If any of these poems were also translated by Haviaras a comparison might
be useful. Can you post one?
Mark
At 01:02 PM 1/15/2005, you wrote:
>These are good, Mark, and, well, hopefully Haviaras and Economou will not be
>too discombobulated by each other's efforts, or not knowing, each was
>translating the same thing. I generally think the more translations the
>better; for
>instance, it seems to me that many more know the work of Neruda better than
>Vallejo's because there have been so many translations and translators of
>Neruda, whatever the particular merits or demerits of each translation
>might be.
>And it does seem as if it were time for new translations of Cavafy, and I
>sort of
>like the idea that at a certain point the critical mass of absence
>generates this
>presence from several directions at once, like simultaneous invention in
>science
>where scientists, working in various corners, come up with the telescope
>within
>days or moments of each other. As if the air itself called for it. So now,
>two most
>interesting new translations!
>
>Best,
>
>Rebecca
>
>---- Original message ----
> >Date: Fri, 14 Jan 2005 19:12:59 -0500
> >From: Mark Weiss <[log in to unmask]>
> >Subject: Cavafy Economou versions
> >To: [log in to unmask]
> >
> >George Economou sent me a few poems from his book of Cavafy translations.
> >The files were somewhat confused, so be aware that stanza spacing may be
>off.
> >
> >George says that the selection was the publisher's not his. It looks likely
> >that there will be another book, this time of George's choosing.
> >
> >He threw in his translation of "Ithaca," which has never been published.
> >
> >There are three other Cavafy translations in George's book Century Dead
> >Century, buried, with the rest of my belongings, in storage.
> >
> >
> >DAYS OF 1908
> >
> > That year he found himself out of work,
> > and so he lived off of card games,
> > backgammon, and loans.
> >
> > He was offered a job at a small stationery
> > at three pounds a month.
> > But he didn't hesitate at all to turn it down.
> > It wouldn't do. It was not a salary for him,
> > a fairly well educated young man of twenty-five.
> >
> > Some days he won two or three shillings, others none.
> > What could the boy make out of cards and backgammon
> > in the working-class cafés of his social level,
> > no matter how smartly he played, or picked dull opponents?
> > As for his loans, they didn't amount to much.
> > He rarely came up with a crown, usually half,
> > at times came down to a shilling.
> >
> > Some weeks, sometimes longer,
> > when he escaped the hideous late nights,
> > he refreshed himself at the baths, with a morning swim.
> >
> > For a week
> > His clothes were in a terribly sad state.
> > He always wore the same suit, a suit
> > of extremely faded cinnamon color.
> >
> > O summer days of nineteen hundred and eight,
> > from your view, in the best of taste,
> > the faded cinnamon colored suit is missing.
> >
> > Your view has preserved him
> > as he was when he removed them, threw them off,
> > those unfit clothes and mended underwear,
> > and stood completely naked, perfectly handsome, a miracle,
> > with his uncombed hair swept back,
> > with his limbs lightly tanned
> > from his morning nakedness at the baths and on the beach.
> >
> >
> >
> >IN AN ANTIQUE BOOK
> >
> > In an antique book--about a hundred years old--
> > forgotten between its pages,
> > I found an unsigned watercolor.
> > It must have been the work of a mighty artist.
> > It was entitled, "Presentation of Love."
> >
> > "The utmost sensualists' love" would have been more apt.
> >
> > Because it was obvious as you looked at the work
> > (it was easy to get the artist's idea)
> > that the young man in the picture had not been cut out
> > for those who love in more or less healthy ways,
> > staying within the limits of what can be
> > allowed--with his deeply dark chestnut eyes,
> > with that exquisitely beautiful face of his,
> > the beauty of abnormal enchantments,
> > with those ideal lips that bear
> > sensual delight to the beloved body,
> > with those ideal limbs of his framed for beds
> > that current morality calls shameless.
> >
> >
> >
> >AT THE COFFEEHOUSE DOOR
> >
> > Something they said beside me
> > turned my attention to the coffeehouse door.
> > And I saw that lovely body that looked
> > as if Eros had made it at the height of his powers--
> > joyfully molding its elegant limbs,
> > sculpting its stature tall,
> > excitedly molding its face
> > and leaving by the touch of his hands
> > a certain feeling in the brow, the eyes, the lips.
