In 2024, while visiting family in Prague, I explored the Luxor bookstore on Wenceslas Square with a goal of reading more Czech poetry in my native language. My interest was particularly piqued by a copy of Blues, the collected poetry of Václav Hrabě (1940–1965). As I delved into Hrabě’s work, I discovered poems that vibrantly depicted Prague's streets, reflected on the burdens of wartime soldiers, and expressed the emotions captured in his collection's title, Blues for a Crazy Girl. Influenced by jazz music and American writers like Allen Ginsberg, Hrabě’s poetry resonates deeply with my own experiences straddling different cultures. Captivated by his surreal free verse and rhythmic sonnets, I began translating his poetry to expand my creative skills and gain insight into the legacy of this remarkable poet beyond the framework of English.
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Hrabě’s works are emblematic of the Czech literary scene of the 1960s, a time when the Beat Generation's influence permeated Czechoslovakia. Born in Příbram, he spent his formative years in Prague, where he taught himself to play the clarinet and saxophone, performing in various music venues from 1957 to 1961, including the Reduta Jazz Club and Olympik. In 1961, he graduated from a pedagogy program with a degree in Czech language and history and was soon conscripted into the army. During his service, he wrote extensively, publishing some of his initial poems in military magazines. After completing his service in 1963, Hrabě worked in various roles, including construction, library work, and magazine writing, eventually becoming a teacher in 1964. He had the opportunity to interview his idol, Allen Ginsberg, when the American poet visited Prague, but tragically, Hrabě died in 1965 at the age of twenty-four from accidental carbon monoxide poisoning. His work gained recognition posthumously, largely due to the efforts of contemporaries and his son, Jan Miškovský.
In my translations, I often encounter the complexities of language and meaning, such as when translating a phrase where the moon is said to vomit in “Romance.” The choice of words—barf, vomit, retch, or heave—illustrates the challenges. Anne Carson highlights the nuance of translation with reference to the Greek poet Stesichoros, emphasizing how adjectives, described as epitheton in Greek, act as crucial modifiers of meaning. This raises questions about whether I should prioritize meaning or musicality in my translations, knowing that native speakers perceive beauty differently. For example, when translating the final lines of a poem, I faced a sonic loss related to Czech’s rhyme structure, which prompted me to adjust the English version with assonance to preserve some rhythmic quality, though it still felt incomplete.
At times, translation presents its own challenges, such as when inserting descriptive words that Czech grammar does not require. My favorite example comes from “A Short Poem About Prague,” where I struggled to convey the concept of legionaries being bored on Charles Bridge—a reflexive verb that doesn’t perfectly translate into English. Conversely, some translations flow effortlessly, with alliteration aligning beautifully across languages, as seen in “smutek špiritus a saze z řas” transforming into “sorrow spiritus and soot in lashes.”
C. E. Janecek is a Czech American poet with an MFA from Colorado State University. Her work has been featured in publications such as West Branch, Sugar House Review, and Gulf Coast.