র‌্যাঁবোর ‘মাতাল তরণী’ বিভিন্ন জন নিজের মতো অনুবাদ করেছেন । আমিও নিজের মতন করছি । নাম দিয়েছি ‘মত্ত নৌকো’

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The Drunken Boat

By Arthur Rimbaud

(১) As I further down the impassive Rivers came,

No longer felt I guided by the bargemen’s hauls:

Screaming Redskins had used them to practice their aim,

And they had nailed them, naked, onto colored poles.

I didn’t much care for any of the crewmen,

The Flemish wheat, the English cotton in their tow.

As all that clamor died along with my bargemen,

The River let me sail at will upon its flow.

Straight into the furious lashing of the tide,

I, that other winter more deaf than toddler mind,

Ran! The Peninsulas, unmoored and set aglide,

Never knew a cry of triumph so unconfined.

The tempest blessed me as I woke unto the sea.

More lightweight than a cork I danced on crest and trough,

(Eternal rollers of victims they’re said to be,)

Ten nights without the lantern and its banal glow!

Sweeter than to children a sour apple’s meat,

The green water penetrated my pinewood frame,

And the stains of blue wine and splashes of vomit

It washed; my anchor and rudder the sea would claim.

And from that moment onwards I bathed in the Verse

Of the Sea, infused with stars and lactescent ink,

Ravaging green azures, where, pallid and submersed,

A delighted, drowned dreamer sometimes may sink;

Where, suddenly dyeing the blue, deranged fires,

And slow rhythms under the daylight’s shining stare,

Stronger than alcohol, vaster than our lyres,

Ferment for me the bitter redness of love’s glare!

I know the skies in thunderbolts, a whirlwind’s might,

And the surf, and the currents, to dusks I have been,

And dawns as sublime as exalted doves in flight,

And I saw at times that which man but thinks he’s seen!

I saw the low sun speckled with mystic horrors,

Illuminating long and solid purple straps,

Which remind of ancient dramas and their actors,

The waves rolling far off their trembling shutter-flaps!

I have dreamt of a green night in glittering snows,

A kiss reaching into the sea’s eye, slow and long,

The flowing of a lifeblood which no human knows,

And blue and yellow surging of phosphoric song!

I followed for months, like herds adrift on prairies,

Frantic, the swell that battles reefs until the death,

Never dreaming that the lustrous feet of Marys,

Could force the muzzle onto Oceans out of breath!

I crashed, do you know, into rare, exotic lands,

Where flowers fuse with panther eyes in skins of men,

Iridiscent rainbows stretched tight as bridle bands,

Neath the seas’ horizon, and to glaucous herds again!

I saw the enormous marshes seething, and nets

Where a Leviathan rots in the weed, grasp this!

And a sinkhole amidst the placid seas which lets

The flow collapse into a cascading abyss!

Glaciers, silver suns, pearl waves, skies of ember!

Hideous wrecks along the bottoms of brown bays,

Where gigantic snakes whom the vermin dismember,

Fall from contorted trees in a black, pungent haze!

I would have liked to show to children the dolphin

On a blue rising wave, that golden fish that sings.

Foams colored by flowers gently rocked my drifting,

And ineffable winds at times lent me their wings.

And sometimes, martyrs sick of poles and zones, mellow,

Their sobs sweetening my rolling, the weeping seas

Raised for me dark blossoms, suction cups all yellow,

And I hung out there like a woman on her knees…

Akin to an island, watching my sides ravaged

By quarrels and droppings of pale-eyed, noisy birds,

I wandered along as across my frayed cordage

Drowned men sank backwards into slumber without words!

Hurled by the hurricane into the birdless ether,

Lost under the hair of coves on shallow ground,

I, a boat whose wreck, a carcass drunk with water,

Neither merchant ships nor Monitors would have found;

Free, smoking, arisen from violet vapour,

I pierced the blushing sky like a wall gives to drill,

A luscious reward for good verse put on paper:

Lichens of sunlight and an azure spill,

I ran, flecked with lunulas, electric bows,

A rabid plank, trailed by sea-horses black as night,

When Julys carved with crushing bludgeon blows

Ultramarine skies into funnels set alight;

I who trembled to sense, at fifty leagues of distance,

Groaning Behemots rut, and Maelstroms broad and thick,

Eternal spinner of a blue inert persistence,

I miss Europe’s ancient parapet walls of brick!

I’ve seen astral islands, and swarms of stars, on deep

Delirious skies to which sailors set their course:

– In those endless nights, are you exiled, do you sleep,

One million golden birds, O future Vital Force?

But, truly, I’ve wept much! Every Dawn but saddens,

Every sun is bitter, every moon is rotten.

