Lera Yanysheva: The Sense of the Father (From Russian Romani)

The Sense of the Father
By Lera Yanysheva
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

(Set in the 1890s)

I grew up in a camp, a traveling Rom.
I'm living in St. Petersburg today,
The city of His Majesty the Tsar.
Is there a finer city? I can't say.

Now Russian gentlemen pay me good money
To entertain them in a restaurant chorus. 
The good Lord even blessed me with good daughters
Born in the moneyed home I had built for us.

My daughters grew and blossomed into beauties.
The men went crazy for them at a glance.
The Russian soul finds freedom in a gypsy song
And nobody could dance like my girls danced. 

Then a disaster. My own blood betrayed me.
Now I'm afraid to bloody show my face.
Those two sang their last number to run off
With noble "men" and dropped me in disgrace.

They will give birth — good Lord — to halfblood freaks.
In camp they say that I have sold myself. 
"Too good for us" they stab me as they speak
"But couldn't join the gadjo gents. Well, well..."

It's true...I live a Russian gadjo life.
Where's my Romanipen? My free Rom will?
Those stupid girls have done a number on me.
But I was blessed with one more daughter still.

My Masha — a real Romni of the tents!
Thinking of her, my heart is melted snow. 
She stopped by yesterday, a traveling Rom.
It truly warmed my eyes to see her so

With her red coral beads, her well-worn blouse, 
The headscarf that a proper wife should wear,
Her ear-rings and her flower-pattern skirt. 
The day was cold...and yet her feet were bare!  

The horse-monger I gave her to appraised her,
Knowing she was a towngirl. Didn't care! 
Just said "she's pretty as a doll" and took her
To a kept life of tents and open air. 

No poshness for my Masha. Woods and roads...
She'll learn to work the cards, tell fortunes well.  
She'll bear him children, and they will be men
Who profit by the horses that they sell. 

Nobody wants a towngirl in their family.
I had to cut a deal with an old friend of mine.  
He took the gamble, and became her in-law. 
So now my son-in-law keeps her in line.

A father knows much better than his daughters. 
My Masha sobbed. But she had best make do.
She will not be some lordly Russian's tramp.
She lives the way the good Lord willed her to.


Stanza 2

One is, I think, to understand that the man is not actually wealthy by the standards of the Russian ruling class. Rather, he is unusually wealthy for a Rom.

Stanza 3:

L3, literally reads quite simply "the gadje want/love Romani songs." My translation, which makes explicit a bit of what I think implicit, is rather circumlocutory. It seemed called for, given that an English-speaking reader might not necessarily be aware of the role "gypsy songs" have had in Russian culture. Yanysheva self-translates this line in Russian as им песня вольная — отрада для душы "To them [Russian gentry], the free-[spirited] song is a joy to the soul."

Stanza 6

Romanipen: a key concept of Rom culture. (Also known as: Romanimos, Romanija, Romanšago.) This is not necessarily a matter of ancestry, so much as how one behaves, how one lives, and what one does. The quality of being in touch with Rom ways.

Stanza 8

On the phrase "de šatra rogožîtko" (into a burlap tent) c.f. the song which begins, in one version:

Aj de šatrica rogožîtko
Ande šatrica čaj bidîtko.
(Oh in a little burlap tent, in the little tent is a hapless girl.)


The Original:

