Translation or adaptation?

TW Don't try to read this on a mobile. It explodes the formatting.

Over the last week, inspired by Michael Conley’s post dedicated to Raymond Queneau, I have been thinking about the problems of translating poetry. The result has been several days of picking away at adaptations of a few gems of French poetry.

The first is Le dormeur du val by Arthur Rimbaud. It's one of his earlier poems, and all my children learned it at school. We were living at the time in Picardy, close to the Chemin des Dames, and there were small military cemeteries everywhere. The supermarket was overlooked by a German one. The Great War was omnipresent in that landscape and memory, and Rimbaud’s quietly ant-war poem seemed an appropriate one to teach young children.

I have always been fond of it, and when I first came across an English translation, I was, to put it mildly, disappointed. Le dormeur du val is a sonnet; not exactly a detail, it seems rather important to me. There will be very good translations of Rimbaud available, commissioned by the big publishing houses, but I couldn't find any versions on-line that respected the original form. This is my attempt as an amateur, in both senses of the word, to 'translate' some of the beauty of Rimbaud's words into English.

Le dormeur du val

C’est un trou de verdure où chante une rivière,
Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons
D’argent ; où le soleil, de la montagne fière,
Luit : c’est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.

Un soldat jeune, bouche ouverte, tête nue,
Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu,
Dort ; il est étendu dans l’herbe, sous la nue,
Pâle dans son lit vert où la lumière pleut.

Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant comme
Sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme :
Nature, berce-le chaudement : il a froid.

Les parfums ne font pas frissonner sa narine ;
Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine,
Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouges au côté droit.

The sleeper in the valley
 
There’s a haven of green where the river loud,
Clasps raggedy banks and between them teams
Silver; where sun over mountains proud,
Shines: a small vale brimming bright with beams.
 
A young soldier, lips parted, cap in the grass,
His head bathed in the damp of blue cress stalks tall,
Sleeps in the dew while the white clouds pass,
Pale on his bed where the sunbeams fall.
 
His feet in the flowers, he smiles in his sleep,
As a sick child would smile, when he ceases to weep.
Coax the cold from his bones, Nature, with him bide.
 
No suave wild scents disturb his rest;
He lies in the sun, one hand on his chest,
Quite peaceful. He has two red holes in his side.

The second ‘poem’, by Boris Vian, is an overt protest song. You can read the lyrics in English here. Contrary to what it says in the introduction, Le déserteur was written in protest to the war in Indo-China, not Algeria. Different decade, different war. Vian was as well known as a jazz musician as he was as poet and novelist. This is a recording of him singing Le déserteur.

Below are Vian’s lyrics with my adaptation into English that also fits the melody The song was banned when it first came out, and the first version ultimately published and performed had an alternative, pacifist ending. I have kept to the original.

 Le Déserteur                                The Deserter

Monsieur le président                 Dear Mr President,
Je vous fais une lettre 		I have put pen to paper,
Que vous lirez peut-être 		Perhaps you’ll read this later,
Si vous avez le temps		If you can find the time. 
Je viens de recevoir			I’ve just found in the mail
Mes papiers militaires 		My draft papers explaining,
Pour partir à la guerre 		I must present for training 
Avant mercredi soir. 			By Wednesday, without fail.
Monsieur le président 		Dear Mr President
Je ne veux pas la faire		I  won’t do what’s not right,
Je ne suis pas sur terre		I was not born to fight 
Pour tuer de pauvres gens. 	Poor sods I’ve never met.
C'est pas pour vous fâcher, 	I hope you won’t be hurt,
Il faut que je vous dise, 		But I feel you need to know,
Ma décision est prise,		My mind’s made up, and so
Je m'en vais déserter.		I’m going to desert. 
Depuis que je suis né, 		In my life, I have seen die
J'ai vu mourir mon père, 		My father and my brothers,
J'ai vu partir mes frères 		Like so many others,
Et pleurer mes enfants.		I’ve seen my children cry.   
Ma mère a tant souffert 		My mother suffered so,
Qu'elle est dedans sa tombe	That even in the cemetery 
Et se moque des bombes	She laughs at bombs and dysentery 
Et se moque des vers.		And all the worms below.  
Quand j'étais prisonnier, 		In jail my liberties,
On m'a volé ma femme, 		My wife as well, they stole,
On m'a volé mon âme, 		They took my very soul,
Et tout mon cher passé. 		My fondest memories.
Demain de bon matin 		Before the cock has crowed,
Je fermerai ma porte			I’ll close the door at last, 
Au nez des années mortes, 	On the dead and useless past,
J'irai sur les chemins.		And I’ll take to the road.
Je mendierai ma vie			I’ll tramp and beg my way
Sur les routes de France,		Along the roads of France, 
De Bretagne en Provence 	From north to south as chance
Et je dirrai aux gens:			Takes me. You’ll hear me say,
«Refusez d'obéir, 			‘Don’t listen to their lies
Refusez de la faire, 			Refuse the call before
N'allez pas à la guerre, 		They send you to the war,
Refusez de partir.» 			Refuse to go and die.’ 
S'il faut donner son sang, 	There is no precedent,
Allez donner le vôtre, 		But if blood’s required from many,
Vous êtes bon apôtre 		Yours is as good as any,
Monsieur le président.		Dear Mr President. 
Si vous me poursuivez,		If you track me all the same, 
Prévenez vos gendarmes		You’d better warn your gendarmes, 
Que j’emporte des armes 	I’m carrying my own arms,
Et que je sais tirer.  			And I have a good aim.

This last translation is a wip because I’m not satisfied with it, not surprising really. The poem is one of Paul Verlaine’s best loved works, La chanson d’automne, so I doubt I’ll ever get close, no matter how long I work on it.

Chanson d’automne 	    Autumn song           

Les sanglots longs                 The sobbing strings
Des violons  			   Of the violins
De l’automne  			   Of autumn sling
Blessent mon cœur 		   At my heart
D’une langueur 		           A langourous dart
Monotone. 			           A simple sting.

Tout suffocant  		           Short of breath
Et blême, quand 		  And pale as death 
Sonne l’heure,   		           When the hour chimes
Je me souviens 		           I still recall 
Des jours anciens 		  Those days gone all
Et je pleure  			          And I mourn those times.

Et je m’en vais 		          And I up and go
Au vent mauvais 		  With a bad wind blow
Qui m’emporte 		          On the back of a thief
Deçà, delà, 			          Tossed here then there
Pareil à la 			          No more aware
Feuille morte. 			  Than a dead leaf.