Herbsttag

I'm a translator, did you know that?

Technical, not literature.  Translating literature is really hard and pays even worse than technical translations.  Even harder than translating fiction is translating poetry.  Not sure how that pays but it's tedious and painstaking work and ultimately, its success is in the eye of the beholder.   How can you convey images, emotions, allusions without losing content, or style?  I have no idea.  Some people, do, though.

I love poetry.   One favorite one for this time of the year is "Herbsttag" (Autumn Day) by Rainer Maria Rilke. (I think I'm with 80% of Germans on this one.) I always wanted to share this poem with Doug but I certainly cannot translate this adequately. Thanks to Google, I found this really good site where the fabulous John Holcombe does all the work for me.

Herbsttag

by Rainer Maria Rilke

Herr: es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr groß.
Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren,
und auf den Fluren laß die Winde los.

Befiel den letzten Früchten voll zu sein;
gib ihnen noch zwei südlichere Tage,
dränge sie zur Vollendung hin und jage
die letzte Süße in den schweren Wein.

Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr.
Wer jetzt allein ist, wird Es lange bleiben,
wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben
und wird in den Alleen hin und her
unruhig wandern, wenn die Blätter treiben.

Go and check out how he suggests to translate, why he chooses one word over the other, and the outcome(s) at the end.  It's a fascinating read and maybe you can share my love of Rilke with me a bit, even if you don't speak German.

Comments

[The New York City Math Teacher]

I've always enjoyed Rilke - but recently I was turned on to Peter Händke - "Als das Kind Kind war..."

[Doug Sutton/ Munich, Germany]

Hello NYC math teacher. Here is another (my own) translation of Herbsttag for your critical appraisal. - Doug Sutton/Munich

Autumn Day

Lord: It is time. Summer was magnificent.
Lay your shadows across the sun-dials,
and o'er the isles allow the winds to vent.

Command the final fruits to fill the vine,
Give them two more days in the southern sun,
push them towards completion and then run
the final sweetness through the heavy wine.

He who now has no house, will build one ne'er,
He who is now alone, will long so remain,
will awaken, read, and lengthy letters pen,
and in tree-lined lanes will here and there
restlessly wander, while the leaves are driven.