Дадэ́скири ду́ма Лера Янышева Семьяке Панково, дэ лэнгири патыв Нэ, бияндёмпэ мэ дрэ та́боро баро, Тэ акана до Петербу́рго мэ джива́ва. Одо́й дживэл тага́ри кокоро! А сы ли фо́ро гожэды́р? Мэ на джина́ва. Рая плэски́рна ма́нгэ бут ловэ. Ваш господэ́нгэ мэ до хо́ро багандём, Лаче чяен дыя мангэ Дэвэл. Мэ кхэр ваш се́мья барвало киндём. Выбаринэ сыр цвэ́тицы чяя, Пал лэ́ндэ о барэ рая мэрэ́нас. Гадже камэ́на романэ гиля. Фэдыр сарэ́ндыр о чяя кхэлэ́нас. Э би́да подгэя! Ёнэ́ жэ рат миро! Да мэ о штэ́то пэ́скэ на латха́вас… Добагандлэ́пэс! Сыр же ладжяво! Екх палэ екх э госпадэ́нца упраста́нас. Авэ́на чяворэ — мэём! — по паш гадже. О та́борна мурша ґара амэн обкха́рна: «Шатра́тыр угэнэ, а кэ рая на пригэнэ́! Тумэ пэс бикиндлэ», — ёнэ́ лавэ́са ма́рна.         Аи́. Гаджиканэс дживав дэ фо́ро мэ. Кай сы романыпэ? Кай во́ля романы? Скэрдэ пэ ма́ндэ би́да — дылынэ… Пэ бахт, сы ма́ндэ три́то чяёри́. Вот мири Ма́шка — ёй шатры́тко чяй. Коли мэ зрипирав, ило татёла. Сыр атася ромэ́са ёй явья, Пэ ла́тэ мэ дыкхав — якха хачёна! Лолэ кора́ли, ко́фта риськирды, Тэ романы пэ ла́тэ цо́ха оборкэ́нца. Сы шылало — а ёй сы пиранги — Барэ ченя, фарту́шка узоркэ́нца. Пал кофари́стэ чяёрья мэ отдыём, Лыя ла ром — хоть Ма́шка сыс фори́тко, «Сави раны, — пхэндя, — сыр ку́кла ёй!» Ёй лэ́са угэя дэ ша́тра рогожы́тко. На ба́рско джиипэ! Дрома, вэша… И пэ патря ёй тэ чюрдэл джинэ́ла. Авэна ла́кирэ чявэ сарэ мурша, Э грэн тэ парувэн ёнэ́ авэ́на! Доракирдёмпэ пхуранэ друго́са, Фори́тко чя никон дэ се́мья на камэн. А ёв на да́рлас — ёв явья свато́са, Тэй адава чяво́ ла стро́го рикирэл! Кай бахт — дада́ фэдыр чяен джинэ́на. Рундя э Ма́ша — мэк — присыклыя! Тэ акана гаджи ёй на авэ́ла. Дживэ́ла ёй сыр Дэвлоро пхэндя…

Dadéskiri Dúma Lera Janîševa Semjake Pankovo, de lengiri patîv. Ne, bijandjom-pe me dre táboro baro, Te akana do Peterbúrgo me dživava. Odoj dživel tagári kokoro! A sî li fóro gožedîr? Me na džinava. Raja pleskírna mánge but love. Vaš gospodénge me do xóro bagandjom, Lače čajen dîjá mánge Devel. Me kher vaš sémja barvalo kindjom. Vîbariné sîr cvéticî čaja, Pal lénde o bare raja merénas. Gadže kaména romane gilja. Fedîr saréndîr o čaja khelénas. E bída podgeja! Jone že rat miro! Da me o štéto péske na lathávas... Dobagandle-pes! Sîr že ladžavo! Jekh pale jekh e gospodénca uprastánas. Avéna čavore — mejom! — po paš gadže. O táborna murša ghara amen obkhárna: "Šatrátîr ugene, a ke raja na prigene! Tume pes bikindle" — jone lavésa márna. Ai. Gadžikanes dživav de fóro me. Kaj sî Romanîpe? Kaj vólja Romanî? Skerde pe mánde bida — dîlîné... Pe baxt, sî mánde tríto čajori. Vot miri Máška — joj šatrîtko čaj. Koli me zripirav, ilo tatjóla. Sîr atasja romésa joj javja, Pe láte me dîkháv — jakha xačóna! Lole koráli, kófta risjkirdî, Te romanî pe láte cóxa oborkénca. Sî šîlaló — a joj sî pirangi — Bare čenja, fartúška uzorkénca. Pal kofaríste čajorja me otdîjóm, Lîjá la rom — xotj Maška sîs forítko, "Savi ranî" phendja "sîr kúkla joj!" Joj lésa ugeja de šátra rogožîtko. Na bársko džiipe! Droma, veša... I pe patrja joj te čurdel džinéla. Avéna lákire čave sare murša, E gren te paruven jone avéna! Dorakirdjóm-pe phurane drugósa, Forítko ča nikon de sémja na kamén. A jov na dárlas — jov javja svatósa, Tej adava čavo la strógo rikirel! Kaj baxt — dada fedîr čajen džinéna. Rundja e Maša — mek — prisîklîjá! Te akana gadži joj ne avéla. Dživéla joj sîr Devloro phendja...

