Today’s poem “in translation” is one that I have really struggled with. I deliberately chose a language like none that I speak, and chose not to read the real translation as I know it would affect what I write. Instead of freeing me up, it really stalled me.
Right, so I went to the Poetry International Language site and picked a language – Frisian.
I liked the title Pigeons (and the poem wasn’t too long!), so had a go at my very own fake translation. It has a quirkiness. I put the real one afterwards:
Height, heading west, making height. So high
no eagles find us, notes riff in scant air.
A requiem – wait – final flight, off-world,
fly aloft and tread on the fabric of dreams.
Frizzled, fried, why a dream of cindered flesh,
In whose steam streamed forth bruised earth?
It rains here. I hear nothing but the two dying
and a blind stage, for you to try anything
Hie it hoeden west, miskien hie it net
de rigels fan ús noateskrift skansearre.
It requiem waaide fan ’e flat, ôfdwaalde
fûgelkloft út de triedden om it bytfabryk.an
Frissele frijden wy yn azem sûnder fleis.
In hûs fan stien streamde fol, bruts ôf.
It reinde wer. Ik harke nei de twa dowen
yn ús bline stege, fuorre har de triennen