rift (riftsh) wrote,
rift
riftsh

Краткая антология переводов одного текста на один иностранный язык

Я уже несколько лет веду живой дневник, но не провел еще в нем ни одного опроса. В последнее время я все чаще чувствую на себе озабоченные взгляды френдов, уже почти готовых прямо спросить, мол, все ли со мной в порядке, и чем вызвана такая задержка в развитии. Чтобы рассеять тревоги, я решил провести опрос, совместив его с третьим выпуском "Кратких антологий". Как и предыдущие два выпуска, рифменный и образный, этот составлен по тому же принципу: в него вошли примеры, которые мне удалось найти без больших затрат труда и времени. Но, несмотря на неполноту, приведенные образцы хорошо представляют широкий диапазон подходов к переводу русской поэзии. Представители разных школ перевода часто (и иногда довольно ожесточенно) спорят, защищая достоинства своих методов. Теоретики и литературоведы сравнивают разные переводы. Однако, мне не известно ни одного исследования, где различные переводы одного текста оценивались бы читателями оригинала. Предлагаемый эксперимент сможет заполнить эту зияющую нишу, если вы согласитесь прочитать переводы (25 полных и 1 фрагмент) и в комментариях оценить их по пятибальной шкале (1-очень плохо, 5-замечательно). Если вам лень оценивать все переводы, оцените только несколько лучших. Вербальные объяснения оценок приветствуются. Для повышения объективности, имена переводчиков скрыты на время опроса. Я берусь просуммировать результаты (если будет, что суммировать). Итак, длинный список:

#1
Insomnia. Homer. Taut sails.
I've read up to the middle of the catalogue of ships,
that long litter, that train of cranes,
that once set forth above Hellas.

Where are-you sailing like a wedge of cranes
into alien zones, a godly foam
on your leaders' heads? Helen gone, Achaian men,
what would Troy alone be worth to you?

The sea and Homer both - all moves by force of love.
Whom should I listen to? Even Homer's silent now,
and now the dark sea roars rhetorically
its billowy thunder above my pillowed head.


#2
Sleeplessness. Homer. Taut sails.
I have counted half the catalogue of ships:
That caravan of cranes, that expansive host,
Which once rose above Hellas.

Like a wedge of cranes towards alien shores —
On the kings' heads godlike spray —
Where are you sailing? Without Helen
What could Troy mean to you, Achaean men?

Both the sea and Homer — all is moved by love.
To whom shall I listen? Now Homer falls silent,
And a black sea, thunderous orator,
Breaks on my pillow with a roar.


#3
Wakefulness. Homer. Taut sails.
I have read half the list of ships:
The outstretched brood, the string of cranes
That once soared over Hellas.

Like a wedge of cranes into alien lands—
Divine foam on the heads of the kings—
Where are you sailing? Were it not for Helen,
What would Troy be to you, Achaean men?

The sea and Homer—both impelled by love.
To whom shall I listen? And now Homer is silent,
And a black sea, with its ornate noise,
Approaches my pillow with a ponderous roar.


#4
Sleeplessness. Homer. The sails tight.
I have the catalogue of ships half read:
That file of cranes, long fledgling line that spread
And lifted once over Hellas, into flight.

Like a wedge of cranes into an alien place--
The god's spume foaming in the princes' hair--
Where do you sail? If Helen were not there
What would Troy matter, men of Achaean race?

The sea, and Homer—it's love that moves all things.
To whom should I listen? Homer falls silent now
And the black sea surges toward my pillow
Like a loud declaimer, heavily thundering.


#5
Insomnia. Homer. The rows of stretched sails...
I’ve read the catalogue of ships just to the middle:
That endless caravan, that lengthy stream of cranes,
Which long ago rose up above the land oh Hellas.

It’s like a wedge of cranes towards the distant shores –
The foreheads of the kings crowned with the foam of Gods.
Where are you sailing to? If Helen were not there,
What Troy would be to you, oh warriors of Achaea

The sea and Homer – everything is moved by love.
Whom shall I listen to? There is no sound from Homer,
And full of eloquence the black sea roars and roars,
And draws with thunderous crashing nearer to my pillow.