Rajko Đurić: The Moon (From Romani)

The Moon
By Rajko Đurić
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

The moon laughs
we
around the fire
weep
The sobs rise
the laugh descends. 
The firmament smells of weeping
we, of laughter
If the moon loses her sight
and our eyes open wide,
Who then will be able to tell
where the wing of weeping
and the wing of laughing
meet.

The Original:

O Ćhonut

O ćhonut asal
amen
trujal e jag
rovas
O rovipe urăvel
o asape mekhlŏl tele
O d'el khandel p-o rovipe
amen p-o asape
Te o ćhonut rorravòla
te amen dikhàsa
kon vakarèla
Kaj e phak rovimasqe
thaj e asamasqe
ka arakhandon

Lera Yanysheva: Stone Children (From Lovara Romani)

Stone Children
By Lera Yanysheva
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

It hurts. It's crushing me. Forgive me. Please.   
How can you up and leave me all at once?
I didn't know that I would give you death.
Good God what have I done? Forgive me, sons.

My sons have paid the price for my own sins.
Gone through agony because of me. 
I wanted the fine life, the house, the money.
Some other Lovara live in luxury....

I wanted you to not want for a thing,
A fortune to keep my boys set for life. 
So I went and sold my soul to a foul man
And started selling heroin as a wife. 

What good is all this money to me now? 
Good Christ! What have they gone and done? Oh, those
Boys knew exactly where to score some smack. 
They shot each other up and overdosed.

I bought them this luxurious monument.
This is the marble that they sleep below.
I had to bury you, my boys, my babies.
Fortune and fine life left me long ago.

Standing and staring at the iron crosses
I've locked my heart and melted down the keys.
You were so lively, boys. Now you're all stone.
It hurts. It's crushing me. Forgive me. Please.

The Original:

Барунэ щавора Мангэ пхаро-й…Чак эртэчия мэ манглэм…. Состар гэлан-тар — мангэ-й э гэчина, Кэ щявора мэрэна — чи жянглэм! Со мэ кэрдэм? Мангав мэ эртэчия. Лэ бэзэха мурэ са потиндэ лэ щавора, Лэ щявора пал мандэ кинозынас. Камос ви мэ о сумнакай тай лэ кхэра, Лэ авэра ловара барвалэс траинас. Э бахт тумэнгэ тэ кэрав камлэм, Дэ сар барвалипэ лэ щяворэнгэ тэ рэсав? Лэ бивужэскэ ди мэ бикиндэм, Кэздысардэм дылэ драба мэ тэ бикнав. Пэ сос, ромалэ, мангэ сумнакай? О Свунто драго Дэл! Со вон кэрдэ? Вон аракхлэ драба, кэ жяннас — кай, Эк лэ каврэс кодол драбэнца пусадэ. Мурмунцы лэнгэ барвалэ мэ кэрадэм, Са андо мраморо лэ щявора совэн. Яй, драги — мэ тумэн прахосардэм, Ай бахт тай траё мандар дур нашэ́н. Тай сар дыкхав мэ трушула лэ саструнэ, Муро йило пэ кия пхандадэм. Щявэ сас жювиндэ, дэ аканик-и барунэ! Мангэ пхаро́-й…Чак эртэчия мэ манглэм…

