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Florilège - i-voix polyglotte
La tour de Babel par Brughel l'Ancien (1563)
d'un ami étranger
qui raconte notre origine
quand il n'y avait pas
d'étrangers."
(YVON LE MEN, Une rose des vents)
Tout au long de l'année 2013-2014,
les lycéens d'i-voix se sont approprié des extraits des oeuvres lues
en les traduisant dans des langues diverses.
En voici quelques échos.
(Cliquez sur le nom du traducteur
pour découvrir l'article original)
Television creates stars that create television that creates stars that create television that creates stars that create television that creates stars that create television that creates stars that create television that creates stars that create television that creates stars that create television that creates stars that create television that creates stars that create television that creates stars that create television that creates stars that create television that creates stars that create television that creates stars.......
"Eine grosse Figur ist noch kein grosses Maul.
Ein grosses Maul ist noch kein eigenwilliger Mensch.
Ein eingenwilliger Mensch ist noch kein grosser Mann.
Ein grosser Mann ist noch kein grosser Name.
Ein grosser Name ist noch kein grosses Wort.
Ein grosses Wort macht noch keinen Kopf von Gondel.
Ein Kopf von Gondel gibt noch keinen grossen Kopf.
Ein grosser Kopf leistet sich noch keinen Kopf des Kunden."
Segure entre vidro quebrado
um cigarro e sem muletas
grande escape para cerca de
tombos e
din nos ouvidos
cabeça para baixo andar ereto.
Here the snowy owl holds council
Under the banner of blood
A single word standing wind
And the horses of feathers
The wolves of slate
The bisons of coal
Force the steps of the temple
International of desire
De la herida
Blasón siempre nuevo
al vulnerable secreto del cubierto.
como mano en el guante
Que el sufrimiento irá a la cifra
Excepto el silencio.
The fire that I took with my hands full
To trace the incandescent
of the blue sand and life blazon
the fire of the wind
of the six cardinal arrows
Una linea per il forte vento
Quando il pensiero scorre attraverso
e segnare la fonte
lettura in mare
ci costa il sapore della parola.
about your dream
to the sea
so as to she erases
all
apart from emptiness
nothing
except hers banks
El poema
Es el imposible nombre
Del poema
Como la nieve
Es el imposible nombre de la nieve
Como el tiempo
Es el nombre imposible del tiempo
Y como soy, yo también,
En el imposible conocimiento de lo que soy
En el imposible enfoque de lo que puedo ser.
How could I really think
That two moments could be the same
Similar in all things
From everywhere we look at, everywhere we are ?
How could I think one day about it ?
Think for example that
One silence could be the same
As quite a different silence,
Or that an echo of stone always be
the same echo of stone.
Think that
Two speeches made with same words
And a same intonation of voice
Could be similar speeches.
How
And why I bellieved one day all this stuff
and to extrem poverty of my look ?
PS : l'extrait traduit est tiré du recueil de poésie Ce que j'ai peut-être fait de Yves Namur à la page 52. Cette traduction n'est surement pas parfaite, j'ai néanmoins essayé de resté fidèle à l'esprit du poème tout en changeant quelques tournures de phrases. N'hésitez surtout pas à laisser un commentaire pour me signaler une erreur quelconque.
Um coração
Cor de vinho queimado
Onde se posam os pássaros
Na estação dos amores
Uma guitarra rica de uma só corda
De uma só nota
É assim que o amor dansa
No universo
E conjuga os vivos
No presente do viver
Lembras-te que as pedras têm um coração
E que a água chora no seu vestido de noiva
Quem dirá?
Quem dirá?
Quem ousará?
Remember stones have got heart
And water weeps in her wedding dress
Who will say ?
Who will say ?
Who will dare ?
He built at the end of the hall a secret.
That he fed tenderly.
A secret of love which doesn't belong to me.
"Eu sou sensivel ao barulho e a luz, as palavras espalhadas nos raios de sol, ao pequeno martelamento que sai da janela do vizinho."
Ur mein bezañ a-walc'h evit daou laboused ; daou laboused mizer,
daou rulosteged a-zivout damouchiñ a reont paer du.
I'm still standing. Words frozen inside the gorgeous decrepitude. This simple awarness that life is still erected in the moment, no matter the dust falling from my ruins, live is still let a self part to death.
This is wherefrom I write..
From my ruins.
Não pode ficar sozinho
Não posso ficar com outro
Diga-me, não me fale
Não fale comigo...
I saw here Yes I saw here said Paul
she was laughing with the floating fire
Floated her dress with brambles
slight light touch flew without touching ground.
Alexandra Saemmer
O tarzhañ da c'hoarzhin, biskoazh n'am boa graet an arnod-se, n'am boa ket ar gwir. An douar a zo o tirenkañ ac'hanon un tammig, rannigoù à c'hell bezañ, ya va, ez eus anezho, 'vit gwir.
