Emil Brumaru–Verlaine told me

Emil Brumaru writes such bawdy, ribald poetry, it’s hard for a girl to translate it without turning red up to the tip of her ears. After all, it’s hard to translate "pizda" with something other than "(four-letter word that rhymes with punt)." Yet he does it with such sincerely horny tenderness, with such unrestrained and delicate lust, with such gingerly stirring passion, that you can’t help but smile, feel a little liberated, and wish you could express yourself as freely and colorfully as he does.

I’ve decided to tackle a less…let’s say, raw (or direct) poem, and so I chose this one, which is rather sweet. My linguistic treasons will become apparent when you compare the final version (right column) with the literal translation (middle).

Verlaine mi-a spus by Emil Brumaru Verlaine mi-a spus în după-amiaza tristă: "De ce îţi laşi femeia ta frumoasă Închisă-vis. Un fluture există Numai o clipă-n vîntul de mătasă. Tu uiţi mereu că-ntr-un izvor căzută Căpşuna, de n-o sorbi, lin putrezeşte Chiar de-i atinsă doar de-un voal de peşte Portocaliu sau de un bot de ciută. Fiindcă pe tine-anume te aşteaptă. Nu-ntîrzia, ci-mbracăte-n veşminte De in curat şi amîndoi, cuminte, Iubiţi-vă, cît roua-i înţeleaptă. Paharul golit laş, pe jumătate, Rămîne-n veci cu buzele umflate."

Verlaine told me by Emil Brumaru (raw version) Verlaine told me that sad afternoon: "Why do you leave your beautiful woman Trapped in a dream. A butterfly exists Only for a moment in the silky wind. You keep forgetting that, if fallen into a spring, The strawberry, if you don’t sip [slurp] it, rots Even if just the orange veil of a fish touches it, Or the muzzle of a deer. Because she’s waiting especially for you, Don’t be late, get dressed in Clean linen clothes, and both, sensibly, Make love, while the dew is still wise [i.e., on]. The glass that’s cowardly half-emptied Will never get anything in return for its troubles."

Verlaine told me by Emil Brumaru Verlaine told me one gloomy afternoon: “Why do you trap your girl in a cocoon Of dreams. A butterfly will live For just a second in the wind’s silk sieve. A strawberry that falls into a spring Will slowly molder if touched by the thin And soft resemblance of an orange fin, Or maybe by a deer’s nosy swing. Because it’s only you she’s waiting for, Delay no more, put on your very best And purest garb, and in the nest Of dawn, make love to her—and then some more. The cowardly half-emptied glass will be Forever disappointed and love-free.