Barune Šavora Mánge pharo-i...čak ertećíja mǝ manglem... Sóstar gelántar — mánge-i e gečína, Ke śavora meréna — ći źaglem! So mǝ kerdem? Mangav mǝ ertećíja... Le bezexa mure sa potinde le śavora, Le śavora pal mánde kinozînas. Kamos vi mǝ o sumnakaj taj le khērá, Le avera Lovára barvales trajínas. E baxt tuménge te kerav kamlem, De sar barvalipe le śavorénge te resav? Le bivužéske di mǝ bikindem, Kezdîsardém dîlé draba mǝ te biknav. Pe sos, Romále, mánge sumnakaj? O Svúnto drágo Del! So von kerde? Von arakhle draba, ke źānás kāj, Ek le kavres kodol drabénca pusade. Murmúncî lénge barvale mǝ keradem, Sa ándo mrámoro le śavora soven. Jaj, drági — mǝ tumen praxosardem, Aj baxt taj trájo mándar dur našen. Taj sar dîkháv mǝ trušula le sastrune, Muro jilo pe kíja phandadem. Śave sas źuvinde, de akanik-i barune! Mánge pharó-i...Čak ertećíja mǝ manglem...

Sergio Franzese: Our Language (From Sinte Romani)

Today, by the by, is International Romani Language day.

Our Language
By Sergio Franzese
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

I love you
Language of ours.
You are as rich, as poor
As we are.
When we are grieved
you give us the words to cry out,
when we are content
you give us the words to be. 
When we have to hide
You, our language, help us out.

In us you roamed
Every road of the world beneath the sky
You were the fire of our songs
But now
In these black and squalid lands
That gadje reserve the right to,
Day by day and bit by bit you die
As we do.

If we lose you
We shall be lost too. 
Listen, children,
Listen, youth,
We old Sinti leave you 
This dear sweet beautiful tongue.
We leave it to you
Not to leave it behind.
We teach it to our young,
Keep it safe with us always
As all the wealth, the only heirloom
That is ours.

The Original:

Čib Marí
Sergio Franzese

Kamáva tu
čib marí.
Tu sal bravalí ta čororí
Sar jamén.
Kánte sam bibaxtalé
ménge tu déssa le láu par te rovás,
kánte sam kontán
ménge tu déssa le láu par te sás
kánte si-amén bróxa te garavás
amen
tu, čib marí, déssa ménge ne vast.

But pirdál ménča
pren sa le dromá do bolibén,
sálas i jagda maré giljá,
ma kaná
ndrén kalá džungalé pláse
kaj čidéna men le gadžé
tu meréssa ne písla óni divés,
sar jamén.

Se našavássa tu
nínge jamén sam našadé.
Šunén čavé,
šun tarnipén,
maré puré Sínti
mukjén-le ménge
kajá šukár, gulí čib.
Na bistarás la,
sikavás la kaj maré čavé,
indžás la sémpar ménča
sar o kokořó braválimo
ke si-amén.

Šemšo Advić: Night Falls (From Xoraxane Romani)

Night Falls
By Šemšo Advić
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

I sit and watch the Gypsy caravans,
Dark has fallen
And I can't see my fingers in front of me,
A fire burns in front of every caravan. 
Everybody runs and laughs carefree.
You can hear the violins
Let fly the wistful Gypsy songs.
Everybody listening
Takes such pleasure in them,
But they do not know that we the Roma
Cry in every song
To express our grief. 
All along
These people will never know
They take such pleasure from our grief. 

The Original:

Rać Perel

Bešav the dikhav but řomane kampine
kalipé,
ni dikhinjavol o naj paša jakhá,
angla svako kampina phabol e jag.
Sa bez bržin prasten the asan.
Ašunjavon e čemane,
sjetno bašalen e řomane ǧiljá.
Svako ko ašunel veselipé
the uživin ande lende
ali ni ǧanen kaj amen e Řomá
ande svako ǧili rová to ispoljí amarí tuga.
I von nikad ni ka ǧanen
kaj uživin ande amarí tuga.

