Translation Problem, Wk. 5

Original Poem:

Morte del cinghiale

Era un cinghiale, la macchia nera sui sassi,

brulicante, cinghiale

prima di giungere qui, sul sentiero di roccia

e castagne, forse appunto attirato

dalle dolci castagne, dal sole

che filtra e s'incendia, e trafitto

dal sole, dal tempo, e ben altro: difficle

dire palottola, meglio la peste

suina, o uno squarcio segreto, subdolo

che lavora sotto la corsa e il grugnito, sotto l'ansia

di corsa e grungnito, da fame

e di piacere che lo spinge la notte per foreste 

e dirupie, e intanto un sordo

tradimento cresce piano, 

in silenzio, nel frusciare

di rovi e cespugli divelti, 

di muschi sconvolti

come da frana

o vita che si spezza, magro bosco

perduto ed ora esausto, il punto estremo

dove un nervo s'inalbera, un muscolo

arresta e s'impenna, e anche il sangue si gela: qui, dunque, 

la fine, il caro verbo deponente

di vespe e castagne autunnali, finghetti e ruscelli

che appena più oltre gorgheggiano, merlo e ghiandaie.

Neppure carogna, ormai, ma un teatrino di pelle

smangiata che s'incrosta nel terriccio, una tradotta

allegra di vermi bianchi e di formiche, 

un banchetto concluso. La pelle, 

le setole scure, le zanne, e poi niente. 

Group (Anastasia, Taylor, and me) Translation (versions may vary):

Death of the Wild Boar:

It was a wild boar, black spots on stones, 

swarming, wild boar

before arriving here, followed on the path of rock

and chestnuts, maybe just attracted 

to sweet chestnuts, to the sun

that sparks and bursts into flames, pierced 

by the sun, by time, and much more: it's hard 

to say bullet, better than the porcine

plague, or one secret gash, slyly

working under the flow and grunt, under the panic

of flow and grunt, through starvation

and pleasure pushing him in the night toward forests

and crags, while a dull

betrayal grows slowly, 

in silence, in the rustling

of brambles and uprooted bushes, 

of moss devastated 

as if in a landslide

or life that breaks, a thin forest

where a nerve rears, a muscle

seizes, spazzes, and the blood turns cold: here,

then, the end, the familiar verbo depondente 

of wasps and autumn chestnuts, little mushrooms and streams

that scarcely roll over them, blackbird and blue jay. 

Not even carrion, now, but a tiny theater of skin 

eating away that encrusted soil, a military train

of excited maggots and ants,

an ultimate feast: this skin,

the dark bristles, the tusks, and then nothing. 

My individual translation:

Death of the Wild Boar:

It was a boar, a black spot on stones,

swarming, a wild boar

before arriving here, on the path of rock

and chestnuts, just attracted, perhaps, 

to sweet chestnuts, to the sun

that sparks and bursts into flames, pierced

by the sun, by time, and much more: it's hard to say

if by bullet, but better than swine fever or

one secret gash, slyly

working under the flow and grunt, under the panic

of flow and grunt, through hunger

and its pleasure pushing him in the night, toward

forests and crags, while a deaf betrayal 

grows slowly, in silence, in the rustling 

of branches and uprooted bushes,

of moss devastated, as if in a landslide, or life

that snaps-- a thin forest lost 

and now exhausted, the final point 

where a nerve rears, a muscle seizes, spazzes, 

and the blood turns cold: here, then, the end,

the familiar verbo deponente

of wasps and autumn chestnuts, little mushrooms 

and streams that blackbird and blue jay scarcely warble

over. Not even carrion now, but a tiny theater

of skin, that encrusted the soil, 

gnawed away by a military train 

of maggots and ants, an ultimate feast: this

skin, the dark bristles, the tusks, 

and then nothing. 

Discussion:

I really enjoyed this translation project. Though initially working without an Italian student during transliteration, we (Anastasia, Taylor, and I) found the process more excitingly exhaustive than cumbersome and tedious. Conversely, our unfamiliarity with the language (and, especially, our lack-of intimacy with the culture) greeted us with (unavoidable) transliteral roadblocks. That is, we were (more often than not, it seemed) either struggling with verb conjugation (e.g., recognizing a verb in its conjugated form) or the actual transliteration of a word or line based on its cultural context. We constantly fumbled between meanings. *Note that--albeit a copy of collective collaboration--we still espoused transliteral variations.* But those moments, for me, became the most academically and cross-culturally constructive, as well as the most rewarding.

As for my translation of the poem: the transliteration did not change so much as the architecture. Because I, too, dabble in writing poetry, I am (architecturally) neurotic when it comes to line-breaks, the lengths of each line, how the poem looks on the page, etc. What's more, with the poem I also had to worry about syntax, about transliteration abstraction and Latinate words without superimposing or misconstruing the imagery/narrative the of original source. This, my friends, can be a migraine (if allowed). As you can see, I mostly changed line-breaks and hedged, as it were, the inconsistent line-lengths.