Relics o Language

It is in a constant transgression of cultures that I find myself established,” says Hungarian poet Győző Ferencz. “An outsider-in and an insider-out.” Perhaps for that reason he found fellow poet Tom Hubbard’s suggestion that he translate his poems into Scots, rather than into English, “an exhilarating venture”. The fruits of their collaboration can be found in a recently published pamphlet, Minoritie Status (Tapsalteerie, £5). Ferencz is himself a translator of poems in English – Donne, Wordsworth, Yeats – into his native tongue and so knows the importance of making oneself clear, and, as the poem illustrates, how difficult genuine communication can be.

My voce is sic ane sindry clatter My lugs is deaved wi somebdy’s patter

That comes frae whaur, and wha? O thon clanjamfrie, whilk am I? Gin I could seeve it oot somewey

Fraw aa thon smush – weill, braw.

But the aich o my ain voce, that’s thrawn, Juist thraws the mair the aich o thon,

And as they dirl and dunner, Relics o a forgotten leid Winna form a weill-composit screed,

Fir at thon task, they scunner.