Bosnian loanwords:

Svako: every
Sjetno: wistfully
Veselipé: merriment (Slav. vesel-)
Ispolji: express (S.c. ispoljiti "to manifest, evince")
Tuga: sorrow

Santino Spinelli: Death (From Abruzzese Romani)

Death
Santino Spinelli
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Nor shall I listen any longer
To the dear song
Of the free birds,
Nor feel
The brotherly warmth of the fire
On my dark skin.
And the joyful light of the white moon
And all the little stars...
I shall see them no longer
In my good life.
Nor will the dear melodies
Of the dear old violin 
Bear up 
My good nights
Of hands held up to the warm flame.
She will cross my threshold,
Come in, and take away my ancient name.
Into the great black nullity
She'll bear it up
From me. 

The Original:

Meribbè

Mai avèk mi šti šunàv
i šukuàr gilì
tri li čiliklè puraddè,
to u tatipè
tri jàkh phralèngr
opràl ki murtì kalì mirì
ni šti šunàv avèkie;
i duùt puraddì tri čion parnì
tatri li tikinè duturià
andrè u givibbè laččiò mirò,
mai avèkie mi šti ridikkàv,
to u šukuàr bašiaddipè
tr' purkanì bašialì mai avèkie
ningirelammàng li ratià laččià
pašè li vašt tri jakh tatì.
Mi šti nakkèl i vuddar mirì
to u mrù nàv purkanò mi šti lèl,
andrè u bar ništipe kalè
a ningirelammàngl.

Lera Yanysheva: On Her Own (From Russian Romani)

On Her Own
By Lera Yanysheva
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

I sit at home and on my own.
I'd hoped to start a family.
The men said I was quite a lady
But years have had their way with me.

My little sisters are still young.
My baby brother is a kid.
My mother has been dead for years.
My father is an invalid.

God, what am I supposed to do?
I can't just leave them on their own.
Who else will put bread on the table?
Who else can work? It's me alone.

I did have men propose to me.
My father wouldn't let me though —
"I'm begging you: stay for the children.
We'll end up starving if you go."

The tears keep running down like water,
A fire has burned my heart clean through.
I'm no young woman anymore.
My darling, lover, where are you?

It's pointless. I can't be with you
When I have got this family.
And I have got to think of them.
The household has no head but me.

It's awful but sometimes I think of 
Running off with a gadjo man!
You girls are raising your own girls now
And I'm stuck at a market-stand.

Here men all look at me with pity
And mutter "goddamn tragedy"
And my black hair begins to whiten.
Here I am getting...elderly.

The tears keep running hot as water
Oh God! What could I do but give....
I'm old now, after what I've lived through, 
But never had a life to live. 

The Original:

Екхджины Лера Янышева Бэшав дро кхэр мэ екхджины     Мэ палором ґара камава. Сарэ ракирнас: мэ раны Нэ о бэрша мирэ прастана. Сы мандэ тыкнорэ пхэня И мандэ пшал сы набаро. О дай мири ґара мэя, Э дад пхуро сы насвало. Со ж мангэ Дэвла тэ кэрав? Семьятыр тэ уджяв нашты. Янава мэ кхэрэ тэ хав. Мэ екхджины кэрав буты. Рома явнэ кэ мэ сватэнца. На отмэктя ман дад миро: «Мангава тут мэ чяворэнца, Амэнгэ битыро пхаро». Ясва прастана сыр паны, Ягаса о ило хачёл. И мэ ґара на сом тэрны. Кай, кайжэ ту, миро лачё? Да, палэ тутэ мэ на джява, Ведь мандэ семица бари. И палэ лэн мэ думинава, Ведь мэ дро семья хуланы. Чяялэ, ладжяво признаться, Гаджеса мэ бы унастём! Сарэ чяя барэ чявэнца А мэ про тарго ходиндём. Сарэ рома пэ ман дыкхэна, Пхэнэн, со мэ бибахталы. Мирэ калэ бала парнёна, Тэ и кана мэ пхураны. Ясва прастана сыр паны. О Дэвла! Семья захая! И мэ дыкхав, со мэ пхури. О джиипэн захасия!

