I'll ask George.
At 02:12 PM 1/15/2005, you wrote:
>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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