Never will a writer be read more closely than by his or her translator. The best translators seem to have an extra ear, indeed, have to have an extra ear, for the literary dimensions and possibilities of their own language. Translation can draw the poet out of someone who may not have realised the poet in himself. The response to poetry is in us all but it takes an extra talent to turn response to invention, to hear and speak echo in a fresh voice.

There will always remain the question of the faithful translation. The difficulty is deciding what it is that one should be faithful to. A poem is a complex whole made up of many elements, not one of which has an exact equivalent in another language. Yet we hope for recognition, for some ideal combination of surface and depth fidelities. The ideal does not exist. But living translations do: echo on echo on echo.

As a first-time judge of this competition I was struck by the sophistication and skill of some of the youngest entries, though there were many variations on a theme among them. Grasshoppers hopped and ants crawled in regulation La Fontainean fashion. Some of the translations had real wit and sharpness, the winner of the class, Johanna Reimann-Dubbers, above all. And there was much beside La Fontaine from Latin and Spanish and Russian. The best had an ambitious period feel verging on pastiche and almost carried it off, form and all.

The middle category of 14-18 was perhaps a little disappointing. One could be charmed, however, by versions of Ovid, and I personally was taken by versions of Neruda (by Saskia Volhard Dearman), George Heym (by Jennifer Cearns) and the classical Chinese poet Lu Yu, whose Phoenix Hairpin was translated gracefully but not over-prettily by Yick Kay Fung. The winner thundered up on the inside, a splendidly ambitious Homer from The Iliad, the very end of the book, by Naomi Ackermann.

The greatest range was in the Open category, where the shortlist tended to be dominated by French and German poets, though the winner turned out to be Paul Batchelor’s marvellous new take — not terza rima — on Dante, via George Herbert’s Easter Wings. Novelty isn’t the point. New life is: the way a text swings into the ear with all the sense of discovery. Some good, welcome Dutch too, and a robust, larky Béroul. Rilke, as ever, fascinates and shines through. As did, for me, another original take, this time on Baudelaire’s prose poem The Double Room, slapped and tickled into broad Scots Burns measure by A. C. Clarke. Not orthodox translation, and maybe a little far out at the edge of the field, but I’d walk there any time.

Winner of the 14-and-under prize Johanna Reimann-Dubbers’ translation from French of The Cricket and the Ant by Jean de la Fontaine

Commended William Yates’s translation from French of The Horse and the Wolf by Jean de la Fontaine; Robert Longman’s translation from Spanish of If My Voice Dies on Land by Rafael Alberti; Maddy Cummins’s translation from Latin of Atalanta by Ovid; Marwin Kalo’s translation from Russian of The Aral Sea by Raim Farkhadi; Charlie Dowding’s translation from Spanish of The Miracles of Our Lady by Gonzalo de Berceo

Winners of the 18-and-under category

1st: Naomi Ackerman’s translation from Ancient Greek of an extract from The Iliad, Book 24, by Homer; 2nd: Yick Kay Fung’s translation from Classical Chinese of Phoenix Hairpin by Lu Yu; 3rd: Jennifer Cearns’ translation from German of Dead in the Water by Georg Heym

Commended Caitlin Spencer’s translation from Latin of Amores 1.2 by Ovid; Saskia Volhard Dearman’s translation from Spanish of Ode to Coastal Flowers by Pablo Neruda; Claire Ewbank’s translation from German of The Rats by Georg Trakl; Christina Macsween’s translation from Latin of an extract from Metamorphoses XII by Ovid; Nadan Hadzic’s translation from Bosnian of Sarajevo’s Prayer by Abdulah Sidran

Winners of the Open category 1st: Paul Batchelor’s translation from Italian of The Damned from Inferno, Canto V, by Dante Alighieri; 2nd: Michael Swan’s translation from German of God, My Good Neighbour by Rainer Maria Rilke; 3rd: Jane Tozer’s translation from medieval French of Leper from Tristran by Béroul

Commended Timothy Taylor’s translation from German of Corpse Washing by Rainer Maria Rilke; John Turner’s translation from French of Sonnet for Autumn by Sully Prudhomme; A. C. Clarke’s translation from French of The Double Room by Charles Baudelaire; Mary Weatherburn’s translation of A Small Garden by Rin Ishigaki; Stefanie van de Peer’s translation from Flemish of Psalm by Herman de Coninck

THE WINNERS

Open category

“The Damned (After Dante)” by Paul Batchelor

The bitterest

sorrow is not regret,

though that is part of what we suffer —

the bitterest sorrow lies in happiness rehearsed,

as when I speak of how

our fate took root.

It was a poem:

the ballad of Sir Lancelot

whom love enslaved — old-fashioned stuff,

pure nonsense really, so where was the danger if

from time to time our eyes met —

where was the harm?

We read on

until we reached the line

about a kiss both looked-for and unbidden —

a kiss so long desired and yet so lightly taken —

that line was our undoing:

a sidelong

glance — another —

into each other’s eyes, and we,

who since that day have never been apart,

we latecomers to everything within our hearts,

we put the book away and read no further.

From Inferno, Canto V, lines 121-38

14 and under

“The Crickets and the Ant” by Johanna Reimann-Dubbers

The cricket having sung her song

all summer long

found her provisions too few

when the icy winds blew.

Nowhere could she spy

a single morsel of worm or fly.

Her neighbour, the ant, might,

she thought, help her in her plight,

and so she begged her for a little grain,

promised to repay her when summer came again.

“By next summer I’ll repay you both

interest and loan; animal’s oath.”

Now the ant may have a fault or two

But lending is not something she will do.

She asked what the cricket did all summer.

“By day and night, to any comer

I sang whenever I had the chance.”

“You sang, did you? That’s nice. Now dance.”

From the French by Jean de la Fontaine

18 and under

“The Funeral of Hector” by Naomi Ackerman

And so he spoke, and they yoked oxen and mules to their wagons,

And then they gathered with speed before the city.

For nine days indeed they brought a store of wood beyond measure.

But then the tenth light of day appeared, shining on mortals,

And shedding tears they carried out courageous Hector

And they placed his corpse on the very top of the funeral pyre, and threw fire upon it.

When early-born light of day appeared with rosy fingers,

Then the people gathered around the pyre of renowned Hector.

And when they gathered together and had assembled

First, with gleaming wine they quenched all the funeral pyre,

As much as the force of the fire had taken hold of.

And then his blood relatives and companions picked up the brilliant white bones,

Melting into tears, and copious tears trickled down from their cheeks.

And they gathered the bones and placed them in a golden urn

Having enveloped them with soft purple woven cloths.

And with speed they placed it in a hollow grave,

And they covered it above with great, close-packed stones.

And swiftly they raised a grave-mound over it; and look outs were set all around,

Lest the well-greaved Achaeans should make an early attack.

And having raised the grave-mound they went back again;

Then having gathered together according to custom, they held a banquet

And gave a glorious feast in the house of Priam, god-cherished king.

In this way they took care of the burial of Hector, horse-tamer.

From The Iliad XXIV (lines 782-804)

Visit stephen-spender.org to read all the winning and commended entries and their originals

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