Jekhdžinî Lera Janîševa Bešav dro kher me jekhdžinî, Me palorom ghara kamava. Sare rakírnas me ranî, Ne o berša mire prastana. Sî mande tîknoré phenja I mande pšal sî nabaro. O daj miri ghara meja. E dad phuro sî nasvalo. So ž mange Dévla te kerav? Sjemjátîr te udžav naštî. Janava me khere te xav. Me jekhdžinî kerav butî. Roma javne ke me svatenca. Na otmektja man dad miro: "Mangava tut me čavorenca, Amenge bitîro pharo." Jasva prastana sîr panî, Jagasa o ilo xačol. I me ghara na som ternî. Kaj, kaj že tu, miro lačo? Da, pale túte me na džáva, Vjedj mande sjémjica bari. I pale len me duminava, Vjedj me dro sjémja xulanî. Čajále, ladžavo priznátsa, Gadžésa me bî unastjom. Sare čaja bare čavenca, A me pro tárgo xodindjom. Sare roma pe man dîkhena, Phenen, so me bibaxtalî. Mire kale bala parnjona, Te i kana me phuranî. Jasva prastana sîr panî. O, Dévla! Sjémja zaxaja! I me dîkhav, so me phuri. O džiipen zaxasija!

Lilith Mazikina: "The Years Flow By..." (From Romani)

"The years flow by..."
By Lilith Mazikina
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

The years flow by like water through hands, 
From the girl I was to the woman I am.
Now I'm the one with her own girls, see!
What thief filched all my youth from me? 
Whoever it was...I hope he has fun. 
There at my window — the dark birds come. 
I open the window — shoo them away.
How far ahead is the bone-cold rain?
It's all without you! "Forget him" they insisted.
What sister forgets her brother existed?

The Original:
For reasons explained on this page, all Cyrillic Romani texts I translate are accompanied by transcription in Roman characters. 

Бэрша прастан - вастэндыр паны. Мэ сомас чяй - мэ ячьём ромны; кокорьятэ, дыкх, акана чяя. Тэрныпэ миро со за чёр чёрдя? Саво чёрдя - мэк лэнца кхэлэл... Пал окностэ - калэ чириклэ; откэрава фэнштра, криго традав. Кицык ангил шудрэ брышында? - сарэ битыро! "Забистэр", пхэнэн. Нэ сыр пшалэс забистрэла - пхэн?

Berša prastan — vasténdîr panî. Me sómas čaj — me jačom romnî Kokorjáte, dîkh, akana čaja. Ternîpé miro so za čor čordja? Savo čordja — mek lénca khelel... Pal oknóste — kale čirikle; Otkeráva fénštra, krígo tradav. Kícîk angil šudre brîšîndá? Sare bitîró! Zabister, phenen. Ne sîr pšales zabistréla — phen?

Santino Spinelli: Roundup (From Abruzzese Romani)

And another from Spinelli...

Roundup
By Santino Spinelli
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

A bang on the door in the long dead of night,
disciplined hounds with long fierce teeth,
assault rifles raised in a face half-asleep
sleep smashed dream gashed night-terrors awake;
black uniforms cool cruel eyes
hatred revulsion and heinous slander
punishing windstorm innocent eyes...
the door banged shut a dream pulled apart
tears on the ground...gutted hearts.

The Original:

Ròdm

Ni dàb ki vuddàr andrè i barì ràt
dànd barè di ǧiukèl mardè,
ni putinì a katàr pru muj sovaddò
sunò dukkaddò sunò trašianò;
kalè jurvibbè kià ǧiungalè
nafèl bi mištipè doš barì,
bar bravàl kià laččè...
a vuddàr pandindì ni sunò ningaddò
rovibbè pri pù... jilè čindè.

