Ma Mignonne: Clément Marot in Translation - User Interface Programming

In his fabulous book Le Ton Beau de Marot, Douglas R. Hofstadter discusses (among other things) poetry translation, using Clément Marot’s poem Ma Mignonne as a starting point for illuminating relationships and interdependencies between form and content.

The challenge is to translate the poem’s semantic content as faithfully as possible within the following formal constraints:

The poem is 28 lines long.

Each line consists of three syllables.

Each line’s main stress falls on its final syllable.

The poem is a string of rhyming couplets: AA, BB, CC, …

The semantic couplets are out of phase with the rhyming couplets: A, AB, BC, …

Midway, the tone changes from formal ("vous") to informal ("tu").

The poem’s opening line is echoed precisely at the very bottom.

The poet puts his own name directly into his poem.

Marot’s original is at the left; Hofstadter’s non-rhyming, semantically-reasonably-faithful translation (for the benefit of those (such as me) who have a hard time making sense of medieval French) is in the middle; my attempt at a Norwegian translation is at the right.

I ignored the formal vs. informal constraint; honoring it would have deprived me of the (very informal) greeting in the third line. Besides, formal address has fallen into disuse in modern Norwegian, and its use here would sound silly. Not all constraints are created equal, and this is one of the lesser ones (in my opinion).

A une Damoyselle Malade	To a Sick Damsel	Min konfekt
Clément Marot	Douglas R. Hofstadter	Petter Hesselberg
Ma mignonne, Je vous donne Le bon jour ; Le séjour C’est prison. Guérison Recouvrez, Puis ouvrez Votre porte Et qu’on sorte Vitement, Car Clément Le vous mande. Va, friande De ta bouche, Qui se couche En danger Pour manger Confitures ; Si tu dures Trop malade, Couleur fade Tu prendras, Et perdras L’embonpoint. Dieu te doint Santé bonne, Ma mignonne	My sweet I bid you A good day; The stay Is prison. Health Recover, Then open Your door, And go out Quickly, For Clément Tells you to. Go, indulger Of thy mouth, Lying abed In danger, Off to eat Fruit preserves; If thou stay’st Too sick, Pale shade Thou wilt acquire, And wilt lose Thy plump form. God grant thee Good health, My sweet. Used with permission.	Min konfekt, Med respekt: Hei på deg! Er du lei Av ditt bur? Vær nå lur, Kom i form! Kjære, storm Ut din port, Og gå bort, Men vær snar— Petter har Gitt beskjed. Gå av sted, Min marengs, For til sengs Går det smått— Spis et godt Stikkelsbær; Når du er Redusert, Garantert Blir du grå; Mister så Ditt humør. Må Gud gjør’ Deg perfekt, Min konfekt.
For the benefit of non-speakers of Norwegian, here is a literal gloss (with no literary merit whatsoever, but it does get the meaning across) as well as an attempt at a constraint-conforming English rendition of my Norwegian translation of Hofstadter’s English gloss of the original medieval French. Got that? Some of the rhymes are unoriginal. I haven’t consciously copied anyone, but several of them seem familiar: Jail/fail; queen/quarantine; instead/slugabed. There may be others. Note how perfectly Norwegian maps to English in lines 1–2 and 26–28: The rhyming version is identical to the gloss. As for the rest of it, the amount of semantic slippage is excessive in spots; I’m sure it is possible to do better.
Min konfekt	My Confect	My Confect
Min konfekt, Med respekt: Hei på deg! Er du lei Av ditt bur? Vær nå lur, Kom i form! Kjære, storm Ut din port, Og gå bort, Men vær snar— Petter har Gitt beskjed. Gå av sted, Min marengs, For til sengs Går det smått— Spis et godt Stikkelsbær; Når du er Redusert, Garantert Blir du grå; Mister så Ditt humør. Må Gud gjør’ Deg perfekt, Min konfekt.	My confect, With respect: Hi, there! Are you tired Of your cage? (Now) be smart/clever, Get into shape! Honey/dear, run (fast) Out (of) your gate/door, And go away (leave this place), But be quick— Petter has Told you so. Go away/get along with you, My meringue, Because in bed Things move slowly— Eat a good (tasty) Gooseberry; When/while you are Reduced (feeling bad), (It’s) guaranteed (That) you’ll turn gray; Then you’ll lose Your good humor/mood. May God make You perfect, My confect.	My confect, With respect, Little queen: Quarantine Is a jail. So don’t fail To improve, And then move To your door: Exit your Fine behind, Petter kind- ly bids you. Go, please do, That instead, For abed, Things go slow— So hello, Egg foo yong! If too long Your health fails, Color pales And you swoon; Then you’ll soon Start to shake. May God make You perfect, My confect.

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