West Side Story
the ticket queues were extended along Yesilçam Street many times—oh so many times we went to see West Side Story at the Emek cinema Intoxicated by Lenny’s tunes we floated on his love songs in the queues on Yesilçam Street we’d remember our languished loves and we’d pave it with the clay of the loves that were to comeWest Side Story was purple rain
Laborer of Love
I loved without punctuation I loved without comma New line they said—no I said Line break they said quotes they said—no I said Without pausing Without striking I loved My love inexhaustible ink My love infinite line My love endless letter So I intoxicated Didn't sign the letter I loved without hesitation I loved without comma Could love have been eternity? Or eternity love?—I did not learn.
LO
On the same hour Saturday beneath the clock at the pier I wait for you Lo We walk hand in hand toward Muhurdar we sit — we watch the sunset intoxicated—intoxicated Lo At that hour the sun is a bleeding plum above the mosques tea has the color of your lips the flavor of your kiss Lo Then we roam the streets of Moda where the trees carved with your name greet us like an honor guard which we inspect one by one And if you so desire we hire a small boat with you — for you I conjugate the verb to love as the boat dances on the waves yes beautiful! And when the moon wanders on the celestial vault we walk toward Kalamesh Lo Look at the pier of Kalamesh how dark it is how desolate And if you wish we drift toward Fenerbahçe we catch sight of the islands the ships sailing back and forth the lights of the ships the hopes of the stars and the ardor of our souls On the benches of Fenerbahçe I carve hearts torn by arrows I kiss the stones of all the roads you’ve traveled I kiss them all — I kiss them Lo It is enough that you come Lo Saturday at the same hour Beneath the clock of the pier at Kadiköy It will suffice It will suffice my goddess O Lo — O Lola — Laura
Several years ago, I began to translate poetry from Armenian to English and quickly discovered that it enhanced my understanding of the poems. This was, of course, due to the multiple and repetitive readings of the poems within a short amount of time—often aloud, the dissection of sentences and phrases, and the sometimes futile attempts of rearranging words to remain true to both the new language and the original.
In translating poetry, my objective and measure of success becomes to say nothing more and nothing less than the original, with minimal deviation from the rhythms and textures—yes, that elusive texture!—of the original, and most importantly without hinting that this is a translation. In these translations of Ikna Sariaslan’s three poems, I started by reading as much of his poetry as I could find on the Internet. I read many of them several times, and often out loud so I could hear the rhythms. I had not been familiar with his work when I accepted to translate his poetry.
The poem “Laborer of Love” was the most interesting and challenging to navigate because of the abundantly delicate interactions between phrases and meanings.
This poem comprises seven short stanzas, each with either two or three lines. The fourth stanza, positioned at the center of the poem, is remarkable in that it deviates from the general structure of the other stanzas in interesting ways. Its three lines show significant similarities and symmetries: each line contains three words, the first words of its lines are the same, the second words of its lines are adjectives with the prefix un-, and the last words are nouns that refer to act of writing. Furthermore, the stanza contains no verbs—only nouns and adjectives while all other stanzas are comprised of complete sentences. Together, they produce a rhythm that is abrupt and a texture that is jagged. With this brusqueness the stanza suddenly stands and declares its impatience, but is quickly overruled by the stanzas that follow and restore the original rhythm and texture to the poem.
So how does one capture this structural turmoil in a translation?
I started with:
My love line without beginning My love abundant ink My love letter without end
My love infinite line My love inexhaustible ink My love unending letter
This brought me closer to the poem’s vision, yet I felt the translation had a few issues: first, “inexhaustible” had too many syllables; second, “unending” seemed as if a verb was trying to sneak in; and third, the word “line” seemed ambiguous. In Armenian, the word for a line of verse is specifically referred to as “dogh,” which is what appears in the original. English does not offer such a word. I changed the order of the lines in order to limit the ambiguity of the word “line,” and I replaced the word “unending” with “endless.” Thus, the stanza became:
My love inexhaustible ink My love infinite line My love endless letter
As a last effort, I wanted to replace “inexhaustible” with “luxuriant” because I sought to use a shorter word for the adjectives, as the poet had done. But that word seemed to convey more than the Armenian, and my instinct told me not to do it; so I relented.
Translating this poem, and particularly conveying this turmoil in another language, was engaging. This sort of expression of structural chaos also appears in music. As I navigated through these obstacles I could not help but hear the repeated bursts of unexpected chords in the second movement of Beethoven’s Third Symphony. In this respect, the poem and the symphony seemed to mirror each other across the boundary of two centuries.
Alec Ekmekji