diceman
¥
Ορισμένοι από εσάς γνωρίζουν ότι αυτό το διάστημα μεταφράζω μια ποιητική συλλογή, δουλειά πολύ κουραστική και αγχωτική, κυρίως γιατί μου δημιουργεί διαρκώς την αίσθηση ότι και 200 χρόνια να τα σουλουπώνω τα ποιήματά μου, πάλι θα χωράνε βελτίωση.
Anyway, μου έχει μείνει ένα ποίημα, ένα καταραμένο ποίημα του Gene Wolfe, το οποίο έχω σχεδόν μεταφράσει. Λέω σχεδόν, γιατί υπάρχουν 2-3 σημεία που δεν τα καταλαβαίνω ή δεν είμαι σίγουρος ότι τα καταλαβαίνω. Θα τα μαρκάρω με κόκκινο, για να μου πείτε τη γνώμη σας, είτε εδώ είτε με PM (αν είστε ντροπαλά παιδιά).
WHY PRIVATE WAR
Or, Why They Pinned This Name on My Progenitor
Gene Wolfe
There breathe no dragons anymore,
And throttling bears is such a bore,
It's always soppy at the shore,
And you're too young to get a whore.
Yes, earth seems dull on every score,
And even stealing from the store,
Brings but your weary sigh, "What for?"
Yet wait, O child I adore!
There still remains the secret lore,
That lurks behind the Men's Room door.
There you may learn of Slaves of Gor,
The functions of our human spore,
The Hammer of the Great God Thor,
And other things good folks abhor.
And you shall learn, by metaphor,
And scratchings of some graffitor,
As o'er those winsome walls you pore.
(I know it well; it I know sore.)
So, little man, learn one thing more.
Add but my number to the corps
— 'tis triple X, XX54 —
And this old hand will spill your gore!
I'll pour your guts out on the floor,
Nor will I like you, furthermore.
L'Envoi
Kid, I'll forgive you well before
You hear the splash of Charon's Oar.
Then great God's mercy I'll implore,
And wrap me in a mantle poor,
Bind rueful brows in mandrigor,
To please the judge and each juror;
Recant like an ambassador,
And break each grave, judicial snore,
With many a penitential roar.
Anyway, μου έχει μείνει ένα ποίημα, ένα καταραμένο ποίημα του Gene Wolfe, το οποίο έχω σχεδόν μεταφράσει. Λέω σχεδόν, γιατί υπάρχουν 2-3 σημεία που δεν τα καταλαβαίνω ή δεν είμαι σίγουρος ότι τα καταλαβαίνω. Θα τα μαρκάρω με κόκκινο, για να μου πείτε τη γνώμη σας, είτε εδώ είτε με PM (αν είστε ντροπαλά παιδιά).
WHY PRIVATE WAR
Or, Why They Pinned This Name on My Progenitor
Gene Wolfe
There breathe no dragons anymore,
And throttling bears is such a bore,
It's always soppy at the shore,
And you're too young to get a whore.
Yes, earth seems dull on every score,
And even stealing from the store,
Brings but your weary sigh, "What for?"
Yet wait, O child I adore!
There still remains the secret lore,
That lurks behind the Men's Room door.
There you may learn of Slaves of Gor,
The functions of our human spore,
The Hammer of the Great God Thor,
And other things good folks abhor.
And you shall learn, by metaphor,
And scratchings of some graffitor,
As o'er those winsome walls you pore.
(I know it well; it I know sore.)
So, little man, learn one thing more.
Add but my number to the corps
— 'tis triple X, XX54 —
And this old hand will spill your gore!
I'll pour your guts out on the floor,
Nor will I like you, furthermore.
L'Envoi
Kid, I'll forgive you well before
You hear the splash of Charon's Oar.
Then great God's mercy I'll implore,
And wrap me in a mantle poor,
Bind rueful brows in mandrigor,
To please the judge and each juror;
Recant like an ambassador,
And break each grave, judicial snore,
With many a penitential roar.
