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Le Monde de L'Écriture » Encore plus loin dans l'écriture ! » Textes non francophones » Poem to the Molten Prince

Auteur Sujet: Poem to the Molten Prince  (Lu 1912 fois)

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Poem to the Molten Prince
« le: 06 janvier 2022 à 23:10:13 »
Salut !

comme au quotidien j'ai un entourage essentiellement non-francophone (mais moins souvent non-anglophone), j'avais ces derniers jours de plus en plus envie d'essayer de traduire un petit bout d'un des textes sur lesquels je travaille en ce moment.
Du coup, c'est la première page de ce texte, Pour un prince en fusion. L'incipit original est ici.
C'était chouette comme expérience.
Ça donne une perspective intéressante sur la manière dont on écrit.
Ça permet aussi de repérer les formules qui sont là par défaut, celles qui comptent davantage pour le fond que pour la forme... c'est vraiment intéressant.
Et même des moments surprenants où on se dit "mais vazi ça sonne beaucoup mieux dans cette autre langue en fait |-|"
du coup j'aime sincèrement bien cette version ! c'est cool !

J'ai aussi cherché pour le titre une traduction convenable en turc, ce qui est compliqué parce qu'il y a pas de différence en turc entre glace fondue et réacteur en fusion (en anglais il y a les participes melted et molten, les substantifs melting et meltdown), du coup j'ai fini par aboutir à une version avec titre et sous-titre, littéralement "la fonte [/fusion] du prince (poème nucléaire)" : Brensin Erimesi (nükleer şiir) :coeur:

Je pense pas en traduire davantage. Je serais super content d'avoir des retours, qu'ils soient très généraux ou bien qu'ils relèvent des fautes (: j'ai essayé de m'appliquer mais je suis loin d'être bilingue, et à des moments j'avais juste envie d'avancer !


in the heart of the monsoon is a kingdom
in the heart of the kingdom a prince grows up

rain throughout the fields
washing filthless asphalt

‘monsoon’, a word they never faced - forecast nor press nor prince
around him reigns supreme

just like a monsoon is this world weighing him down

it’s still morning, rain’ll come later
that heavy sky a weighing wet sheet
in the heart of a monsoon morning is
- a kingdom
- with a prince obviously
as always
he’s there and grows up
(body slightly damaged by that hard leaning sky)

he’s got a few friends at school, listens to physics lessons, dreams of owning hotels where all foreigners would gather
(he would cook for them and get their room ready, taking care of their comfort, learning languages)
but no one ever crashes into town

thick woods keep the kingdom isolated from the outside world (some say: putting pressure on its neck)
about them isn't any legend in particular
woods equal monsoon: it’s a way of speaking
the city ends on several wide roads and huge farm estates which work as near impassable borders, there’s wheat, corn and rapeseed among other grains, while on the ring roads are bridges, tolls, exit ramps and interchanges rushing random

grain and asphalt: infinite, humanless area
like woods after all - ancient, wild, effective woods
so here in the kingdom to keep it simple they say woods
and it probably did get woods-covered, in the days of bucks and hunts
real green-haired woods barking loud
and chances are that trees keep growing together by now
chances are that they still cover and border
chances too that this land is still called a kingdom

there’s kingdom, king and queen, and no child but a boy
reigning in apathy over loans, shares and transactions
markets and machinery all running well

here’s the prince
prince + asphalt / monsoon + woods
just as past and even present woods apply, ivies mistling up with alder and charms, pine and aspen skins rubbed on the bark of does, daffodils down, expedients, trampled shits, hyssops ; just as the whole of it applies, so applies the prince, even though nothing remains of him, not a single trace, maybe a name or two
barely a bone
no bone but a stone (one)


just like a monsoon is this world weighing him down
over the prince’s body the bag gets tighter
(the monsoon chokes like a burlap bag)
there’s (a) little space left

always enough for a living, rough burlap air and seamed rain itching our skin, everyday and worse
this monsoon-size, kingdom-size bag is where the prince grows up
like a giant curled up between sky and ground

now he’s gone but the story remains / plus the stone, there’s one stone left
so, considering the common descent of stones and bones (star dust, titanic skeletons), we assume a piece of prince survived

woods ok, prince and stone ok
ok from space dust its immemorial aura
problem is
the prince comes to life again, and again, and again
it’s unbearable how he keeps on coming to life
inside every single clinic yesterday and tomorrow
what about saying it all to...?
saying it all like on the very first day
unlikely moment when the prince
free of fame takes a lonely breath
unlikely free of glory, pain, anger and fate
a shadow free of woods and mount
who never asked to be told

here's the prince
hair: not short nor long
eyes aren’t wide open
undermined by his mum and dad
interested in physics lessons, even though results didn’t follow
he goes, free of anger and fate, through crossings and sidewalks, to the highschool courtyard and the family dining room
like any other regular prince, he goes through this part of his life without being stalked by anyone
at the end of town
at night after school
drinking his beers in a rainy parking lot

when it no longer rains, he’ll head back to the castle

« Modifié: 13 janvier 2022 à 16:56:58 par Gros Lo »
dont be fooled by the gros that I got ~ Im still Im still lolo from the block (j Lo)


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