Rancid love has bloated me with stupor that maddens,

O may my keel dissolve! May I sink to bottom!

I want one water in Europe — shallow lying,

Black and cold, where into the scented dying day

A crouching child full of sorrow sends off flying

A boat as fragile as a butterfly in May!

I cannot anymore, O waves, bathed in your langours,

Undo the wake which cotton freighters spread in rays,

Nor endure the pride of the flags and the banners,

Nor swim under the floating bridges’ dreadful gaze!

Translated by Milos Maricic

——————————————————————————————————————-

(২)As I was floating down unconcerned Rivers

I no longer felt myself steered by the haulers:

Gaudy Redskins had taken them for targets

Nailing them naked to coloured stakes.

I cared nothing for all my crews,

Carrying Flemish wheat or English cottons.

When, along with my haulers those uproars were done with

The Rivers let me sail downstream where I pleased.

Into the ferocious tide-rips

Last winter, more absorbed than the minds of children,

I ran! And the unmoored Peninsulas

Never endured more triumphant clamourings

The storm made bliss of my sea-borne awakenings.

Lighter than a cork, I danced on the waves

Which men call eternal rollers of victims,

For ten nights, without once missing the foolish eye of the harbor lights!

Sweeter than the flesh of sour apples to children,

The green water penetrated my pinewood hull

And washed me clean of the bluish wine-stains and the splashes of vomit,

Carrying away both rudder and anchor.

And from that time on I bathed in the Poem

Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk,

Devouring the green azures; where, entranced in pallid flotsam,

A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down;

Where, suddenly dyeing the bluenesses, deliriums

And slow rhythms under the gleams of the daylight,

Stronger than alcohol, vaster than music

Ferment the bitter rednesses of love!

I have come to know the skies splitting with lightnings, and the waterspouts

And the breakers and currents; I know the evening,

And Dawn rising up like a flock of doves,

And sometimes I have seen what men have imagined they saw!

I have seen the low-hanging sun speckled with mystic horrors.

Lighting up long violet coagulations,

Like the performers in very-antique dramas

Waves rolling back into the distances their shiverings of venetian blinds!

I have dreamed of the green night of the dazzled snows

The kiss rising slowly to the eyes of the seas,

The circulation of undreamed-of saps,

And the yellow-blue awakenings of singing phosphorus!

I have followed, for whole months on end, the swells

Battering the reefs like hysterical herds of cows,

Never dreaming that the luminous feet of the Marys

Could force back the muzzles of snorting Oceans!

I have struck, do you realize, incredible Floridas

Where mingle with flowers the eyes of panthers

In human skins! Rainbows stretched like bridles

Under the seas’ horizon, to glaucous herds!

I have seen the enormous swamps seething, traps

Where a whole leviathan rots in the reeds!

Downfalls of waters in the midst of the calm

And distances cataracting down into abysses!

Glaciers, suns of silver, waves of pearl, skies of red-hot coals!

Hideous wrecks at the bottom of brown gulfs

Where the giant snakes devoured by vermin

Fall from the twisted trees with black odours!

I should have liked to show to children those dolphins

Of the blue wave, those golden, those singing fishes.

– Foam of flowers rocked my driftings

And at times ineffable winds would lend me wings.

Sometimes, a martyr weary of poles and zones,

The sea whose sobs sweetened my rollings

Lifted its shadow-flowers with their yellow sucking disks toward me

And I hung there like a kneeling woman…

Almost an island, tossing on my beaches the brawls

And droppings of pale-eyed, clamouring birds,

And I was scudding along when across my frayed cordage

Drowned men sank backwards into sleep!

But now I, a boat lost under the hair of coves,

Hurled by the hurricane into the birdless ether,

I, whose wreck, dead-drunk and sodden with water,

neither Monitor nor Hanse ships would have fished up;

Free, smoking, risen from violet fogs,

I who bored through the wall of the reddening sky

Which bears a sweetmeat good poets find delicious,

Lichens of sunlight [mixed] with azure snot,

Who ran, speckled with lunula of electricity,

A crazy plank, with black sea-horses for escort,

When Julys were crushing with cudgel blows

Skies of ultramarine into burning funnels;

I who trembled, to feel at fifty leagues’ distance

The groans of Behemoth’s rutting, and of the dense Maelstroms

Eternal spinner of blue immobilities

I long for Europe with it’s aged old parapets!

I have seen archipelagos of stars! and islands

Whose delirious skies are open to sailor:

– Do you sleep, are you exiled in those bottomless nights,

Million golden birds, O Life Force of the future? –

But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking.

Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter:

Sharp love has swollen me up with heady langours.

O let my keel split! O let me sink to the bottom!

