"Literature is a cohesive force for us readers around the world.  It is the voice of our common humanity, expressing at the same time the different cultures in which we live.  As such it is surely one of the more benign forms of globalization, and it may become a bridge toward world peace and understanding.  Alas, there is a limit to the languages we can learn over a lifetime, and thus a need for translation.  Translation is the hearing aid that allows us to listen to the voice that speaks in another language.  The Enchanting Verses Literary Review has decided to make available the original texts, wishing to encourage readers to take a look at them."
 ~~~Ute Margaret Saine , Editor of Translations

The International Translation project of The Enchanting Verses Literary Review encompasses poetry across the globe in several languages translated into English by translators. Every month we feature 2-4 new selections of translations as a part of this project. 

Volume 2 No. 3 December 2012

HO NELLE CARNI

                                    Vittorio Fioravanti

Curvo sulla ringhiera piegato
dallo svuotante conato amaro
del mio inutile sabato sera
spenti negli occhi i torbidi coralli
di luci riflesse e di colori
tormentati dall'impietose
acque della laguna
che una luna vasta irreale
rese irrequiete
e che ora l'alba illividisce e affrena
lungo le fondamenta
ho nelle carni
ormai umide d'ansia e di nebbia
come doloroso e informe assolo
d'un vibrante sassofono d'orgasmo
questa mia intera notte
d'insoddisfazione

I HOLD INSIDE MY FLESH 
                                  

I curve over the reiling doubled up
by the bitter draining retch
of my useless Saturday night
extinguished in my eyes lie the turbid corals 
of reflected lights and of colors
tormented by the pitiless
waters of the lagoon
that a vast unreal moon
has made restless
and dawn now makes livid 
and curbs along the foundations
 
I hold inside my flesh 
turned humid now with anguish and fog
like the painful and formless solo
of a vibrant orgasmic saxophone
this my entire night
of dissatisfaction

Original poems by Vittorio Fioravanti  in Italian. 
Vittorio Fioravanti is a great Italian poet who has lived in Germany and now lives in Venezuela, but continues writing in Italian, mostly about his beloved Venice.

©Translations by Ute Margaret Saine 

SETE DI TE
                                    Renzo Piovesan


ricolma d’ogni ombra che mi spia.
coincidente
la rivoluzione degli astri
nella notte.
nacqui pieno di domande sottili.
Tu a tutte rispondi.
piena di voci.
ancora vigorosa che domini le maree
che attraversiamo.
solco del torbido seme del mio nome.
esisto il passo
orma che calca familiare terra.
mano generosa
nel delirio della mia notte, dove porti?
sei sete fonte limpidissima.
assurdo è non amarti
per incanto e mente sei amore.
legame inscindibile,
se persino le mie ossa urlano
Sete di te
bacino sereno d’acqua dolce.
Sete
che nelle notti mi morde come un cane.
gli occhi cadrebbero avvizziti
non avendo conosciuto i tuoi.
la bocca si disseta ai tuoi baci.
l’anima s’accende in sereni abbracci.
corpi discesi in acque limpide.

A  THIRST  FOR  YOU

 

filled with all the shadows that haunt me. 
coinciding with 
the revolutions of the stars 
in the night. 
I was born full of subtle demands. 
You respond to them all. 
full of voices. 
still vigorous you dominate the surfs
that we cross.
a furrow with the turbulent seeds of my name. 
I exist in a step
a footprint marking familiar earth.
generous hand
in the delirium of my night, where do I put you?
you are a thirst of the purest fountain.
it’s absurd not to love you
by enchantment and mind you are love.
a tie unseverable.
if even my bones cry
A thirst for you
untroubled basin of sweet water.
A thirst
that bites me like a dog at night.
my eyes would shrivel and fall out
if they had not known yours.
my mouth is quenched by your kisses.
the soul lights up with serene embraces.
bodies descending into limpid waters. 

Original poems by Renzo Piovesan  in Italian. 
Renzo Piovesan is an Italian poet, novelist, scholar and critic who lives in the Veneto Region as well as in Greece.