> >
> >
> >
> >PRAYER
> >
> > The sea took a sailor down to her depths.--
> > His mother, not knowing this, goes and lights
> > a tall candle before the Virgin Mother
> > for his quick return and for good weather--
> >
> > His mother, unaware
> >
> > and ever towards the wind she cocks her ear.
> > But while she pleads and says her prayer,
> >
> > the icon listens, sad and solemn,
> > knows the son she awaits will never come.
> >
> >
> >
> >IN THE TWENTY-FIFTH YEAR OF HIS LIFE
> >
> > He goes regularly to the taverna
> > where they had met the month before.
> > He made inquiries, but they had nothing to tell him.
> > From what they said, he understood that he had met
> > a completely unknown individual,
> > one of the many unknown, questionable
> > young sorts who happened by there.
> > He still goes regularly to the taverna, at night,
> > and sits and looks in the direction of the door,
> > looks in the door's direction until he's worn out.
> > Perhaps he'll come in. Perhaps tonight he'll come.
> >
> > He does this for almost three weeks.
> > His mind becomes sick with lust.
> > The kisses remain on his mouth.
> > He suffers in all his flesh unrelieved longing.
> > The touch of the other's body is upon him.
> > He wants to be reunited with it.
> >
> > He does not want to betray himself, of course.
> > But sometimes he's almost indifferent.
> > Besides, he knows what he's getting into,
> > he's made up his mind. It's not unlikely this life of his
> > will lead him to a disastrous scandal.
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >THE MIRROR IN THE VESTIBULE
> >
> > The grand house had in its vestibule
> > a colossal, extremely old mirror,
> > bought at least eighty years ago.
> >
> > A very handsome boy, a tailor's helper
> > (on Sundays an amateur athlete),
> > stood there with a package. He gave it
> > to a member of the household, who took it in
> > to bring back the receipt. The tailor's helper
> > was left alone, and he waited.
> > He approached the mirror, looked at himself,
> > and straightened his tie. After five minutes
> > they brought him the receipt. He took it and left.
> >
> > But the old mirror that had seen so much
> > during the many years of its existence,
> > thousands of things and faces,
> > that old mirror was now overjoyed,
> > and filled with pride at having taken into itself
> > perfect beauty for a few moments.
> >
> >
> >
> >WHEN THEY STIR IN YOUR MIND
> >
> > Try to watch over them, poet,
> > however few there are that can be stayed.
> > The visions of your erotic life.
> > Slip them, half-hidden, into your phrases.
> > Try to hold on to them, poet,
> > when they stir in your mind
> > at night or in the noonday blaze.
> >
> >
> >ITHACA
> >
> > As you begin the journey to Ithaca,
> > hope for a road that will be long,
> > full of adventures, full of lessons.
> > Of Laistrygonians, of Cyclopes,
> > and livid Poseidon have no fear,
> > you'll never encounter such things on your course,
> > provided you hold your thoughts high, and a rare
> > kind of excitement touches your body and mind.
> > Laistrygonians and Cyclopes,
> > savage Poseidon you'll not meet up with,
> > unless you bear them in your soul,
> > unless your soul stands them up before you.
> >
> > Hope for a road that will be long.
> > Let there be many a summer morning
> > in which with what pleasure, what joy
> > you'll enter harbors seen for the very first time;
> > may you stop at Phoenician marketplaces,
> > and acquire beautiful things,
> > mother-of-pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
> > and delightful perfumes of every kind,
> > delightful perfumes as profusely as you can;
> > may you go to many Egyptian cities,
> > to learn and learn from their scholars.
> >
> > Always keep Ithaca in your mind.
> > Getting there is your destiny.
> > But by no means rush the journey.
> > Better to let it hold on for years;
> > and as an old man to drop anchor at the island,
> > rich with all you've won on the road,
> > not expecting Ithaca to make you wealthy.
> > Ithaca gave you the beautiful journey.
> > Without her you wouldn't have taken the road.
> > She has nothing more to give you.
> >
> > And if you find she's poor, she hasn't deceived you.
> > In the way you have become wise, full of experience,
> > you'll understand now what Ithacas mean.
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