Mots ris, tant niés! More rich taints yer!

Mots ris, tant niés!

Aux carrefours rougis de Nouakchott,
Les arrogances sans socles aux volants;
En trombe sur les chemins en nids-de-poule,
Vers on ne sait quelles vaporeuses occupations.
 
Dans un des intérieurs opulents de l'ilot de richesse
De la capitale, les lèvres pincées de la dame
En basin riche, psalmodient les éternelles litanies,
Les doigts gonflés de métaux précieux
Cachant difficilement le rubis sous le tapis.
 
Au pays du million de «pouêt-pouêt»,
Du demi-million de phares xénon,
Et des milliards de grains de sable,
Les imprécations sur l'Un s'emboîtent
Aux litanies sur les vertus de la luxure.
 
Tant de foi greffée sur la moelle de la cupidité,
Entre comptes et ventres bien garnis!
Tant d'émois sur le compte de la morale
Quand celle-ci vacille dans les limbes dorés!
 
Dans les intimités de ces crépuscules,
Les pensées noircissent, chauffées à blanc.
Lorsque pour les éclaircir, on retourne à la solitude,
​On y trouve l'ombre qu'elle y a répandue.
 

More rich taints yer!

At Nouakchott’s reddened intersections,
Baseless arrogance behind each wheel
Pouring down pot-holed roads
Towards who knows what hazy occupations.
 
In an opulent interior in the capital’s
Island of riches, the pinched lips of the lady
In sumptuous brocade, hymn eternal litanies.
Her fingers, swollen with precious metal,
Can scarcely hide the ruby beneath the rug.
 
In the land of a million parp-parps,
Half a million xenon headlights
And billions of grains of sand,
Cursing god is interlaced
With litanies on the virtues of lust.
 
So much faith bound to the marrow of greed,
Between bloated accounts and stomachs!
So much bluster on account of morals,
Vacillating in its limbo of gold!
 
In the privacy of dusk
Blackened thoughts are heated white hot.
Return to solitude for clarity
But find the shadow cast there too.
 

Words laughed, so denied!

At Nouakchott’s reddened intersections,
Baseless arrogances at steering wheels;
Pour down on(to) (the) pot-holed roads,
On the way to who knows what hazy occupations.
 
In one of the opulent interiors of the island of riches
Of the capital, the pinched lips of the lady 
In the rich basin, chant eternal litanies,
Her fingers inflated with precious metal(s)
Can scarcely hide the ruby beneath the mat.
 
In the land of a million farts,
Of half a million xenon headlights,
And billions of grains of sand,
Curses of God go hand in hand
With litanies on the virtues of lust.
 
So much faith grafted to the marrow of greed,
Between well-stocked accounts and stomachs!
So much commotion on account of morality
When it flickers in (a) golden limbo!
 
In the intimacy of these dusks,
Thoughts are blackened, heated until white hot.
When, to clear them up, we return to solitude,
We find (there) the shadow (that) it has spread.
 

This week we were translating a poet from Mauritania, Mamoudou Lamine Kane, with the help of translator Delaina Haslam. Admitting that few of us in the room knew very much about Mauritania, we chose this poem because it seemed to capture a real flavour of a distinct place. Delaina told us a little about her conversations with Mamoudou, who is also an economist and journalist – he described how slavery is still endemic and there is a lot of ostentatious fake faith. This poem captures the inequalities and hypocrisies brilliantly – starting in a traffic jam with ‘arrogance behind each wheel’, we find a city that’s sumptuous and arid, sat in a haze of ‘parp-parps’, prayers and blasphemies intermingled. With its urban atmosphere and merciless gaze, one of our students observed that it reminded them of Baudelaire or Rimbaud.

It’s a rich poem and we had many fascinating discussions, but perhaps the most fun was had with the title. The original French is ‘Mots ris, tant niés!’, which means something like ‘Laughed words, such denial!’ but is also – very obviously – a play on the name Mauritania. Although we considered calling this ‘Laughed words, such denial!’ it sounds awkward in English and we felt the pun was most of the point. This is, after all, a poem of place, and the place name should be in the title. So, we started punning! We hope you like our work. It made us laugh anyway, and we hope it captures some of the poet’s wit.

Clare Pollard, Poet Facilitator

Original Poem by

Mamoudou Lamine Kane

Translated by

Delaina Haslam with The Poetry Translation Workshop Language

French

Country

Mauritania