©Translations by Ute Margaret Saine 

Volume 2 No. 2 July 2012

BALLATA D’ APRILE

Incederai per i campi danzando
chioma scomposta e le sottane al vento
a piedi nudi incontro al nuovo andando
e mai futuro s’ innalzerà a sgomento.
Tribolerai per amori da due soldi
quando fatica ti spezzerà la schiena
nella tua vita solo manigoldi
questa tua smania davvero mi fa pena.
Io mal subisco le anime adattate
che dalla fede bramano conforto
semplici donne di già rassegnate
incarcerate all’ingiustizia e al torto.
Ravviso ancora il tuo vestito bianco
la fascia in vita rossa provocante
la stessa strada percorrevamo a fianco
io avanti e tu sperduta in un istante.
Ti hanno svezzata con grandi bugie
ti hanno addestrata ad essere gentile
io dalla vita ricolma di magie…
Non è da tutte nascere in Aprile.



CANDELE E STELLE

Potere nemico oscuro della vita,
che snaturi la mistica dell'essere
imbrigliando i gemiti dei poveri;
caos di burattini in palma di mano,
tu semini dolori pungenti come cardi.
Il gioco di vento e pioggia si è verificato
e soffia sulle montagne e sotto gli alberi,
assecondando i bombardamenti del tuono,
che rimbomba nel vuoto in ogni valle.
Viene l’inverno, la nebbia d'inverno,
 inverno la neve, la pioggia d'inverno.
Il ricordo dei capitoli e la visione della vita,
candele e stelle che alimentano il pensiero,
estendendo l'universo in una strana magia,
dove i fantasmi svaniscono nella nebbia.
Non deve essere spezzata
o strappata la vita,
né abbracciata con nostalgia.
E l'universo vive, ama la vita,
chiaro è lo spazio e la luce del mattino,
i sogni della giovinezza , la fragranza
dei fiori di speranza a primavera
e la bellezza del profondo di corallo.
Nella struttura di un sognatore,
il fascino può
abbandonarsi alla dolce melodia
dell’usignolo, che insegue l’alba;
così il sangue nel cuore dei giovani,
dimenticando cautele alla luce dei suoi sogni,
alimenta dalla cenere fiamme libere.
Ecco, la bellezza che non muoia,
immortalata nel solco e nel seme,
nel gusto di frutta,
nel profumo dei fiori
sopra ai campi.

APRIL BALLAD

You will walk through the fields dancing
with ruffled hair and a wind-blown skirt
moving barefoot towards the new
and never will any future dismay arise.
You will suffer for two-bit loves
when fatigue will break your back
in your life there are only rogues
I really deplore your restlessness.
I cannot bear conformist souls
who crave comfort from faith
simple women easily resigned
put upon by wrongs and injustice.
I still recognize your white dress
the provocative red belt around your waist
we walked the same road next to each other
I ahead and you lost for an instant.
They have spoiled you with big lies
they have trained you to be nice
I come from a life full of magic...
but not everyone can born in April.



CANDLES AND STARS

Power, you are the dark enemy of life,
you distort the mystique of existence
and stifle the groans of the poor;
in your palm a jostling bunch of puppets
you sow pain stinging as thistles.
The play of wind and rain is assured,
it blows in mountains and under trees,
favoring the roars of thunders
resounding through the air of valleys.
Then comes winter, the fog of winter,
a winter with snow, a winter’s rains.
The memory of life as a vision in chapters,
the candles and stars that feed the mind,
extend a strange magic in the universe
where ghosts vanish into the mist.
It must not be broken
or torn away from life
nor embraced with nostalgia.
For the universe lives and loves life,
space is clear and the morning light,
the dreams of youth, the hopeful
fragrance of srping flowers,
beauty from a depth of corals.
In the figure of a dreamer
fascination may
surrender to the sweet melody
of a nightingale chasing sunrise;
thus the blood in young people’s hearts,
forgetting caution alight in their dreams,
frees the flares breaking through ashes.
This is the beauty that must not perish,
 immortalized by earth and seed,
 in the taste of fruit,
 in the scent of flowers
 above the fields.

Original poems by Adriana Scanferla  in Italian. 
Adriana Scanferla is a poet who has been widely published in the literary magazines of her native Italy.  She is preparing the publication of her first book of poems.  Translations are by Adriana Scanferla and Ute Margaret Saine.