If there is one water in Europe I want, it is the

Black cold pool where into the scented twilight

A child squatting full of sadness, launches

A boat as fragile as a butterfly in May.

I can no more, bathed in your langours, O waves,

Sail in the wake of the carriers of cottons,

Nor undergo the pride of the flags and pennants,

Nor pull past the horrible eyes of the hulks.

– As translated by Oliver Bernard: Arthur Rimbaud, Collected Poems (1962).

 

——————————————————————————————————————————

(৩)As I was going down impassive Rivers,

I no longer felt myself guided by haulers:

Yelping redskins had taken them as targets

And had nailed them naked to colored stakes.

 

I was indifferent to all crews,

The bearer of Flemish wheat or English cottons

When with my haulers this uproar stopped

The Rivers let me go where I wanted.

 

Into the furious lashing of the tides

More heedless than children’s brains the other winter

I ran! And loosened Peninsulas

Have not undergone a more triumphant hubbub

 

The storm blessed my sea vigils

Lighter than a cork I danced on the waves

That are called eternal rollers of victims,

Ten nights, without missing the stupid eye of the lighthouses!

 

Sweeter than the flesh of hard apples is to children

The green water penetrated my hull of fir

And washed me of spots of blue wine

And vomit, scattering rudder and grappling-hook

 

And from then on I bathed in the Poem

Of the Sea, infused with stars and lactescent,

Devouring the azure verses; where, like a pale elated

Piece of flotsam, a pensive drowned figure sometimes sinks;

 

Where, suddenly dyeing the blueness, delirium

And slow rhythms under the streaking of daylight,

Stronger than alcohol, vaster than our lyres,

The bitter redness of love ferments!

 

I know the skies bursting with lightning, and the waterspouts

And the surf and the currents; I know the evening,

And dawn as exalted as a flock of doves

And at times I have seen what man thought he saw!

 

I have seen the low sun spotted with mystic horrors,

Lighting up, with long violet clots,

Resembling actors of very ancient dramas,

The waves rolling far off their quivering of shutters!

 

I have dreamed of the green night with dazzled snows

A kiss slowly rising to the eyes of the sea,

The circulation of unknown saps,

And the yellow and blue awakening of singing phosphorous!

 

I followed during pregnant months the swell,

Like hysterical cows, in its assault on the reefs,

Without dreaming that the luminous feet of the Marys

Could constrain the snout of the wheezing Oceans!

 

I struck against, you know, unbelievable Floridas

Mingling with flowers panthers’ eyes and human

Skin! Rainbows stretched like bridal reins

Under the horizon of the seas to greenish herds!

 

I have seen enormous swamps ferment, fish-traps

Where a whole Leviathan rots in the rushes!

Avalanches of water in the midst of a calm,

And the distances cataracting toward the abyss!

 

Glaciers, suns of silver, nacreous waves, skies of embers!

Hideous strands at the end of brown gulfs

Where giant serpents devoured by bedbugs

Fall down from gnarled trees with black scent!

 

I should have liked to show children those sunfish

Of the blue wave, the fish of gold, the singing fish.

—Foam of flowers rocked my drifting

And ineffable winds winged me at times.

 

At times a martyr weary of poles and zones,

The sea, whose sob created my gentle roll,

Brought up to me her dark flowers with yellow suckers

And I remained, like a woman on her knees…

 

Resembling an island tossing on my sides the quarrels

And droppings of noisy birds with yellow eyes

And I sailed on, when through my fragile ropes

Drowned men sank backward to sleep!

 

Now I, a boat lost in the foliage of caves,

Thrown by the storm into the birdless air

I whose water-drunk carcass would not have been rescued

By the Monitors and the Hanseatic sailboats;

 

Free, smoking, topped with violet fog,

I who pierced the reddening sky like a wall,

Bearing, delicious jam for good poets

Lichens of sunlight and mucus of azure,

 

Who ran, spotted with small electric moons,

A wild plank, escorted by black seahorses,

When Julys beat down with blows of cudgels

The ultramarine skies with burning funnels;

 

I, who trembled, hearing at fifty leagues off

The moaning of the Behemoths in heat and the thick Maelstroms,

Eternal spinner of the blue immobility

I miss Europe with its ancient parapets!

 

I have seen sidereal archipelagos! and islands

Whose delirious skies are open to the sea-wanderer:

—Is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep and exile yourself,

Million golden birds, o future Vigor? –

 

But, in truth, I have wept too much! Dawns are heartbreaking.

Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.

Acrid love has swollen me with intoxicating torpor

O let my keel burst! O let me go into the sea!

 

If I want a water of Europe, it is the black

Cold puddle where in the sweet-smelling twilight

A squatting child full of sadness releases

A boat as fragile as a May butterfly.