Notes on the Romani:

baro: the adjective occurs three times, in different senses — the first in barì ràt (one of a handful of multi-word idioms in Romani which actually can be traced to India) meaning idiomatically"the dead of night, the middle of the night" (literally, the long/big night), and again in dànd barè "big teeth" referring to the hounds' terrifying teeth. And then in doš barì where its meaning is more abstract.

Sunò: this word which, in common Romani can mean either "dream" or "sleep", appears three times each with a different spin. The dream one was living in, the nightmare one wakes up to, the sleep of unawareness reft away....it is all of these things.

kià: metathesized form of common Romani jakha.

Nafèl bi mištipè: perhaps a subversion of a sugary mištipè binafèl?

Doš barì: a very polyvalent phrase. I suppose "great injury" might be another way to translate it. Doš can mean a number of things including injury, misconduct, misdeed, flaw, sin. But it seems like the sense of falsification is to the point — and Spinelli clearly thought so in his self-translation. 

Lera Yanysheva: Paganini (From Russian Romani)

Valeria Yanysheva is an actress, singer and dancer formerly affiliated with the Moscow Romen theater. She has put out a small collection of verse in Romani — in various dialects thereof — accompanied by free translations into Russian titled Adadîvés i Atasja "Today and Yesterday" contains so much to cut one's teeth on. (You can download it here.)

The poem translated here is actually somewhat atypical and unrepresentative of how she generally operates. It does not tell a story. It doesn't seem to be in the voice of a character, really. It's also short. However it repays close reading and close consideration of individual words, and it has a programmatic feel to it.

I include the poet's own Russian self-translation of this poem for interest's sake. For more on that see below. I've used two non-standard English words in my translation, taken from the English spoken in Scotland and Northern England — both of which are ultimately of Romani origin, and one of which I use as a translation of its own Romani cognate. For more ponderments about the poem, again, see below.

Paganini
By Lera Yanysheva
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click here to hear me recite the original Romani

The people crowded in to hear great Paganini's solo,
But crooked gadgies found his violin and chibbed its gut,  
Cut every string but one...so on one string the virtuoso
Played — and no one could tell the strings were cut. 

Ours is a language poor in words. You see, 
For every thousand words that others have, we've maybe one. 
But if you are cut out for verse in Romani, 
A Paganini is what you become. 

The Original:
For reasons explained on this page, all Cyrillic Romani texts I translate are accompanied by transcription in Roman characters. 

Пагани́ни Лера Янышева Скэдэ́нпэ тэ шунэ́н о Пагани́ни мануша́, А лэ́скэ налаче́ гадже́ о стру́ны риськирдэ́. Ачья́пэ то́ко екх... Нэ ёв адя́кэ башадя́. Со стру́ны риськирдэ́, нико́н на ґалынэ́! Чиб романы́ набарвалы́ лавэ́са. Гадже́ндэ кай тысе́нца — е́кх лав амаро́. Нэ ко́ли сти́хи романэ́ чинэ́са, Сыр Пагани́ни яв ту, дру́гицо миро́!

Paganíni Lera Janîševa Skeden-pe te šunen o Paganíni manuša, A leske nalače gadže o strúnî risjkirde. Ačápe tóko jekh...ne jov adjake bašadja. So strunî risjkirde, nikon na ghalîne! Čib romanî nabarvalî lavesa. Gadžende kaj tîsjenca — jekh lav amaro. Ne koli stíxi romane činesa, Sîr Paganíni jav tu, drúgico miro!

Russian Translation by the Poet:

Паганини

Лера Янышева

Набился слушать Паганини полный зал.

Вдруг видит он, что струны оборвали.

Одна осталась. Но маэстро так сыграл!

Что струны порваны, никто не понял в зале…

Словами небогат язык цыганский.

На тыщу русских слов — у нас всего одно.

Но коли ты стихи писать собрался,

О Паганини вспомнишь всё равно.

