“El mundo cultural que articula la obra, tan distinto en problemática, historia y estructura, resulta en este caso intraducible.”

 

“The cultural world the work articulates, so different in its problems, history, and structure, is in this case untranslatable.”

 

So lament the editors of Basque poet Gabriel Aresti’s collected works: a thick book with a crimson red cover, published in 1967. As a Basque national and aspiring translator, I can understand where they are coming from. It matters that Aresti wrote in Basque, a language faced with the threat of extinction. On top of the fusillades and other forms of violence common throughout Francoist Spain, the dictatorship spurred a period of strict cultural repression. For a generation, schools in the Basque Country were banned from teaching in Basque, those who spoke the language in public were fined, and baptizing newborns with Basque names was forbidden by the state. Aresti’s choice to not only learn Basque as an adult, when these measures became more relaxed, but to also write his poetry in Basque, is thus both an act of political defiance and essential to the creation of meaning in his work. This presents a unique challenge for his translators.

Often times, so-called ‘literal’ translations cannot cut it. When Aresti writes “Gaur diot hau. / Bai. Nik.”, he is not just saying “This I say today. / Yes. I.” The translation is literal, ‘correct’, but these words lack the power of the original. It matters – politically, historically, socially – that the ‘I’ is in Basque, that those lines are being written and presumably recited in Basque, and that it is being done by someone who proudly identifies as a speaker of the language. The literal ‘I’, by contrast, feels hollow. Its true significance needs explaining, and this explanation – a footnote, perhaps, or a commentary – runs the risk of killing the poem, of turning it into a historical artefact to be annotated instead of felt.

When I set out to translate these poems, I did not want to produce artefacts, but to recreate the irreverence of Aresti’s work. It felt important to produce a translation that incorporated the poems’ history, that would help readers unfamiliar with the Basque language and the region understand what Aresti was all about. So, despite my limited grasp on the language, I ventured in and took some liberties – I added verses and titles for context, played with form and, at times, just sat back, and let the poetry speak for itself.

In the three poems presented here, Aresti is as multifaceted as ever. He converses with Basque intellectuals amongst mountains, he defies fascist forces, and he works to rebuild a language, one close to death, with the very hammers that define the Basque metalworking tradition. In Basque, Aresti’s poems are simple and sharp, quick and ravaging. In English, my hope is that they feel alive.

 

FIRST POEM AND TRANSLATION:

 

Axular

Gorbeia mendian

dago

ehortzirik.

 

The Priest

 

Axular

must be buried

nearby

in Mount Gorbea.

 

Who else would teach me to write

simple truths

simply put?

 

 

SECOND POEM AND TRANSLATION:

 

Egai bat esateagatik,

alabak

hil behar bazaizkit,

andrea

bortxatu behar badidate,

extea

lurrarekin

berdindu behar bazait;

Egai bat esateagatik,

ebaki behar badidate

nik eskribitzen

dudan

eskua,

nik kantatzen

dudan

mihina;

Egai bat esateagatik,

nire izena

kenduko badute

euskal literatuaren

urrezko

orrietatik,

inoiz,

inola,

inun

eznaiz

isilduko.

 

 

Noise

 

If for telling a truth

fascists

must

kill

my daughters,

rape

my wife,

raze

the house

we live in;

If for telling a truth

they must

cut

my writing

hand,

slice

my singing

tongue;

If for telling a truth

my name is erased

from Basque literature’s

lemony

pages,

I will never,

no way,

nowhere,

shut up.

 

 

THIRD POEM AND TRANSLATION:

 

Esanen dute

hau

poesia

eztela,

baina nik

esanen diet

poesia

mailu bat

dela.

 

Manifesto

 

They will say

this isn’t

poetry,

but I’ll say

poetry

is

a hammer. ∎

 

Words by Ainhoa Santos Goicoechea. Artwork by Nat Cheung.