 

No longer can I, bathed in your languor, o waves,

Follow in the wake of the cotton boats,

Nor cross through the pride of flags and flames,

Nor swim under the terrible eyes of prison ships.

Translated by Wallace Fowlie

——————————————————————————————————————————-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

——————————————————————————————————————————-

(৪)The tranquil River carried me downstream

as tribal warriors slashed the hauler’s throats;

my ropes went slack, and I could live my dream!

They nailed the naked crew to painted posts.

I didn’t care about the slaughtered men,

the Flemish wheat or English cotton freight.

When all the mayhem settled down again,

the River taught me how to navigate.

I ran through winter heedless as a child,

through raging storms and riffling, surging tides.

Triumphant over chaos, I ran wild!

Peninsulas began to shift and slide.

The storm blessed my awakening at sea.

Light as a cork, I danced upon the waves

that roll the dead in shrouds and set them free.

Ten nights, and I don’t miss those empty lamps.

Like sour apples tasting sweet to children,

the green sea seeped into my hull of fir,

rinsed out the puke and blotches of blue wine,

and swept away my grappling hook and rudder.

And then I bathed in the Poem of the Ocean,

infused with galaxies of milky stars,

devouring greens afloat in turquoise flotsam,

the thoughtful drowned, with pale blue scars,

the sudden stain of blue delirium,

intoxicating rhythms under spirals

of gleaming light, perhaps a requiem,

fermented, bitter, played on lovestruck lyres.

I’ve watched the sky explode with lightning spark,

watched waterspouts and swirling tidal streams,

observed the flight of doves around dawn’s arc,

and seen what other men have only dreamed.

I’ve watched the sun grow dark with mystic dread,

ablaze with streaks of ultraviolet light;

the gleaming waves still shudder with the dead,

a re-enactment of an ancient rite.

I’ve dreamed of green nights, dazzled by the snow,

of kisses climbing up the oceans’ eyes,

and brilliant blue and yellow saps that flow,

awakening the singing phosphorus.

Through pregnant months, I’ve followed tidal swells,

hysterical as herds assaulting reefs,

without thinking of Mary’s luminous

feet, battered by the snout of windblown seas.

You know I’ve struck amazing Floridas,

mixed flowers and panther’s eyes in skins of men,

and followed rainbows’ bridals to green herds

that graze beyond the ocean’s last horizon.

In putrid swamps I’ve seen humungous traps

with crocodiles decaying in the reeds.

I’ve seen calm, shattered by a wave’s collapse,

whirlpools that circle down the dark abyss,

silver suns, pearly water, glaciers, skies,

hideous shipwrecks sunk in murky seas,

and giant serpents feasted on by flies.

I’ve smelled the stench among the twisted trees.

I wanted children’s eyes to see these fish

that swim in blue waves, golden bream that sing

of foam and flowers appearing in my visions

and powerful winds that heave me up on wings.

I’ve rocked so long upon these sobbing seas

that offered me their yellow-suckered flowers,

and I’ve remained a woman on my knees,

at times a martyr, tired of zones and poles,

almost an island, fed up to my gunwales

with blond-eyed birds dropping their slime and gossip.

I’ve sailed on as the drowned began to funnel

down backwards through frail ropes and fall asleep.

And I, a boat lost in the hair of bays,

tossed by the wind into the birdless ether,

my water-drunken carcass won’t be saved

by Hanseatic Coastguard ships. I’ve slithered

free, frothing, riding violet twilight haze.

I, who shot through the sky, a glowing dyke,

who fed the poets jams and marmalades,

the snots of bright blue sky, and sun-blanched lichen,

I ran! Blotched by electric crescent moons,

a mad plank, pushed around by black sea-monsters,

I fled July’s hammering heat, the noonday

skies, that brilliant blue, those fiery funnels.

I, who shook, hearing moaning Behemoths

some fifty leagues away, and raging whirlpools,

eternal weavers of unmoving blues,

I miss Europe, her old protective walls.

But I’ve seen archipelagos of stars,

delirious heavens that open wide for sailors—

Are you exiling yourself in slumber,

O million golden birds, O rising vigor?

But now, I’ve wept too much. I’m in a funk.

And every moon is horrible, every sun

is bitter. Love is toxic, swollen, drunk.

O let my keel break; let me come undone.

If I want Europe’s water, it’s a cold

black puddle, where a sad child crouches down

to push a boat, as fragile as an old

butterfly, toward the setting sun.

No longer can I, tossed by weary waves,

drift in the wake of schooners full of cotton bales.

Nor can I cross the pride of flags and flames,

nor swim beneath those ghastly eyes of floating jails.