#6
Sleeplessness. Homer. Taut sails.
I read the list of ships to the middle:
This long brood, this procession of cranes,
That once rose up above Hellas.

Like a wedge of cranes into foreign shores --
Divine foam on the tsar's heads --
Where are you sailing? If there were no Helen,
What is Troy alone to you, Achaean men?

The sea and Homer — everything is moved by love.
But whom am I to listen to? Now Homer is silent
And the black sea, orating, makes noise
And with a heavy crash approaches the head of my bed.


#7
Insomnia. Taut sails. And Homer in the night.
The catalogue of ships; I've read half through the muster,
That long-extended flock, those cranes in straggling cluster
That once upon a time from Hellas rose in flight.

A wedge of cranes holds course for territories new -
The heads of Grecian kings with spray divine are misted -
But whither do you sail? Had Helen not existed,
Ah, men of Achaea, would Troy mean much to you?

Thus Homer, and the sea - all things love sets in motion.
To which shall I give ear? Now Homer says no more,
The dark, declaiming waves, that melancholy roar,
Bring surging round my bed the thunder of the ocean.


#8
Insomnia. Homer. Taut canvas.
Half the catalogue of ships is mine:
that flight of cranes, long stretched-out line,
that once rose, out of Hellas.

To an alien land, like a phalanx of cranes –
Foam of the gods on the heads of kings –
Where do you sail? What would the things
of Troy, be to you, Achaeans, without Helen?

The sea, or Homer – all moves by love’s glow.
Which should I hear? Now Homer is silent,
and the Black Sea thundering its oratory, turbulent,
and, surging, roars against my pillow.


#9
Insomnia. Homer. Tight sails of ships
I've counted halfway down, a list
that turns -- long brood -- into a procession of cranes
rising, once, above Hellas.

A wedge of cranes crossing forbidden borders
- king's heads drenched with godly foam
- where do they sail to? What would Troy be
to you, Achaean men, without Helen?

The sea, Homer -- everything is moved by love.
To whom shall I listen? Homer is silent now;
the sea, black, noisy, oppressive as an orator,
skulks toward my pillow and starts to roar.


#10
Insomnia. Homer. Taut sails.
I've read to the middle of the list of ships:
this long flock, this train of cranes,
that once rose over Hellas.

Like a wedge of cranes over strange borders—
a godlike foam on the heads of kings—
where are you sailing? If it weren't for Helen,
what would Troy itself be to you, Achaean men?

Both the sea, and Homer—everything—is moved by love.
To whom shall I listen? And here Homer is silent,
and the dark sea, orating, stirs,
and with a heavy crash rolls up to the pillow.


#11
Insomnia. Homer. Taut sails.
I've read through half the list of ships:
This spun-out brood, this train of cranes
That once ascended over Hellas.

A wedge of cranes to foreign shores,-
Your kings' heads wreathed in spray,-
Where are you sailing? Were it not for Helen,
Achaeans, what would Troy have been to you?

The sea and Homer - love moves all.
Where should I turn? Here Homer is silent,
While the Black Sea clamors oratorically
And reaches my pillow with a heavy roar.


#12
Insomnia. Homer. Tautly swelling sails.
I've read the catalogue of ships half through:
This wedge of cranes, this outstretched brood
That once took wing across the Aegean isles.

A train of cranes outstretched towards alien frontiers,
The foam of gods crowns the leaders' kingly hair.
Where sail you to? If Helen were not there,
What would Troy mean for you, oh warriors of Greece?

Both Homer and the sea: all things are moved by love;
To whom shall I pay heed? Homer here is silent
And the dark sea thunders, eloquent,
And rumbling heavily, it breaks beneath my bed.


#13
Insomnia. Homer. Taut sails.
I've read to the middle of the list of ships:
the strung-out flock, the stream of cranes
that once rose above Hellas.

