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Dan Sociu is a Romanian poet who really makes you feel and think. A wonderful poet.
Sociu is good enough to please in English translations—I made a stab at learning Romanian when I traveled to Arad, Romania, for a literary conference in 2016, but even a basic understanding of the language, more Latin than Romance, eluded me.
How do I know if Sociu is first-rate in Romanian?
I don’t.
My opinion of his work is due entirely to the fact that his ideas, and the way he presents those ideas, give me pleasure—in English. Notice that I didn’t say poetry, but “ideas and the way he presents those ideas.”
There is a current dust-up online, small, but large, perhaps, in the poetry world, in which someone had the audacity to say out loud in public that Amanda Gorman “wasn’t a poet.” Great offense was taken by many—“she’s young! she’s stylish!”
A few did admit her work was formless and cliched—but the default response, even by those who tacitly or otherwise wouldn’t say she was good, was: no matter how good or bad someone is, the one thing you are not allowed to say is “they are not a poet” or what they write “isn’t poetry.” This, a few opined, is the height of “dead white male” arrogance. Social issues matter today “in poetry,” said some Gorman defenders. Their implicit logic: any “social issues writing” is automatically poetry, whether it appears to be poetry, or not—being good at something is good enough to be good at poetry.
The irony of the whole issue is this—poetry, to be poetry, must “appear” to be poetry. Only superficial appearances confirm it as poetry. The profound reasons are not germane, since how can we tell if something is a poem unless it appear so?
Let us say that I insist I am a poet but produce nothing whatsoever. I walk. I talk. That’s it. And therefore, according to me, since I walk and I talk, I am “a poet.” How would this be refuted? Profoundly? Or superficially? Only in a superficial manner, obviously. As soon as the profound ones begin to speak, a minute will not have gone by before it is “proven” that “speech is quite capable of being poetry and therefore speech counts,” and so on. Only the most superficial objection—“I see no poems!” could be brought to bear against me, the imposter.
If we reject superficial explanations then, when it comes to poetry, and we only accept profound meditations and profound discourses on poetry, this creates imposters everywhere, and the more profound we are, the more imposters there will be.
But what if my “talk” was great poetry? How would a reader know? Someone would have to write my spoken words down. But in what context?
I—the great poet—could only be seen so in some other person’s editing or translation—and there would still be doubters: this is not poetry; it is only snippets stolen from casual speech.
My response to this dilemma, therefore, is to reject all profundity on the subject of poetry and immerse myself in appearances as much as possible.
The formal poem and the free verse poem are like newlyweds arguing in a comedy—we want—no, they must—remain a couple. The comedy (poetry) depends on it.
Poetry is such, that a bad translation can not only ruin a poem by a master, but make it appear like the poet is not only not a master, but no poet.
Poems which are subtle, use puns and sound-patterns a great deal, and transcend traditional approaches—these demand complete fluency on every level—otherwise they will fail to some degree, and mostly likely, to a significant degree. Some poems, on the other hand, are quite easy to translate. Good poets are the hardest to translate—I imagine this is because all good poetry is nothing more than hyper-fluency.
Good free verse is a good translation of the poem we will never see. Everyone likes good translations—and therefore, we condone free verse.
Originality has been called the most important feature of poetry by more than one distinguished critic, though I can recall at this moment only one—Poe.
Originality of thought can hide in the tissues of hyper-fluency, hidden forever from those who are not fluent in the tongue in which the poet is writing. However, can originality of thought not manifest itself in the crudest of translations? And if it can, it must be a wonderful originality, indeed.
Scarriet has attempted to translate some of Dan Sociu’s poems—using English translations by Alexandra Gaujan, as well as the poems themselves in Romanian for crude reference.
Scarriet believes it is crucial that sound resemblances are kept. (Remember what was said about superficiality.) But maybe it isn’t crucial. (Remember what was said about originality of thought.) And it’s risky. Fluency may abort the attempt to superficially match sounds. Fluency will no doubt be kinder to crude translations which attempt to capture originality of thought.
This is why prose translations are generally preferred these days. Scarriet’s attempts could crash and burn. Dan Sociu understands this as well as anybody. When we gave him a peek at what we were doing, he more or less said, “these are yours, not mine.” Fair enough.
I don’t know Romanian well at all, but when I look at a Romanian poem, at least I can tell if the poem rhymes. This was enough to send me on my quixotic quest.
Clik here to view.
Below are the Romanian poems, then Gaujan’s translations. Scarriet’s are the second set of translations.
GOD MADE EVERYTHING FLAWLESS
Dumnezeu le-a făcut perfecte pe toate
cînd a făcut cacaua cu lapte
și pîinea cu unt și cu sare
a căzut în visare
și s-au furișat pe lume frigul la picioare
și celelalte
God made everything flawless
when He made hot cocoa with milk
and salty buttered toast
He slipped into a daydream
and the cold air drafts
and all other trials
snuck in
~~
God made everything perfect and complete:
Hot chocolate with a thin milk sheet.