Translated by John W Steele

——————————————————————————————————————————-

 

 

 

 

 

____________________________________ ________________

 

Translation by Rebecca Seiferle:

 

(৫)As I descended impassible Rivers,

I felt no longer steered by bargemen;

they were captured by howling Redskins,

nailed as targets, naked, to painted stakes.

 

What did I care for cargo or crews,

bearers of English cotton or Flemish grain—

having left behind the bargemen and racket,

the Rivers let me descend where I wished.

 

In the furious splashing of the waves,

I — that other winter, deafer than the minds

of children — ran! And the unanchored Peninsulas

never knew a more triumphant brouhaha.

 

The tempest blessed my sea awakening.

Lighter than cork, I danced the waves

scrolling out the eternal roll of the dead—

ten nights, without longing for the lantern’s silly eye.

 

Sweeter than the flesh of tart apples to children,

the green water penetrated my pine hull

and purged me of vomit and the stain of blue wines—

my rudder and grappling hooks drifting away.

 

Since then, I have bathed in the Poem

of the Sea, a milky way, infused with stars,

devouring the azure greens where, flotsam-pale

and ravished, drowned and pensive men float by.

 

Where, suddenly staining the blues, delirious

and slow rhythms under the glowing red of day,

stronger than alcohol, vaster than our lyrics,

ferment the red bitters of love!

 

I know heavens pierced by lightning, the waterspouts

and undertows and currents: I know night,

Dawn rising like a nation of doves,

and I’ve seen, sometimes, what men only dreamed they saw!

 

I’ve seen the sun, low, a blot of mystic dread,

illuminating with far-reaching violet coagulations,

like actors in antique tragedies,

the waves rolling away in a shiver of shutters.

 

I’ve dreamed a green night to dazzling snows,

kisses slowly rising to the eyelids of the sea,

unknown saps flowing, and the yellow and blue

rising of phosphorescent songs.

 

For months, I’ve followed the swells assaulting

the reefs like hysterical herds, without ever thinking

that the luminous feet of some Mary

could muzzle the panting Deep.

 

I’ve touched, you know, incredible Floridas

where, inside flowers, the eyes of panthers mingle

with the skins of men! And rainbows bridle

glaucous flocks beneath the rim of the sea!

 

I’ve seen fermenting— enormous marshes, nets

where a whole Leviathan rots in the rushes!

Such a ruin of water in the midst of calm,

and the distant horizon worming into whirlpools!

 

Glaciers, silver suns, pearly tides, ember skies!

Hideous wrecks at the bottom of muddy gulfs

where giant serpents, devoured by lice,

drop with black perfume out of twisted trees!

 

I wanted to show children these dorados

of the blue wave, these golden, singing fish.

A froth of flowers has cradled my vagrancies,

and ineffable winds have winged me on.

 

Sometimes like a martyr, tired of poles and zones,

the sea has rolled me softly in her sigh

and held out to me the yellow cups of shadow flowers,

and I’ve remained there, like a woman, kneeling . . .

 

Almost an island, balancing the quarrels,

the dung, the cries of blond-eyed birds on the gunnels

of my boat, I sailed on, and through my frail lines,

drowned men, falling backwards, sank to sleep.

 

Now, I, a boat lost in the hair of the coves,

tossed by hurricane into the birdless air,

me, whom all the Monitors and Hansa sailing ships

could not salvage, my carcass drunk with sea;

 

free, rising like smoke, riding violet mists,

I who pierced the sky turning red like a wall,

who bore the exquisite jam of all good poets,

lichens of sun and snots of azure,

 

who, spotted with electric crescents, ran on,

a foolish plank escorted by black hippocamps,

when the Julys brought down with a single blow

the ultramarine sky with its burning funnels;

 

I who tremble, feeling the moan fifty leagues away

of the Behemoth rutting and the dull Maelstrom,

eternal weaver of the unmovable blue—

I grieve for Europe with its ancient breastworks!

 

I’ve seen thunderstruck archipelagos! and islands

that open delirious skies for wanderers:

Are these bottomless nights your nest of exile,

O millions of gold birds, O Force to come?

 

True, I’ve cried too much! Dawns are harrowing.

All moons are cruel and all suns, bitter:

acrid love puffs me up with drunken slowness.

Let my keel burst! Give me to the sea!

 

If I desire any of the waters of Europe, it’s the pond

black and cold, in the odor of evening,

where a child full of sorrow gets down on his knees

to launch a paperboat as frail as a May butterfly.

 

Bathed in your languors, o waves, I can no longer

wash away the wake of ships bearing cotton,

nor penetrate the arrogance of pennants and flags,

nor swim past the dreadful eyes of slave ships.

Translation by Rebecca Seiferl

___________________________________ ___________________

 

(৬)As I was floating down impassive Rivers,

I no longer felt myself steered by the haulers:

gaudy Redskins had taken them for targets,

nailing them naked to coloured stakes.