©Translations by Ute Margaret Saine 

Volume 2 No. 1 March 2012 

IO  FOGLIA  CADUTA

Sono caduta ai tuoi piedi, albero mio.
Lascerò che l'acqua mi bagni,
che il sole mi asciughi,
che il vento mi sbricioli e mi renda polvere.
E come polvere penetrerò nella tua terra,
raggiungerò le tue radici
ti nutrirò, ti disseterò
e t' amero ...amore.    


TU  AMAMI  E  VEDRAI

Pollini rincorrersi nel vento,
posarsi ... e germogliare nella terra.
Sentirai ruscelli scorrere sulla pelle
pronti a lavare ogni tua ferita.


E capirai ch'è amore ... no illusione
E smetterai di dire
ad ogni t'amo
"shhhhh ... se no ti credo"
E lascerai che sia
polvere di stelle
acqua, perle, seta
o amore ... e noi.  


PROMESSA

Non ti prometto che sarà per sempre
Ti prometto che sarà giorno per giorno ...
Come una perla infilata dopo l'altra
...sulla seta ... mentre il baco muore.
Separata l'una dall'altra
dal nodo di un' abbraccio
fantasia condivisa
in un sospiro
che diventa bacio ...
e poi dita che s'allungano
in una carezza.
Mani intrecciate
che si son cercate ...
E granelli di sabbia.
Il mio vestito
in attesa della tua mano ...
che mi svesta.
Ti amo.

I  AM  THE  FALLEN  LEAF

I fell down at your feet, you are my tree.
I will let the rain bathe me,
the sun dry me,
wind crumble me into dust.
And as dust I will penetrate your earth,
I will reach around your roots
will nourish you and quench your thirst
and I will love you... my love.


LOVE  ME  AND  YOU  SHALL  SEE

Pollen flying in the wind,
settling... and germinating in the earth.
You will feel brooks running over your skin
ready to wash away any wound.


And you will understand that love is... no illusion.
And you will stop saying
after every I love you
"shhhhh... if you keep on, I’ll believe you"
And you will let it all exist
stardust
water, pearls, silk
or love... and us.


A  PROMISE

I can’t promise you that it will be forever
I promise you it will be day by day...
Like pearls strung up one after the other
...on silk... as the silk worm dies.
Separated one from another
by the knot of an embrace
a fantasy
shared in a sigh
that becomes a kiss...
and then fingers stretching
to give a caress.
Hands intertwined
that were searching for each other...
And grains of sand.
My dress
waiting for your hand
to undress me.
I love you.

Original poems by Michela Ruggiero in Italian.
Michela Ruggiero was born in Busto Arsizio in the province of Varese, northern Italy, where she lives and works.  She is in love with art, travel, and writing-- and with love itself.  She also loves utopias.  Her delicately tactile poems place humans in close contact with nature and have been widely published in anthologies, as well as translated into several languages.

©Translations by Ute Margaret Saine

Translated from Bengali poem 'Jete Pari, Kintu keno jabo' By Shakti Chattopadhyay

I can depart, but why should I?

I wonder, that it is better to turn back
so much of black I have daubed in my hands
over so long a period.
Never have I considered you, as in you.
Now when I stand by the chasm at night
come, come, come, calls the moon.
Now when I stand dormant by the Ganga
come, come, come call the woods from pyre.
I can depart
I can just go in any direction,
but, why should I?
Holding by the face I will kiss my offspring
I will depart 
But, not right now
I will take you all along
I won’t go alone in an unsuitable time.

Translated from Bengali Poem "kobi  o kangal" by Shakti Chattopadhyay.

The poet and the pauper

After being in pleasure for some time, like a human being
he died. He was a poet, the man was a pauper too.
When he died the publishers had indulged in festivities,
because, the man has gone, good riddance, he shall irritate no more.
No more will he come bedecked in the evenings and say, give me money,
Or else there will be demolition, destruction of the archive,
Give me money now, or else I will set your house on fire.
Yet he was blazed in fire, the poet and the pauper.

Translations by Debadrita Bose

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