Five Ways of Making Petrarch's Sonnets Come Alive

The complicated and mind-numbingly difficult process of translating poetry from one language to another is really impossible.

For example, my mother once asked me to translate one of my poems for her, so she could read it. I was at a loss, because. . . well. . . I didn't really know where to begin. Or how. I gave her a rough transliteration of the lines, but saying "it's about Velázquez, and he's looking over the court from a high turret, and he sees color sneaking into the stone courtyard like a snake" doesn't even make sense, never mind sound poetic.

Here is an example of how differently we can interpret the same poem. I've chosen Petrarch because, hey, who didn't? and since Chaucer was the first poet to (kinda almost sorta) translate Petrarch (his translation is not into sonnet form, with which the Englishman was not familiar), let's start there.

In his Troilus and Criseyde, he renders Petrarch's rima 132 into a rhyme royal. Here's Petrarch's original:

132.  
S'amor non è, che dunque è quel ch'io sento?
Ma s'egli è amor, perdio, che cosa et quale?  
Se bona, onde l'effecto aspro mortale?  
Se ria, onde sí dolce ogni tormento?  
 
S'a mia voglia ardo, onde 'l pianto e lamento?  
S'a mal mio grado, il lamentar che vale?  
O viva morte, o dilectoso male,  
come puoi tanto in me, s'io no 'l consento?  
 
Et s'io 'l consento, a gran torto mi doglio.  
Fra sí contrari vènti in frale barca  
mi trovo in alto mar senza governo,  
 
sí lieve di saver, d'error sí carca  
ch'i' medesmo non so quel ch'io mi voglio,  
et tremo a mezza state, ardendo il verno.  
 
 
Chaucer-- (it's in Troilus and Criseyde): 

"If no loue is, O god, what fele I so?  
And if loue is, what thing and which is he?  
If loue be good, from whennes cometh my woo?  
If it be wikke, a wonder thynketh me,  
Whenne euery torment and aduersite  
That cometh of hym may to me sauory thinke,  
ffor ay thurst I the more that ich it drynke.  
 
"And if that at myn owen lust I brenne,  
ffrom whennes cometh may waillynge and my pleynte?  
If harme a-gree me, wherto pleyne I thenne?  
I noot, ne whi vn-wery that I feynte.  
O quike deth, O swete harm so queynte,  
How may of the in me swich quantite,  
But if that I consente that it be?  
 
"And if that I consente, I wrongfully  
Compleyne, i-wis; thus possed to and fro,  
Al sterelees with-inne a boot am I  
Amydde the see, bitwixen wyndes two,  
That inne contrarie stonden euere mo.  
Allas, what is this wondre maladie?  
ffor hete of cold, for cold of hete, I dye."
trans. Geoffrey Chaucer.
 

Now let's look at some later versions. They're quite different, and yet all are pretty close translations. No need to tell you which one I prefer, but I do realize that my 14th century Italian might need a little work. Oh, well. As I said, it's durn tricky. (Incidentally, you'll notice I mention the translators' names both at the beginning and at the end of the poems. This is because translators are often ignored, omitted, walked past in the street, left off folks' Christmas card lists, and so forth. Doesn't seem quite right, does it?)

A. S. Kline: 

What do I feel if this is not love?

But if it is love, God, what thing is this?

If good, why this effect: bitter, mortal?

If bad, then why is every suffering sweet?

If I desire to burn, why tears and grief?

If my state's evil, what's the use of grieving?

O living death, O delightful evil,

how can you be in me so, if I do not consent?

And if I consent, I am greatly wrong in sorrowing.

Among conflicting winds in a frail boat

I find myself on the deep sea without a helm,

so light in knowledge, so laden with error,

that I do not know what I wish myself,

and tremble in midsummer, burn in winter.

trans. A. S. Kline
http://petrarch.petersadlon.com/canzoniere.html

Beatrice Lei:  

If it is not love, what then is it that I feel?  
But if it is love, before God, what kind of thing is it?  
If it is good, whence comes this bitter mortal effect?  
If it is evil, why is each torment so sweet?

If by my own will I burn, whence comes the weeping and lament? 
If against my will, what does lamenting avail? 
O living death, O delightful harm, 
how can you have such power over me if I do not consent to it?

And if I do consent to it, it is wrong of me to complain. 
Amid such contrary winds, in a frail bark, 
I find myself at sea without a tiller,

so light of wisdom, so laden with error, 
that I myself do not know what I want; 
and I shiver in midsummer, burn in winter.

trans. Beatrice
Lei (Bi-qi) http://literaria.net/Shakespeare/L3/SH3.htm

Maurice Bishop:  

Can it be love that fills my heart and brain? 
If love, dear God, what is its quality? 
if it is good, why does it torture me? 
If evil, why this sweetness in my pain? 

If I burn gladly,why do I complain? 
If I hate burning, why do I never flee? 
O life-in-death, O lovely agony, 
how can you rule me so, if I'm not fain?  
 
And if I'm willing, why do I suffer so?-- 
By such contrary winds I'm blown in terror 
in a frail and rudderless bark on open seas,

ballasted all with ignorance and error. 

Even my own desire I do not know; 
I burn in winter, and in high summer freeze.

trans. Maurice Bishop

www.leevilehto.net/inc/kuisma_korhonen_renaissance

 

And Teresa McGurk:

If not love, then what is this that I feel?

If love – dear God, what kind of thing is it?

If good, why then this mortal, bitter kiss?

If evil, why is every torment sweet?

If I want pain, why do I cry and wail?

And if I don’t, then what good is lament?

Oh living death, Oh happy, happy pain – 

How can you govern without my consent?

And if I do consent, my grief is wrong.

My frail boat rocks among contrary winds

on high seas, and I find I cannot steer – 

I know so little, and so much I err

that I myself do not know what I want:

In summer I am ice, in winter, fire.

trans. Teresa McGurk (a.k.a. Sheila
Tombe)

There. You'll notice that I publish poetry under a different name, but that's a long story, for a different Hub. In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed the different versions of the sonnet.