 

I cared nothing for all my crews,

carrying Flemish wheat or English cotton.

When, along with my haulers, those uproars stopped,

the Rivers let me sail downstream where I pleased.

 

Into the ferocious tide-rips, last winter,

more absorbed than the minds of children, I ran!

And the unmoored Peninsulas never

endured more triumphant clamourings.

 

The storm made bliss of my sea-borne awakenings.

Lighter than a cork, I danced on the waves

which men call the eternal rollers of victims,

for ten nights, without once missing the foolish eye of the harbor lights!

 

Sweeter than the flesh of sour apples to children,

the green water penetrated my pinewood hull

and washed me clean of the bluish wine-stains

and the splashes of vomit, carrying away both rudder and anchor.

 

And from that time on I bathed in the Poem

of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk,

devouring the green azures where, entranced

in pallid flotsam, a dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down;

 

where, suddenly dyeing the blueness,

deliriums and slow rhythms under the gleams of the daylight,

stronger than alcohol, vaster than music,

ferment the bitter rednesses of love!

 

I have come to know the skies splitting with lightning,

and the waterspouts, and the breakers and currents;

I know the evening, and dawn rising up like a flock of doves,

and sometimes I have seen what men have imagined they saw!

 

I have seen the low-hanging sun speckled with mystic horrors

lighting up long violet coagulations

like the performers in antique dramas;

waves rolling back into the distances their shiverings of venetian blinds!

 

I have dreamed of the green night of the dazzled snows,

the kiss rising slowly to the eyes of the seas,

the circulation of undreamed-of saps,

and the yellow-blue awakenings of singing phosphorus!

 

I have followed, for whole months on end,

the swells battering the reefs like hysterical herds of cows,

never dreaming that the luminous feet of the Marys

could muzzle by force the snorting Oceans!

 

I have struck, do you realize, incredible Floridas,

where mingle with flowers the eyes of panthers in human skins!

Rainbows stretched like bridles

under the sea’s horizon to glaucous herds!

 

I have seen the enormous swamps seething,

traps where a whole leviathan rots in the reeds!

Downfalls of waters in the midst of the calm,

and distances cataracting down into abysses!

 

Glaciers, suns of silver, waves of pearl, skies of red-hot coals!

Hideous wrecks at the bottom of brown gulfs

where the giant snakes, devoured by vermin,

fall from the twisted trees with black odours!

 

I should have liked to show to children those dolphins

of the blue wave, those golden, those singing fish. —

Foam of flowers rocked my driftings,

and at times ineffable winds would lend me wings.

 

Sometimes, a martyr weary of poles and zones,

the sea whose sobs sweetened my rollings

lifted my shadow-flowers with their yellow sucking disks toward me,

and I hung there like a kneeling woman…

 

Resembling an island, tossing on my sides the brawls

and droppings of pale-eyed, clamouring birds.

And I was scudding along when across my frayed ropes

drowned men sank backwards into sleep!…

 

But now I, a boat lost under the hair of coves,

hurled by the hurricane into the birdless ether;

I, whose wreck, dead-drunk and sodden with water,

neither Monitor nor Hanseatic ships would have fished up;

 

free, smoking, risen from violet fogs,

I who bored through the wall of the reddening sky which bears

a sweetmeat good poets find delicious:

lichens of sunlight mixed with azure snot;

 

who ran, speckled with tiny electric moons,

a crazy plank with black sea-horses for escort,

when Julys were crushing with cudgel blows

skies of ultramarine into burning funnels;

 

I who trembled to feel at fifty leagues off

the groans of Behemoths rutting, and the dense Maelstroms;

eternal spinner of blue immobilities,

I long for Europe with it’s age-old parapets!

 

I have seen archipelagos of stars! and islands

whose delirious skies are open to sea wanderers: —

Do you sleep, are you exiled in those bottomless nights,

O million golden birds, Life Force of the future?

 

But, truly, I have wept too much! Dawns are heartbreaking.

Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter:

sharp love has swollen me up with intoxicating torpor.

O let my keel split! O let me sink to the bottom!

 

If there is one water in Europe I want, it is the black

cold pool where into the scented twilight

a child squatting full of sadness launches

a boat as fragile as a butterfly in May.

 

I can no more, bathed in your langours, O waves,

sail in the wake of the carriers of cottons;

nor undergo the pride of the flags and pennants;

nor pull past the horrible eyes of prison hulks.

 

_________________________________________ ____________

Translation by Wallace Fowlie:

 

(৭)As I was going down impassive rivers,

I no longer felt myself guided by haulers!

