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Portuguese to English: Ricardo Reis poem General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - Portuguese O deus Pã não morreu,
Cada campo que mostra
Aos sorrisos de Apolo
Os peitos nus de Ceres —
Cedo ou tarde vereis
Por lá aparecer
O deus Pã, o imortal.
(...)
Pã continua a dar
Os sons da sua flauta
Aos ouvidos de Ceres
Recumbente nos campos.
(...)
Translation - English Pan, the god, is not dead;
Every meadow bearing
To smiling Apollo
The bare bust of Ceres —
Will sooner or later
Witness the appearance
Of Pan, god immortal.
(...)
Pan continues to toot
The tunes of his panpipes
To the ears of Ceres
Recumbent on the fields.
(...)
English to Portuguese: Wallace Stevens - Domination of Black General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - English Domination of Black
At night, by the fire,
The colors of the bushes
And of the fallen leaves,
Repeating themselves,
Turned in the room,
Like the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind.
Yes: but the color of the heavy hemlocks
Came striding.
And I remembered the cry of the peacocks.
The colors of their tails
Were like the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind,
In the twilight wind.
They swept over the room,
Just as they flew from the boughs of the hemlocks
Down to the ground.
I heard them cry—the peacocks.
Was it a cry against the twilight
Or against the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind,
Turning as the flames
Turned in the fire,
Turning as the tails of the peacocks
Turned in the loud fire,
Loud as the hemlocks
Full of the cry of the peacocks?
Or was it a cry against the hemlocks?
Out of the window,
I saw how the planets gathered
Like the leaves themselves
Turning in the wind.
I saw how the night came,
Came striding like the color of the heavy hemlocks
I felt afraid.
And I remembered the cry of the peacocks.
Translation - Portuguese Dominação do Preto
De noite, junto ao fogo,
As cores do arvoredo
E das folhas velhas,
Repetindo elas mesmas,
Reviraram no quarto,
Como as folhas, elas,
Virando ao vento.
Sim: mas a cor dos tensos tinhorões
Veio veloz.
E me lembrei do grito dos pavões.
As cores de suas caudas
Eram como as folhas, elas,
Virando ao vento,
No poente ao vento.
Planaram pelo quarto,
Como voaram das ramas dos tinhorões
Até chegarem ao chão.
E ouvi-os gritar – os pavões.
Era um grito contra o poente
Ou contra as folhas, elas,
Virando ao vento,
Virando como as chamas
Viraram no fogo,
Virando como as caudas dos pavões
Viraram no fogo estrídulo,
Estrídulo como os tinhorões
Tomados pelo grito dos pavões?
Ou era um grito contra os tinhorões?
Pela janela,
Vi como os planetas se agruparam
Como as folhas, elas,
Viraram ao vento.
Vi como veio a noite,
Veio veloz como a cor dos tensos tinhorões
E tive medo.
E me lembrei do grito dos pavões.
English to Portuguese: Wallace Stevens - The Snow Man General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - English One must have a mind of winter /
To regard the frost and the boughs /
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow; //
And have been cold a long time /
To behold the junipers shagged with ice, /
The spruces rough in the distant glitter //
Of the January sun; and not to think /
Of any misery in the sound of the wind, /
In the sound of a few leaves, //
Which is the sound of the land /
Full of the same wind /
That is blowing in the same bare place //
For the listener, who listens in the snow, /
And, nothing himself, beholds /
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
Translation - Portuguese O Homem de Neve
É preciso uma mente de inverno
Para atentar à geada e aos galhos
Dos pinheiros cobertos de neve;
E ter-se há tempos no frio
Para olhar o cedro escarpado em gelo,
E abetos brutos no brilho distante
Do Sol de janeiro; e não pensar
Em toda a desgraça no ruído do vento,
No ruído de algumas folhas,
Que é o próprio ruído da terra
Cheia do mesmo vento,
Que sopra no mesmo ponto nu
Para o ouvinte, que ouve na neve,
E, ele nada, contempla
Nada que não está lá e o nada que é.
