Has anyone read the W.S. Merwin translation of "Sir Gawain and the Green Knight"

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While we are on the subject of long/ish poems, has anyone read this yet? This may be my favorite medieval poem (not that that's saying much--I'm hardly a scholar). How does it compare to the Borroff
translation, which has a good reputation, and always seemed pretty readable to me?

― Rockist Scientist, Saturday, 11 January 2003 21:05 (twenty-three years ago)

I've only ever read it in its original version, no translations.

― Lek Dukagjin, Saturday, 11 January 2003 22:14 (twenty-three years ago)

I guess you were asking for that answer, Rockist.

― Chris P (Chris P), Sunday, 12 January 2003 00:26 (twenty-three years ago)

I suppose I am a bit lazy not to just deal with the Old English or Middle English or whatever it was written in.

― Rockist Scientist, Sunday, 12 January 2003 01:57 (twenty-three years ago)

Can't compare translations--sorry. I will say, though, that if you like it as much as I do you owe it to yourself to take at least a look at the original text--the Gawain-poet had an incredible command of alliteration and assonance--and also the other three poems from the same manuscript, especially "Pearl."

― Douglas (Douglas), Sunday, 12 January 2003 02:58 (twenty-three years ago)

seven years pass...

w.s. merwin is our new poet laureate, fyi

― max, Friday, 2 July 2010 01:03 (fifteen years ago)

Whenever I see his books lined up in the library or skim over another poem published in The New Yorker I draw a breath at this man's work habits.

― Filmmaker, Author, Radio Host Stephen Baldwin (Alfred, Lord Sotosyn), Friday, 2 July 2010 01:04 (fifteen years ago)

he lives in hawaii, probably not a lot else to do

― max, Friday, 2 July 2010 01:05 (fifteen years ago)

He's so bland though, not that I like most poetry, certainly not most modern or contemporary poetry, so my opinion should pretty much be ignored, except he really is fucking bland.

― _Rudipherous_, Friday, 2 July 2010 03:40 (fifteen years ago)

one month passes...

AN END IN SPRING

It is carried beyond itself a little way
And covered with a sky of old bedding

The compatriots stupid as their tables
Go on eating their packages
Selling gloves to the clocks
Doing alright

Ceasing to exist it becomes a deity

It is with the others that are not there
The centuries are named for them the names
Do not come down to us

On the way to them the words
Die

― thomp, Monday, 23 August 2010 15:10 (fifteen years ago)

THE GODS

If I have complained I hope I have done with it

I take no pride in circumstances but there are
Occupations
My blind neighbor has required of me
A description of darkness
And I begin I begin but

All day I keep hearing the fighting in the valley
The blows are falling as rice and
With what cause
After these centuries gone and they had
Each their mourning for each of them grief
in hueless ribbons hung on walls
That fell
Their moment
Here in the future continues to find me
Till night wells up through the earth

I
Am all that became of them
Clearly all is lost

The gods are what has failed to become of us
Now it is over we do not speak

Now the moment has gone it is dark
What is man that he should be infinite
The music of a deaf planet
The one note
Continues clearly this is

The other world
These strewn rocks belong to the wind
If it could use them

― thomp, Monday, 23 August 2010 15:13 (fifteen years ago)

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