Hi Mark,
well, I don't have the Haviaras book, just a few poems forwarded from a friend,
and those that I have are "He Vows" "For Them to be summoned" (which I posted
at first) and then "Before Time Changed Them" and "He Asked About the
Quality." So if you have any of those in the Economou versions, you could post
them, and I'll follow up with the Haviaras. Sorry to not have other choices, I
agree it'd be interesting to have both translations of the same poem to compare,
best,
Rebecca
---- Original message ----
>Date: Sat, 15 Jan 2005 13:56:51 -0500
>From: Mark Weiss <[log in to unmask]>
>Subject: Re: Cavafy Economou versions
>To: [log in to unmask]
>
>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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