Flight of cranes crossing strange borders,
leaders drenched with the foam of the gods,
where are you sailing? What would Troy be to you,
men of Achaea, without Helen?

The sea -- Homer -- it's all moved by love. But to whom
shall I listen? No sound now from Homer,
and the black sea roars like a speech
and thunders up the bed.


#14
I can’t sleep. Homer, and the taut white sails.
I could the list of ships read only to a half:
The long-long breed, the train of flying cranes
Had lifted once the ancient Greece above.

The wedge of cranes to alien far frontier --
On heads of kings, as foam, crowns shine --
Where do you sail? If Helen were not here,
What Troy then means for you, Achaeia’s people fine?

And Homer and the sea are moved by only love.
Whom must I listen to? Homer is silent yet,
And blackened sea with roar comes above,
Sunk in triumphant noise, head of my sleepless bed.


#15
Insomnia. Homer. Taut canvas.
Half the catalogue of ships is mine:
that flight of cranes, long stretched-out line,
that once rose, out of Hellas.

To an alien land, like a phalanx of cranes –
Foam of the gods on the heads of kings –
Where do you sail? What would the things
of Troy, be to you, Achaeans, without Helen?

The sea, or Homer – all moves by love’s glow.
Which should I hear? Now Homer is silent,
and the Black Sea thundering its oratory, turbulent,
and, surging, roars against my pillow.


#16
Homer, insomnia, the sails are taut... The list
Of soaring ships I’ve read up to the middle.
That train of cranes, the longest brood, the riddle
Rose up and vanished over Hellas going East.

A wedge of cranes aims at another land.
The royal heads being crowned with foam of heaven.
Where are you sailing to? Indeed, without Helen
What’s Troy to you, Achean proud men?

The sea and Homer - all is driven by the love.
Where should I go? He’s keeping silence. Homer.
The Black sea dins, harangues, gushing over
The bed’s headboard to capture, to engulf.


#17
Insomnia. Homer. Sails stretched taut.
A flock of ships, and I've counted
half its length: cranes
that floated over Greece.

A wedge of cranes in the distance --
crowned heads covered with god-foam --
sailing where? Without Helen
would you think of Troy, oh Greeks?

Homer. The sea. Love moves everything.
Can I listen? Not Homer, now;
he is still. And the black sea shouts
near my pillow, crashes and roars.


#18
Insomnia, Homer, Sails - to winds tight jibs release.
The list of boats I quit, half to remain unread:
That elongated brood, the craning train that fled
Sometime ago above the Ancient Greece.

Alike the wedge of cranes, into the foreign land:
Upon the royal heads the crowns of god-sent foam:
For Helen were it not, where do you head from home,
What would Troy mean alone to you, Achaean men?

The sea and Homer, all - by love moves and endears.
Whom shall I listen to? Old Homer wouldn't say:
Apprising, the Black Sea is humming on its way,
With horrid crash at my headrest appears:


#19
Sleeplessness. Homere. Hard sails.
I have read the list of the ships up to middle:
This long brood, this spindle train,
That above Ellada at one time has risen.

As spindle wedge in foreign lands -
On heads of kings there is divine foam -
Where you are floating? When not Helen,
What the only one Troy for you, Greek men?

And the sea, and Homere - all goes by love.
Whom should I listen to? And Homere is silent,
And the Black Sea, flowering, rustles,
And with a heavy roll goes up to head of the bed.


#20
Insomnia. Homer. Taut sails.
I have read the list of ships to the middle:
this migrant flight
that once winged over Hellas.

What drives this wedge of cranes into alien borders?
What do you seek, Achaean men?
Were is not for Helen,
What need had you of Troy?

Homer falls silent
And foam swirls from the heads of kings.
Only the black sea rages
And a heavy surf thunders against my pillow.


#21
Insomnia. Homer. And sails drawn tight.
I've read half-through the catalog of ships:
That long-extended flock, that flight of cranes
Which once rose over Hellas to the sky.

O, wedge of cranes, pointing to far-off lands
(These kings, heads covered with the gods' own foam),
Where are you sailing to? Were there no Helen,
Achaeans, then what would Troy be to you?

