До французької літератури твори Шевченка доходили поволі й не осягнули й досі того ступеня поширення, що його мають, напр., у літературі анґлійській чи німецькій.Головної причини цього стану треба, на нашу думку, шукати у національній психіці французів.Іван Дубицький, Шевченко у французькій мові, 1938
А твори Богдан-Ігоря Антонича й поготів.
Idolatrous Nights
The refraction of the moon repeats itself in the clouds, a song,
Cloud on cloud forming a silver wall, below which the foxes bark.
Leaves dangle from the stars in oblique ropes,
The mushrooms chime their plates of rust colour,
In the forest choir,
The leaves of the oak form
A lush foam, a surf, that booms and trumpets
The unwritten law of night.
Wolves bring their sacrifice of blood and flesh,
Wiping their muzzles on musical flax.
Night of predatory law and dark magic. In the marsh things knead
A dull red dough of mud. Owls harmonise treason.
A star wrinkles its eyebrow at the moon,
Flower sticks to flower,
In a dew thick as paste,
The oily greenery
Becomes this coarse fabric of darkness.
The angles of roots are coiled music, plaiting
The melodies that foam within.
This is the heart of the forest,
The horizon’s secret,
Where storms exhaust themselves and lightning
Is a razor whipped across a razor,
Each broken human dream.
Its wings sweep across the earth, adorning roofs
With wreathes for the marriage of fire.
Terror, a subterranean child that cries each night
In that place where beyond knowledge of feeling or ruin
The incomprehensible, ancient speech surrounds us.
The river. Spring grinds its ice.
Duet
Source / Джерело : EuromaidanPress.com
Nota Bene
Cloud on cloud forming a silver wall, below which the foxes bark.
Leaves dangle from the stars in oblique ropes,
The mushrooms chime their plates of rust colour,
In the forest choir,
The leaves of the oak form
A lush foam, a surf, that booms and trumpets
The unwritten law of night.
Wolves bring their sacrifice of blood and flesh,
Wiping their muzzles on musical flax.
Night of predatory law and dark magic. In the marsh things knead
A dull red dough of mud. Owls harmonise treason.
A star wrinkles its eyebrow at the moon,
Flower sticks to flower,
In a dew thick as paste,
The oily greeneryBecomes this coarse fabric of darkness.
The angles of roots are coiled music, plaiting
The melodies that foam within.
This is the heart of the forest,
The horizon’s secret,
Where storms exhaust themselves and lightning
Is a razor whipped across a razor,
Each broken human dream.
Its wings sweep across the earth, adorning roofs
With wreathes for the marriage of fire.
Terror, a subterranean child that cries each night
In that place where beyond knowledge of feeling or ruin
The incomprehensible, ancient speech surrounds us.
The river. Spring grinds its ice.
Duet
We return slowly to the earth, our cradle.
Green tangles of vegetation bind us, two fettered chords.
The razor sharp axe of sun hews at a trunk,
The music of moss, tenderness of the breeze, the oak a proud idol.
In the wastage of days that bear us the body, warm and obedient
Grows with itself, two siblings, two flowers of fidelity.
The moss warms us like cat fur. You transform the stars into a murmur
And blood into music and greenery. The sky glows.
At the edge of day, in the ocean of heaven, the winds of the future sleep
And our devoted constellations wait under the frost,
While earth does not instruct them to arise. We abandon things,
To be borne, to grasp the stars in pure ecstasy.
The yearning of blood hurts. Eyebrows sharp as two arrows,
While above us a wall of melody echoes
The pinions of a breeze. Our fate pinned on the planets.
You burn with growth, thirsty as the earth. Become all music.
Translated by Stephen Komarnyckyj
First published in Modern Poetry in Translation Issue: Series 3 No.14 – Polyphony.
Bohdan Ihor Antonych, Night Music, KLP, 2016
Green tangles of vegetation bind us, two fettered chords.
The razor sharp axe of sun hews at a trunk,
The music of moss, tenderness of the breeze, the oak a proud idol.
In the wastage of days that bear us the body, warm and obedient
Grows with itself, two siblings, two flowers of fidelity.
The moss warms us like cat fur. You transform the stars into a murmur
And blood into music and greenery. The sky glows.
At the edge of day, in the ocean of heaven, the winds of the future sleep
And our devoted constellations wait under the frost,
While earth does not instruct them to arise. We abandon things,
To be borne, to grasp the stars in pure ecstasy.
The yearning of blood hurts. Eyebrows sharp as two arrows,
While above us a wall of melody echoes
The pinions of a breeze. Our fate pinned on the planets.
You burn with growth, thirsty as the earth. Become all music.
Bohdan Ihor Antonych
Translated by Stephen Komarnyckyj
First published in Modern Poetry in Translation Issue: Series 3 No.14 – Polyphony.
Bohdan Ihor Antonych, Night Music, KLP, 2016
Source / Джерело : EuromaidanPress.com
Nota Bene
En même temps si vous ne savez pas qui était Bohdan-Ihor
Antonytch, vous ne risquez pas de comprendre grand chose au roman
de Youry Androukhovytch "Les Douze cercles", Noir sur Blanc, Lausanne, 2009.
The online journal “Ukrainian Literature: A Journal of Translations” is
dedicated to English translations of contemporary Ukrainian writers. A
special issue of the “International Poetry Review” was dedicated to
Ukrainian poetry from 1985 to 2010.
Translators from Ukrainian into
English include Michael Naydan, Mark Andryczyk, Steve Komarnyckyj,
Vitaliy Chernetsky, Yuri Tkacz and others.
Several publishing houses have specialized in publishing Ukrainian literature translated into English. These include Bayda Books and Sova Books in Australia, Language Lanterns Publications in Canada, and lately Kalyna Language Press and Glagoslav Publications in the UK.
Source / Джерело : UkrainianLiterature.com
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