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Wednesday, March 4, 2015
ARTLITERATOUR:ARTHUR RIMBAUD MUSEUM/POEMS
Arthur Rimbaud Museum, Harar, Ethiopia
« J’étais insoucieux de tous les équipages »
Faramarz SoleimaniRimbaud's house in Harar , Ethiopia TODAY is a museum under his name, located about 300 miles from Adis Ababa www.mojmagazine.com نخستین مترجم زورق مست آرتور رمبو به فارسی حسن هنرمندی بود و پس از آن ترجمه های دیگری هم از این اثر توسط محمد علی سپانلو و دیگران انجام شده است اوز بیژن الهی نیز ترجمه اشراق ها و فصلی در دوزخ آرتور رمبو منتشر شده است
۱۸۵۴-۱۸۹۱ آرتور رمبو
برگردان : بیژن الهی
اوراق مصور " آرتور رمبو "
ﭘﺲ از ﺗﻮﻓﺎن
ﺧﻴـﺎلِ ﺗﻮﻓـﺎن(1) ﻫﻤـﻴﻦ ﻛـﻪ ﻓـﺮو ﻧﺸـﺴﺘﻪ ﺑـﻮد،
ﺧﺮﮔﻮﺷﻲﺑﺎز اﻳـﺴﺘﺎد ﻣﻴـﺎن ﺷـﺒﺪر و ﮔﻠﻬـﺎي اﺳـﺘﻜﺎﻧﻲي ﻟﺮزان،
و ﺳـﺠﺪه ي رﻧﮕـﻴﻦ ﻛﻤـﺎن ﮔُﺰاﺷـﺖ از ﻣﻴـﺎنِ ﺗـﺎرِ ﻋﻨﻜﺒﻮت.
ستاره در قلبِ گوشهایت سرخِ گُلی میگرید جاودانگی، سپیدی را از پشتِ گردن تا باریکیِ کمرگاهت میپیچد دریا بر نوکِ پستانهایت حنا میریزد و مرد تیرگی را بر اندامِ شاهوارت جاری میکند.
منبع: آرتور رمبو صدایی از آینده، گردآوری و ترجمه: محمد فلاح نیا
The Drunken Boatزورق مست
Down the blank indifference of the rivers, I suddenly lost weigh, my hauliers were gone – Naked, nailed to gaudy totem poles, they’d been Used by screeching redskins for a target.
As for the sailors – ferrymen of Flemish Corn or English wool – I didn’t give a damn. When their racket and the hauliers had vanished, The rivers let me sail where I pleased.
Me, last winter, deafer than children’s brains, Into the frenzied lashings of the tides I ran! Never were cast-adrift peninsulas Subjected to a chaos more triumphant!
The storm blessed my ocean-going rebirths. Lighter than a cork, I danced the waves, Those eternal corpse-rolling waves. Ten nights And never a pang for an imbecile lighthouse eye!
Sweeter than sour apple-flesh to children, The green water breached my pinewood hull; Splashes of blue wine, bolts of vomit cleansed me, Swept away my rudder and my anchor.
Since then, I’ve bathed in the Poem of the Sea, Infused with stars, milky, devouring the green Azures where sometimes the pale and ravished Flotsam of a drowned man goes under, thoughtfully;
Where brief-tinctured bluenesses and madness thrive; Where a slow beat beneath the dazzle of the day – Stronger than alcohol, more great than song – Ferments the bitter rednesses of love!
Skies fissured by lightning, I’ve known, And spouts, and tide-cracks and currents, And dawns released like flocks of doves, And sometimes I saw what men believed they saw!
I’ve seen the low sun, nightmare-stained, Freeze in its violet spotlight’s far-flung beam – Like actors in those very ancient dramas – The far-rolling waves, the shiver of their blinds!
I’ve dreamed the green night of dazzled snows, Slow-rising kiss reaching the eyes of seas, The upswelling gush of unheard-of sap, The blue and yellow flares of singing phosphorus!
Months I followed the mad mooings of the swell As it battered the reefs, never thinking to question How the radiant feet of Virgin Marys held down The truculent snouts of asthma-gasping Oceans!
Listen, I struck incredible Floridas, where The eyes of man-skinned panthers melted to flowers! Where reins longer than rainbows drove Bug-eyed cattle under the horizon of the seas!
I saw boilings of immeasurable swamps, nets Where whole Krakens putrefied in bending grasses! I saw erupting waters implode the doldrums And cataracting distances tumble into depths!
Glaciers, silver suns, pearling waves, charcoal-glowing skies! Awesome beachings on the floor of brown gulfs, Stinking termites devouring giant sea-snakes Falling from twisted trees, perfumed black!
If only I’d shown to children those sea-bream Of the blue wave, those golden fish, those singing fish. – The spindrift of flowers cradled my drifting; Mysterious breezes gave me momentary wings.
A martyr, sometimes, wearied of poles and zones, My rolling sweetened by sobs of the sea, I felt its Shadow-flowers press their yellow cupping glass Against me, and I lulled there, like a woman kneeling . . . .
An island, almost, the squabbles and droppings Of screaming blonde-eyed birds, bouncing off my planks. I roved, and through my frail ropes The drowned descended backwards into sleep! . . . .
Me, thus, shipwrecked in an inlet’s tangled hair, Hurricane-hurled at the birdless air, Me, that neither lifeboat nor passing ship could save, A carcass, drunk on water;
Free, stinking, clambering from violet mist, Me, drilling the blush of skies as if it were a wall Hung with the jam of exquisite poets – Eczema of sunlight, livid streams of snot!
Me, running, stained with the lunar electric, Mad sailboard, with a black sea-horse escort, When July-cudgelled skies were beaten down, Ultramarine into fiery funnels;
Me, trembling, feeling the howling rut Of beasts and whirlpools fifty leagues off, Eternal weaver of blue standstills, Longing for Europe, its ancient parapets!
Archipelagos of stars, islands of raving skies, I’ve seen you open to those who wander: – Is it in these bottomless nights you sleep, exile yourself, Million birds of gold, O strength of the future? –
I’ve wept too much! Dawns are a heartbreak, All moonlight an atrocity, the sun is bitter; I’m drunk with languor, swelled from the prick of love. Let my keel split! Let me founder in the deep!
If I desire one water of Europe, it is the black Cold puddle where, in scented dusk, A squatting child full of sadness, launches A boat as frail as a butterfly in May.
No longer, waves, can I bathe in your moods, No longer plough the cotton-freighter’s wake, No longer sail beneath the hubris of a flag, Nor skiff between the grim-eyed prison-ships.
ARTHUR RIMBAUD Translated by John Hartley Williams (2004)