English to Portuguese: Wallace Stevens - Hibiscus on the Sleeping Shores General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - English I say now, Fernando, that on that day /
The mind roamed as a moth roams, /
Among the blooms beyond the open sand; //
And that whatever noise the motion of the waves /
Made on the sea-weeds and the covered stones /
Disturbed not even the most idle ear. //
Then it was that that monstered moth /
Which had lain folded against the blue /
And the colored purple of the lazy sea, //
And which had drowsed along the bony shores, /
Shut to the blather that the water made, /
Rose up besprent and sought the flaming red //
Dabbled with yellow pollen - red as red /
As the flag above the old cafe - /
And roamed there all the stupid afternoon.
Translation - Portuguese Te digo, Hernando, que naquele dia
A mente flanava como as falenas
Por entre as flores além da areia aberta;
Que qualquer ruído que uma onda fazia
Sobre as algas e nas cobertas penhas
Não perturbava nem o mais vão ouvido.
E eis que aquela infernal falena,
Há pouco recolhida contra o azul
E o corado púrpura do mar vadio,
Que cochilara pelas praias ósseas,
Alheia ao grulhar do mover das águas,
Soergueu-se aspersa perseguindo o rubro-flama
Com amarelo pólen – rubro tão rubro
Quanto o emblema sobre o velho café –
E por lá flanou toda a tarde estúpida.
English to Portuguese: Wallace Stevens - Infanta Marina General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - English Her terrace was the sand /
And the palms and the twilight. //
She made of the motions of her wrist /
The grandiose gestures /
Of her thought. //
The rumpling of the plumes /
Of this creature of the evening /
Came to be sleights of sails //
Over the sea. /
And thus she roamed /
In the roamings of her fan, //
Partaking of the sea, /
And of the evening, /
As they flowed around /
And uttered their subsiding sound.
Translation - Portuguese Seu terraço era a areia /
E as palmeiras e o poente. //
Fez dos meneios de sua mão /
Os gestos grandiosos /
De sua mente. //
O plissar das plumas /
Dessa criatura do ocaso /
Veio a ser ardil de velas /
Sobre o mar. //
E assim andava /
Nas andanças de seu leque, //
Partilhando do mar, /
Partilhando da noite, /
Enquanto fluíam em derredor, /
E emitiam seu ruído derradeiro.
English to Portuguese: Edith Sitwell - Sir Baal General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - English When
Sir
Beelzebub called for his syllabub in the hotel in Hell
Where Proserpine first fell,
Blue as the gendarmerie were the waves of the sea,
(Rocking and shocking the barmaid).
Nobody comes to give him his rum but the
Rim of the sky hippopotamus-glum
Enhances the chances to bless with a benison
Alfred Lord Tennyson crossing the bar laid
With cold vegetation from pale deputations
Of temperance workers (all signed In Memoriam)
Hoping with glory to trip up the Laureate's feet,
(Moving in classical metres) ...
Like Balaclava, the lava came down from the
Roof, and the sea's blue wooden gendarmerie
Took them in charge while Beelzebub roared for his rum.
... None of them come!
Translation - Portuguese Quan
do
Baal foi pedir seu mingau no quintal do hotel
No Fel, da queda primal de
Prosérpina, azuis qual gendarmes as ondas do mar,
(Zoando e chocando a barista).
Não vem nenhum pra servir o seu rum mas as
Raias do céu têm negrume do anum
Acirra-se a sina a benzer com sua bênção a
Alfred Lord Tennyson, como um barrista,
Com frias carquejas de claros cortejos
De obreiros serenos (firmando In Memoriam)
Crendo com glória que topem nos Láureos pés,
(Canto com clássicos metros) ...
