogy a nő túlságosan monoton mondja? Magam se tudom. Nyilván ez ízlés kérdése, és többen dicsérik is az előadást, ezért én nem akarok pálcát törni felette, de nekem nem igazán tetszett. Nagyon egyetértek az egyik hozzászólóval: "ez a fordítás átadta a vers mondanivalóját, csak magát a verset nem....". Mivel egy híres versről van szó, felötlött bennem, hogy nem létezik, hogy csupán ez a (nyers) fordítás nyert létjogosultságot.
Nyomozásba kezdtem ... először ezt találtam:
How others see this region, I cannot understand:
to me, this little country is menaced motherland
with flames around, the world of my childhood swaying far,
and I am grown from this land as tender branches are
from trees. And may my body sink into this soil in the end.
When plants reach out towards me, I greet them as a friend
and know their names and flowers. I am at home here, knowing
the people on the road and why and where they are going-
and how I know the meaning when by a summer lane
the sunset paints the walls with a liquid flame of pain!
The pilot can’t help seeing a war map from the sky,
can’t tell below the home of Vörösmarty Mihály;
what can he identify there? grim barracks and factories,
but I see steeples,oxen, farms, grasshoppers and bees;
his lens spies out the vital production plants, the fields,
but I can see the worker, afraid below, who shields
his labour, a singing orchard, a vinyard and a wood,
among the graves a granny mourning her widowhood,
and what may seem a plant or rail line that must be wrecked
is just a signalhouse with the keeper standing erect
and waving his red flag, lots of children around the guard,
a shepherd dog might roll in the dust in a factory yard,
and there’s the park with the footprints of past loves
and the flavour
of childhood kisses- the honey, the cranberry I still savour;
and on my way to school, by the kerbside to postpone
a spot-test one certain morning, I stepped upon a stone:
look! there’s the stone whose magic the pilot cannot see,
no instrument would merge it in his topography.
True, guilty are we all here, our people as the rest,
we know our faults, we know how and when we have
transgressed,
but there are blameless lives here of toil and poetry and passion,
and infants also, with growing capacity for compassion-
they will protect its glow while in gloomy shelters till
once more our land is marked by the finger of peace:
then they will
respond to our muffled words with new voices fresh and bright.
Spread your great wings above us, protective cloud of night.
És nem sokkal utána találtam egy Gönczi Gina fordítást:
Miklos Radnoti: I cannot know…
I cannot know what this land means to other people.
For me, it is my birthplace, this little nation embraced
by flames, the world of my childhood rocking in the distance.
I grew out of her like a tender branch from a tree
and I hope one day my body will sink into her.
I am at home. And if a shrub happens to kneel down
beside my foot, I know both its name and its flower;
I know who walks on the road and where they are going,
and what it might mean when in the summer sunset
the house-walls shimmer and drip with crimson-agony.
For one who flies above, this land is merely a map,
and does not know where lived Vörösmarty Mihály,
what does this map hold for him? factories and wild barracks;
but for me crickets, oxen, steeples, peaceful homesteads;
he sees factories in his lenses and cultivated meadows,
while I see the worker too, who for his work trembles.
Forests, singing orchards, grapes and cemeteries,
among the graves an old woman who quietly weeps.
And what seem from above train tracks to destroy
is a conductor's house and he stands outside and signals;
many kids surround him, a red flag in his hand,
and in the courtyard a komondor rolls in the sand;
and there's the park, the footsteps of long-lost loves,
the kisses on my mouth both honey and cranberry.
And walking off to school on the edge of the road,
to avoid being called on, I stepped on a stone;
look, here's the stone, but from above, this cannot be seen,
there is no machine with which all this can be revealed.
For we are guilty too, as other peoples are,
knowing full-well when and how and why we've sinned so far,
but workers live here too, and poets, without sin
and tiny babies in whom intellect will flourish;
it shines in them and they guard it, hiding in dark cellars
until the finger of peace once again marks our nation,
and with fresh voices they will answer our muffled words.
Cover us with your big wings, vigil-keeping evening cloud.
For me, it is my birthplace, this little nation embraced
by flames, the world of my childhood rocking in the distance.
I grew out of her like a tender branch from a tree
and I hope one day my body will sink into her.
I am at home. And if a shrub happens to kneel down
beside my foot, I know both its name and its flower;
I know who walks on the road and where they are going,
and what it might mean when in the summer sunset
the house-walls shimmer and drip with crimson-agony.
For one who flies above, this land is merely a map,
and does not know where lived Vörösmarty Mihály,
what does this map hold for him? factories and wild barracks;
but for me crickets, oxen, steeples, peaceful homesteads;
he sees factories in his lenses and cultivated meadows,
while I see the worker too, who for his work trembles.
Forests, singing orchards, grapes and cemeteries,
among the graves an old woman who quietly weeps.
And what seem from above train tracks to destroy
is a conductor's house and he stands outside and signals;
many kids surround him, a red flag in his hand,
and in the courtyard a komondor rolls in the sand;
and there's the park, the footsteps of long-lost loves,
the kisses on my mouth both honey and cranberry.
And walking off to school on the edge of the road,
to avoid being called on, I stepped on a stone;
look, here's the stone, but from above, this cannot be seen,
there is no machine with which all this can be revealed.
For we are guilty too, as other peoples are,
knowing full-well when and how and why we've sinned so far,
but workers live here too, and poets, without sin
and tiny babies in whom intellect will flourish;
it shines in them and they guard it, hiding in dark cellars
until the finger of peace once again marks our nation,
and with fresh voices they will answer our muffled words.
Cover us with your big wings, vigil-keeping evening cloud.
Tudom, eme dolgok értékeléséhez minimum tudni kell angolul, de azért felpattanok egyik kedvenc vesszőparipámra, a fordítás és műfordítás közti széles, elbűvölő és hátborzongató szakadékra. Manapság egy Google Fordító egész tűrhető munkát végez, és például egy autóvásárlást le lehet vele bonyolítani hollandul (egy barátom a napokban éppen ezt tette). De a költészet művészet, és éppen ezért a műfordítás is az. Egy igazi versnek ritmusa és lüktetése van, ezt nem lehet egy Rigó utcai nyelvvizsgával átadni. Mellesleg erről már beszéltem egyszer egy Kipling vers kapcsán.
Hozzáteszem ez nem csak versekre érvényes. P. G. Wodehouse nyilván nagyon színesen ír, mert Révbíró Tamás fordítása egészen káprázatos. És végülis nem az adott szavakat kell érthetővé tenni, hanem az író "mesebeli" hangulatát visszaadni egy másik nyelven. Nem kis vállalkozás!