Yelping redskins had taken them as targets,

And had nailed them naked to colored stakes.

 

I was indifferent to all crews,

The bearer of Flemish wheat or English cottons,

When with my haulers this uproar stopped,

The Rivers let me go where I wanted.

 

Into the furious lashing of the tides,

More heedless than children’s brains, the other winter

I ran! And loosened peninsulas

Have not undergone a more triumphant hubbub.

 

The storm blessed my sea vigils.

Lighter than a cork I danced on the waves

That are called eternal rollers of victims,

Ten nights, without missing the stupid eye of the lighthouses!

 

Sweeter than the flesh of hard apples is to children,

The green water penetrated my hull of fir

And washed me of spots of blue wine

And vomit, scattering rudder and grappling-hook.

 

And from then on I bathed in the Poem

Of the Sea, infused with stars and lactescent,

Devouring the green azure where, like a pale elated

Piece of flotsam, a pensive drowned figure sometimes sinks;

 

Where, suddenly dyeing the blueness, delirium

And slow rhythms under the streaking of daylight,

Stronger than alcohol, vaster than our lyres,

The bitter redness of love ferments!

 

I know the skies bursting with lighting, and the waterspouts

And the surf and the currents; I know the evening,

And dawn as exhalted as a flock of doves,

And at times I have seen what man thought he saw!

 

I have seen the low sun spotted with mystic horrors,

Lighting up, with long violet clots,

Resembling actors of very ancient dramas,

The waves rolling far off their quivering of shutters!

 

I have dreamed of the green night with dazzled snows,

A kiss slowly rising to the eyes of the sea,

The circulation of unknown saps,

And the yellow and blue awakening of singing phosphorous!

 

I followed during pregnant months the swell,

Like hysterical cows, in its assault on the reefs,

Without dreaming that the luminous feet of the Marys

Could restrain the snout of the wheezing Oceans!

 

I struck against, you know, unbelievable Floridas

Mingling with flowers panthers’ eyes and human

Skin! Rainbows stretched like bridal reins

Under the horizon of the seas to greenish herds!

 

I have seen enormous swamps ferment, fish-traps

Where a whole Leviathan rots in the rushes!

Avalanches of water in the midst of a calm,

And the distances cataracting toward the abyss!

 

Glaciers, suns of silver, nacreous waves, skies of embers!

Hideous strands at the end of brown gulfs

Where giant serpents devoured by bedbugs

Fall down from gnarled tress with black scent!

 

I should have liked to show children those sunfish

Of the blue wave, the fish of gold, the singing fish.

–Foam of flowers rocked my drifting

And ineffable winds winged me at times.

 

At times a martyr weary of poles and zones,

The sea, whose sob created my gentle roll,

Brought up to me her dark flowers with yellow suckers

And I remained like a woman on her knees…

 

Resembling an island tossing on my sides the quarrels

And droppings of noisy birds with yellow eyes.

And I sailed on, when through my fragile ropes

Drowned men sank backward to sleep!

 

Now I, a boat lost in the foliage of caves,

Thrown by the storm into the birdless air,

I whose water-drunk carcass would not have been rescued

By the Monitors and the Hanseatic sailboats;

 

Free, smoking, topped with violet fog,

I who pierced the reddening sky like a wall

Bearing–delicious jam for good poets–

Lichens of sunlight and mucus of azure;

 

Who ran, spotted with small electric moons,

A wild plank, escorted by black seahorses,

When Julys beat down with blows of cudgels

The ultramarine skies with burning funnels;

 

I, who trembled, hearing at fifty leagues off

The moaning of the Behemoths in heat and the thick Maelstroms,

I, eternal spinner of the blue immobility,

Miss Europe with its ancient parapets!

 

I have seen sidereal archipelagos! and islands

Whose delirious skies are open to the sea-wanderer:

–Is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep and exile yourself,

Million golden birds, O future Vigor?

 

But, in truth, I have wept too much! Dawns are heartbreaking.

Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.

Acrid love has swollen me with intoxicating torpor.

O let my keel burst! O let me go into the sea!

 

If I want a water of Europe, it is the black

Cold puddle where in the sweet-smelling twilight

A squatting child full of sadness releases

A boat as fragile as a May butterfly.

 

No longer can I, bathed in your languor, O waves,

Follow in the wake of the cotton boats,

Nor cross through the pride of flags and flames,

Nor swim under the terrible eyes of prison ships.

 

_________________________________________ _____________

Translation by A. S. Kline

 

(৮)As I floated down impassive Rivers,

I felt myself no longer pulled by ropes:

The Redskins took my hauliers for targets,

And nailed them naked to their painted posts.

 

Carrying Flemish wheat or English cotton,

I was indifferent to all my crews.