Qual Balaclava, a lava desceu lá do
Céu, e os cerúleos gendarmes marítimos
Os acolheram ouvindo Baal, que berrou por seu rum.
... Não vem nenhum!
English to Portuguese: Walt Whitman - In Cabin'd Ships at Sea (excerpt) General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - English IN cabin'd ships, at sea,
The boundless blue on every side expanding,
With whistling winds and music of the waves--the large imperious
waves--In such,
Or some lone bark, buoy'd on the dense marine,
Where, joyous, full of faith, spreading white sails,
She cleaves the ether, mid the sparkle and the foam of day, or under
many a star at night,
By sailors young and old, haply will I, a reminiscence of the land,
be read,
In full rapport at last.
Here are our thoughts--voyagers' thoughts,
Here not the land, firm land, alone appears, may then by them be
said;10
The sky o'erarches here--we feel the undulating deck beneath our
feet,
We feel the long pulsation--ebb and flow of endless motion;
The tones of unseen mystery--the vague and vast suggestions of the
briny world--the liquid-flowing syllables,
The perfume, the faint creaking of the cordage, the melancholy
rhythm,
The boundless vista, and the horizon far and dim, are all here,
And this is Ocean's poem.
Translation - Portuguese Em largas naus ao mar,
O amplo azul em todo o entorno se alargando,
Com o assovio dos ventos e a música das ondas, as vastas imperiosas
ondas,
Ou nalguma erma barca a boiar no denso mar,
Onde jubilosos de fé infalível, alçando alvas velas,
Cindem o éter em meio ao cintilar e à espuma do dia, ou sob
O céu estrelado da noite,
Por marinheiros jovens ou velhos, porventura, serei – uma reminiscência da terra –
Lido,
Enfim, em simpatia plena.
Eis o que achamos, nós viajantes,
Cá não a terra, a firme terra, a sós nos se mostra, podem então nos
dizer,
O céu aqui acima se estende, sentimos o ondear do convés sob os
Pés,
Sentimos o longo pulsar, vem e vai de vento e mar,
Os tons do mistério obscuro, o vago e vasto incitar do
mundo salino, o fluir de líquidas sílabas,
O perfume, o brando ranger do cordame, a melancolia
em cadência,
A vista irrestrita e o horizonte, turvo e distante, estão todos aqui,
E este é o poema do mar.
Portuguese to English: Carlos Drummond de Andrade General field: Art/Literary Detailed field: Poetry & Literature
Source text - Portuguese Copo D'água no Sereno
O copo no peitoril
convoca os eflúvios da noite.
Vem o frio nevoso
da serra.
Vêm os perfumes brandos
do mato dormindo.
Vem o gosto delicado
da brisa
E pousam na água.
Translation - English Glass of Water by the Dewy Night
The glass on the windowsill
Summons the flowings of the night.
In comes the snowy cold
Of the mountains.
In comes the bland perfumes
Of the sleeping meadow.
In comes the delicate taste
Of the breeze.
And descend upon the water.
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Translation education
PhD - USP - Universidade de São Paulo
Experience
Years of experience: 16. Registered at ProZ.com: Apr 2014.
My name is Alessandro Palermo Funari. I have graduated
in History and have a PhD in Translation Studies, both from Universidade de São
Paulo. In my PhD research, I have translated Wallace Stevens’ book of poetry
entitled Harmonium into Portuguese. The theoretical bases for my
translation ideas com mostly from Haroldo de Campos, whereby one does not waive
the formal aspects of poetry to focus solely of the content: in poetry, and in
creative literary prose, form and content are one and the same. In addition to
the fully translated book above, I have also translated some poetry by Chinese
poets from the Tang Dynasty into Portuguese and poems by Ricardo Reis, a
Horace-like heteronym created by Fernando Pessoa, arguably Portugal’s greatest
poet, and by the Brazilian poet Murilo Mendes into English, among others. I
specialize in both English to Portuguese and Portuguese to English translations.
Expertise