Both sea and Homer - all is moved by love.
Which one should I hear? Homer now is silent,
And the dark sea, declaiming, roars and comes
Close to my pillow with all thunder crashing.


#22
Hours of sleeplessness. Homer. Taut sails.
Tonight I've read half through the catalogue of ships, that spreading
Clamorous brood which rose up over Hellas, heading
For Troy, those ships that are a troop of cranes in flight—

A wedge of cranes that flies toward lands hidden from view.
Divine the foam asperging the heads of kings. Ah, tell us
Where do you sail, Achaeans? What takes you forth from Hellas?
Were it not for Helen, what would Troy be to you?

The sea, and Homer—all is moved by love. I wonder,
Which should I listen to? Homer is hushed. The roar
Of the black sea goes gnashing on, a furious orator,
And near my pillow now looses its ponderous thunder.


#23
Insomnia. Homer. Taut canvas sails.
I scanned the catalogue of ships half-way:
Like a long line of birds, a train of cranes,
That long ago soared high over Hellas.

Like a wedge of cranes crossing an alien line
(The foam of the gods showers crowned heads).
Where are you sailing? If not for Helen,
O great Achaeans, what would Troy signify?

The sea and Homer—all is moved by love's will.
Whom shall I heed? Homer lies silently,
But the black sea resounds eloquently
And rumbles gravely toward my pillow.


#24
Sleeplessness. Homer. Taut sails.
I have read the catalogue of ships down to half its length:
that long-extended flock, that flight of cranes
which once rose up above Hellas.

It is like a wedge of cranes flying off to distant lands.
The heads of the kings are covered with the foam of the gods.
Where are you sailing to? Were it not for Helen,
what would Troy be to you, O Achaeans?

The sea, and Homer - all is moved by love.
To which of the two, then, shall I listen?
And now Homer is silent, and the black sea, declaiming,
roars and draws near to my pillow with thunderous crashing.


#25
Sleeplessness. Homer. Stretched sail.
I have counted half the catalogue of ships:
That caravan of cranes, that expansive shoal
Which once shrouded Hellas.

Like a wedge of cranes towards strange countries
(On the heads of kings the spray of gods),
Where are you sailing? Without Helen
What could Troy mean to you, Achaean men?

All is moved by love: Homer, the sea.
To which shall I listen? Homer speaks silently.
And the black sea, thunderous orator,
Breaks on my pillow with a roar.


#26
Both Homer and the sea, all is powered by love
Whom should I listen to?: And lo Homer falls silent
And the black sea roars rhetorically
and approaches my pillow in thunder.



Переводчики:
1 Clarence Brown (1973)
2 James Greene (1991)
3 Nina Kossman and Andy Newcomb
4 Robert Tracy
5 Дмитрий Смирнов
6 Michael Wachtel
7 Alan Myers
8 Tony Kline
9 William Minor
10 Joan Aleshire
11 Tatiana Tulchinsky, Andrew Wachtel, and Gwenan Wilbur
12 Bernard Meares
13 Clarence Brown and W. S. Merwin
14 Yevgeny Bonver
15 то же, что #8, включено по ошибке
16 Александр Ситницкий
17 Burton Raffel
18 Boris Leyvi
19 Irene Parmenova (?)
20 John Glad
21 Vladimir Markov and Merrill Sparks
22 Babbette Deutch
23 Jane Gary Harris
24 Dimitri Obolensky
25 James Greene (1989)
26 Victor Erlich

Подведение итогов + ещё три перевода
Tags: current poetry, found in translation, краткая антология
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  • 17 comments

  • Это "р"? А это "ш"? Чтоб у него руки-ноги отсохли (© ММЖ)

    Нашел картинку, которой мне иногда не хватало перед глазами. Помимо прямого назначения, может использоваться для игры "Найди 10 отличий":…

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    Сегодня опубликованы две очень интересные статьи о геномной истории населения Иберийского полуострова за последние 8000 лет. Не буду их…