Mit wechselndem Schlüssel
schliesst du das Haus auf, darin
der Schnee des Verschwiegenen treibt.
Je nach dem Blut, das dir quillt
aus Aug oder Mund oder Ohr,
wechselt dein Schlüssel.
Wechselt dein Schlüssel, wechselt das Wort,
das treiben darf mit den Flocken.
Je nach dem Wind, der dich fortstösst,
ballt um das Wort sich der Schnee.
(in Von Schwelle zu Schwelle)
With a changing key
With a changing key
you unlock the house where
the snow of what's silenced drifts.
Just like the blood that bursts from
your eye or mouth or ear,
so your key changes.
Changing your key changes the word
that may drift with the flakes.
Just like the wind that rebuffs you,
packed round your word is the snow.
(in John Felstiner,
Selected Poems and Prose of Paul Celan
(Norton))
D'une clé qui change
D'une clé qui change
tu ouvres la maison où
tournoie la neige des choses tues.
Au gré du sang qui sourd
de ton oreille ou ton œil ou ta bouche,
ta clé change.
Ta clé change, le mot change,
qui peut partager la course des flocons.
Au gré du vent qui te repousse,
la neige se roule autour du mot.
(in De seuil en seuil,
Bourgois (bilingue),
traduit par Valérie Briet)
Dans son livre, John Felstiner traduit Celan avec une attention extrême qui n'est pas exempte de risques assumés et son travail d'universitaire lui donne souvent l'occasion de commenter ses choix, une occasion qui n'est que trop rarement accordée à d'autres traducteurs. Ci-dessous, il justifie son choix pour le dernier vers (au passage, son "Changing your key changes the word" pour "Wechselt dein Schlüssel, wechselt das Wort" mériterait aussi un commentaire ...) :
With a Changing Key (1953)
Everything Paul Celan ever wrote was an arte poetica, a proving of poetry after "that which happened," as he called what we call Holocaust or Shoah. Yet some poems come closer to the bone than others. In this one he's musing to himself, testing the reflex of words to pain. In 1969 Celan spoke his poem aloud to a Jerusalem audience anxious to know what had become of a survivor who remained in Europe writing in German rather-than emigrate to Israel and Hebrew. On a rare recording, he can be heard to stumble on the next-to-last line-something unheard of for one who enunciated so exactingly.
Je nach dem Wind, der dich fortosst,
ballt um das Wort sich der Schnee.
just like the wind that rebuffs you,
the snow packs around the word.
For some unknowable reason he balks after Je nach dem Wind (Just like the wind), then speaks the line again. Nevertheless his final line comes out firm and cadenced.
Celan worried about metaphor, and here der Schnee presents hard fact, Ukrainian snow where his parents perished. So the syntax shaping his line, stifling "word" between "packed" and "snow," matters vitally: ballt um das Wort sich der Schnee, he stresses it. For years I said "the snow packs around the word," but now that sounds feeble and faltering to me. Rhythmically we need something like this, "packed round your word is the snow," to shape the poet's plight.
Everything Paul Celan ever wrote was an arte poetica, a proving of poetry after "that which happened," as he called what we call Holocaust or Shoah. Yet some poems come closer to the bone than others. In this one he's musing to himself, testing the reflex of words to pain. In 1969 Celan spoke his poem aloud to a Jerusalem audience anxious to know what had become of a survivor who remained in Europe writing in German rather-than emigrate to Israel and Hebrew. On a rare recording, he can be heard to stumble on the next-to-last line-something unheard of for one who enunciated so exactingly.
Je nach dem Wind, der dich fortosst,
ballt um das Wort sich der Schnee.
just like the wind that rebuffs you,
the snow packs around the word.
For some unknowable reason he balks after Je nach dem Wind (Just like the wind), then speaks the line again. Nevertheless his final line comes out firm and cadenced.
Celan worried about metaphor, and here der Schnee presents hard fact, Ukrainian snow where his parents perished. So the syntax shaping his line, stifling "word" between "packed" and "snow," matters vitally: ballt um das Wort sich der Schnee, he stresses it. For years I said "the snow packs around the word," but now that sounds feeble and faltering to me. Rhythmically we need something like this, "packed round your word is the snow," to shape the poet's plight.
Le texte complet de Translating Paul Celan, ici
Finalement, "s'enroule autour du mot la neige.", cela passe plutôt bien :
Finalement, "s'enroule autour du mot la neige.", cela passe plutôt bien :
Ta clé change, le mot change,
qui peut virevolter avec les flocons.
Poussée par le vent qui te balaye,
s'enroule autour du mot la neige.