The Rivers let me float down as I wished,

When the victims and the sounds were through.

 

Into the furious breakers of the sea,

Deafer than the ears of a child, last winter,

I ran! And the Peninsulas sliding by me

Never heard a more triumphant clamour.

 

The tempest blessed my sea-borne arousals.

Lighter than a cork I danced those waves

They call the eternal churners of victims,

Ten nights, without regret for the lighted bays!

 

Sweeter than sour apples to the children

The green ooze spurting through my hull’s pine,

Washed me of vomit and the blue of wine,

Carried away my rudder and my anchor.

 

Then I bathed in the Poem of the Sea,

Infused with stars, the milk-white spume blends,

Grazing green azures: where ravished, bleached

Flotsam, a drowned man in dream descends.

 

Where, staining the blue, sudden deliriums

And slow tremors under the gleams of fire,

Stronger than alcohol, vaster than our rhythms,

Ferment the bitter reds of our desire!

 

I knew the skies split apart by lightning,

Waterspouts, breakers, tides: I knew the night,

The Dawn exalted like a crowd of doves,

I saw what men think they’ve seen in the light!

 

I saw the low sun, stained with mystic terrors,

Illuminate long violet coagulations,

Like actors in a play, a play that’s ancient,

Waves rolling back their trembling of shutters!

 

I dreamt the green night of blinded snows,

A kiss lifted slow to the eyes of seas,

The circulation of unheard-of flows,

Sung phosphorus’s blue-yellow awakenings!

 

For months on end, I’ve followed the swell

That batters at the reefs like terrified cattle,

Not dreaming the Three Marys’ shining feet

Could muzzle with their force the Ocean’s hell!

 

I’ve struck Floridas, you know, beyond belief,

Where eyes of panthers in human skins,

Merge with the flowers! Rainbow bridles, beneath

the seas’ horizon, stretched out to shadowy fins!

 

I’ve seen the great swamps boil, and the hiss

Where a whole whale rots among the reeds!

Downfalls of water among tranquilities,

Distances showering into the abyss.

 

Nacrous waves, silver suns, glaciers, ember skies!

Gaunt wrecks deep in the brown vacuities

Where the giant eels riddled with parasites

Fall, with dark perfumes, from the twisted trees!

 

I would have liked to show children dolphins

Of the blue wave, the golden singing fish.

– Flowering foams rocked me in my drift,

At times unutterable winds gave me wings.

 

Sometimes, a martyr tired of poles and zones,

The sea whose sobs made my roilings sweet

Showed me its shadow flowers with yellow mouths

And I rested like a woman on her knees…

 

Almost an isle, blowing across my sands, quarrels

And droppings of pale-eyed clamorous gulls,

And I scudded on while, over my frayed lines,

Drowned men sank back in sleep beneath my hull!…

 

Now I, a boat lost in the hair of bays,

Hurled by the hurricane through bird-less ether,

I, whose carcass, sodden with salt-sea water,

No Monitor or Hanseatic vessel could recover:

 

Freed, in smoke, risen from the violet fog,

I, who pierced the red skies like a wall,

Bearing the sweets that delight true poets,

Lichens of sunlight, gobbets of azure:

 

Who ran, stained with electric moonlets,

A crazed plank, companied by black sea-horses,

When Julys were crushing with cudgel blows

Skies of ultramarine in burning funnels:

 

I, who trembled to hear those agonies

Of rutting Behemoths and dark Maelstroms,

Eternal spinner of blue immobilities,

I regret the ancient parapets of Europe!

 

I’ve seen archipelagos of stars! And isles

Whose maddened skies open for the sailor:

– Is it in depths of night you sleep, exiled,

Million birds of gold, O future Vigour? –

 

But, truly, I’ve wept too much! The Dawns

Are heartbreaking, each moon hell, each sun bitter:

Fierce love has swallowed me in drunken torpors.

O let my keel break! Tides draw me down!

 

If I want one pool in Europe, it’s the cold

Black pond where into the scented night

A child squatting filled with sadness launches

A boat as frail as a May butterfly.

 

Bathed in your languor, waves, I can no longer

Cut across the wakes of cotton ships,

Or sail against the pride of flags, ensigns,

Or swim the dreadful gaze of prison ships.

Translation by A. S. Kline


এ ছাড়া স্যামুয়েল বেকেটও করেছেন

About anubadak

আমি একজন অনুবাদক । এতাবৎ রেঁবো, বদল্যার, ককতো, জারা, সঁদরা, দালি, গিন্সবার্গ, লোরকা, ম্যানদেলস্টাম, আখমাতোভা, মায়াকভস্কি, নেরুদা, ফেরলিংঘেট্টি প্রমুখ অনুবাদ করেছি ।
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