Buttered toast a bit salty and sweet.
Distracted by a languid tweet,
Cold wind and all the troubles we meet
snuck past God. Remarkable feat.
****
IN MY RUST-WORN LIFE
în viața mea mîncată de rugină
a oprit pentru o clipă o regină
și-a revărsat părul regesc pe patul unde am visat-o
și-a coborît privirea minunată peste mine și am adorat-o
a stat numai o clipă dar m-a-nălțat la veșnicie
pur pur plutesc prin ceruri de lumină purpurie
in my rust-worn life, for a wink,
a queen stopped by
she spread her queenly hair on the bed
where I dreamed of her
cast her lovely gaze over me and I adored her
stayed only a wink but made me soar to eternity
pure pure I float through purple skies
~~
My life, a rust-eaten monument
Was visited by a queen for a moment
She spread her queenly hair all over my bed—
I dreamed and adored her, her head near my head—
and for one moment I felt passion eternal—
I pushed up and up, purple skies purple, purple
****
I’LL WASH THE TROWEL
spăl și de-o mie de ori mistria
dacă-mi cere Meșterul meu
că pîn-la urmă cine-oi fi și eu
să-i pun la îndoială măiestria
și fiindcă nu-i ies din vorbă defel
mi-a zis că-mi dă o altfel de mistrie
cînd o să ies de-aici din sihăstrie
și-o să vină să mi-o dea chiar El
I’ll wash the trowel a thousand times
should my Craftsman require it
‘cause after all who am I to
question His true mastery
and for I never disregard His words
He said He’d give me a different trowel
when I get out of this seclusion here
He’ll come Himself and hand it to me
~~
I will wash, for days, this shovel in mist
in order to please you.
I will follow you. I will always do
what you, the Builder, insist.
Your instruction my soul understands.
A new shovel will be given to me,
as I emerge from the fortress of your sagacity—
placed by you the Master into my own hands!
****
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AFTER SOME DAYS OF BEING DEAD
după niște zile-n care a fost mort
dar cu dureri în gît și-o febră rece și nasoală
Lazăr a ieșit la el pe stradă în Earls Court
să-și ia din Coop lămîi și-un bacs de apă minerală
ploua mărunt și mirosea a viu și prospețime
și aerul îl săruta cu lăcomie
pășea plutind pe-un zîmbet prin mulțime
știu pentru că așa ceva mi s-a-ntîmplat și mie
omul abia înviat are o gravitație specială
femeile simt și simt și copiii și cîinii
trăgeau spre el de-și dezechilibrau stăpînii
și-automatul a uitat să-i încaseze apa minerală
after some days of being dead
but with a sore throat and a cold, nasty fever
Lazarus went out in the street in Earls Court
to get lemons and a case of sparkling water from Coop
it drizzled and smelled like life and freshness
and he was kissing greedingly the air
floating on a smile he trod through the crowd
I know ‘cause I also went through something like it
a man just risen has a special gravity
women feel it and children and dogs feel it
they were pulling towards him, jerking their owners
and the machine forgot to charge for his sparkling water
~~
This tomb was built like a fort
but he still pushed out of it
and feverish, Lazarus stumbled to Earls Court
for some lemons and sparkling water.
The drizzling air was a fresh kiss
he breathed in greedily—
in the crowd he smiled stupidly, like me,
because I went thru something like this.
A man just risen has a special gravity.
Women, kids, feel it—even dogs pulled
their owners closer and this was remarkable—
the vending machine gave him water for free.
****
YOUR LOVE, BOTH LIGHT AND SUBSTANTIAL
dragostea ta, și ușoară și grea
cade pe mine ca un munte de nea
fulg după fulg cad pe casa mea în amurg
eu fac foc și focul te-ncălzește
și căldura casei mele te topește
your love, both light and substantial,
falls over me like a mountain of snow
flake after flake settles over my house in the twilight
I kindle the fire and the flames warm you up
and the warmth of my house makes you mellow
~~
Like a mountain of snow falling on me
your love is both light and heavy.
Flake after flake settles over my house in the twilight.
I coax the yellow fire and the flames rise up
and the mellow warmth of my house warms you.
****
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The following three poems we copy in the translations by Alexandra Gaujan alone—because they strike a Romantic chord and seem to be the best of their kind. To attempt to re-translate these three I feel would be in vain.
two paper lanterns
flying over the sea
one is lost
beyond the horizon
into the unknown
where only planes
fly on
.
two paper lanterns
one near the shore
still shimmering
the other far
barely in sight
which one is
the finer lantern
.
the one you see
or the one lost
where only planes
flew on?
****
one could’ve barely seen us on
your last day with me in Wiesbaden
the way we glided in the light melting with love
between the garden fences all abloom
I knew that you would leave next day at noon
and I could hardly keep myself from weeping
but then I did, so our Wiesbaden garden
of perfect bliss would not wither away
****
the ache to kiss her
like the ache to kick the
ball found on the path
****
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
All poems, photos, Dan Sociu
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