Notes:

The story the poem draws from is not actually true. Paganini never played on only a single string. He did however play with broken strings on occasion. But this was because he broke them intentionally, the better to display his virtuosity on stage. The metaphor still works however you slice it, though, if you consider that no Romani-speaker is monolingual (and probably few if any have ever been, since the arrival of the Roms in Europe); every poet who does compose in Romani does so by choice, since they could well have simply used the majority language.

Yanysheva's decision (or rather the implementation of her decision) to write in Romani, and then adapt her poems to Russian, brings out extraordinary virtuosity on several levels. Here she completely subverts and undercuts part of the overt statement of the poem, about the poverty of Romani. Činel means "cut down, mow down" as well as "write", and "play (an instrument.)" It is related to the word čindlî "violin" — Paganini's instrument. A single word ties the act of writing Romani to the cutting of strings, to evoke the metaphor of versewright as craftsman chipping away at a work, to highlight the link between poetry and music, and in so doing subverts the idea that merely a large vocabulary (and of a particular type at that) can be equated with how rich a language is. For here the richness and texture of the poem comes not from having multiple words meaning closely related but different things, but rather from having a single word mean so many extremely different things at once — each of which adds a different shade of sense to the poem. Many notes are wrung out of a single word, much like Paganini's single string. The material she deploys for her master-stroke is a specific resource afforded by Romani. If Romani were really so poor and so unsuited to linguistic art, the poem suggests, then its very existence would not be possible.

It does seem to me that polysemy is an especial richness at the Romani-writing poet's disposal. Using words (e.g. čhinel, them, doš) with wide semantic ranges in ways that bring different parts of that semantic range to light at different times is not something exclusive to Romani writers, obviously, but it does seem — in my unabashedly and almost comically non-expert and amateur opinion — to be somewhat more characteristic of Romani poetry compared with the literatures with which it is in contact. But I can't say anything beyond that. There is still much I have yet to understand, and I don't want to get carried away.

In my translation, I thought about using a loan from Angloromani "chiv", to do the same sort of heavy duty as činel does in Yanysheva's poem. Angloromani "chiv" is the merged reflex of a number of different Romani etyma, with meanings as various as live, tongue, language, cut, put, knife and write. (Serendipitously, one of the merged roots it represents is actually related to Romani činel. It's where we get the word "shiv" meaning "improvised stabbing weapon, shank" as well as the Northern English dialectal verb "to chib" used in my translation.) However, I ultimately decided against it. With some regret. It felt too much like a really great joke that would be ruined by having to explain it to everybody afterward.

Still, I felt it worthwhile to use some words of Romani origin (such as gadgie "man, fellow", and chib meaning "slash, stab") which have made their way into dialectal English.

The original is a Romani poem addressed to a fellow Rom; it is advice given to a good friend (drúgico miro), telling him — or rather demonstrating to him — that the perceived "lexical poverty" of Romani should not deter him from writing in that language, perhaps also reminding him — with the image of the string-slashers — that it is others who would set limits on what Roms and their language can do. She shows him that the importance of the difference is more apparent than actual, that if he writes in Romani, and is up to the challenge, he can even take those seeming weaknesses and show them — as she shows them — to be potential points of strength.

I have given Yanysheva's Russian version of the poem after the Romani text though the Romani text is obviously the basis for my translation.

If the Romani poem is addressed to a Rom, the Russian translation seems to me to be addressed to an ethnic Russian, or at least somebody who does not know Romani. It expresses itself in terms assimilable to the outsider. It seems to assume the addressee writes (or might hypothetically write) poems in Russian, rather than Romani. In the Russian there are no nalače gadže "vile (non-Rom) men" who cut the strings — rather Paganini just notices that "they", whoever they are, have cut them. The point is that Russian-speakers have no business on the high horse, but the vileness of the gadje is toned down.

Where the Romani poem has iambic lines varying between pentameter, hexameter and heptameter, the Russian version cuts itself down to just pentameters and hexameters, the two that are more acceptable in the Russian tradition (Russian poetry has not taken much to iambic lines longer than six feet, unlike English where heptameters or "fourteeners" have a long and fêted tradition from Chapman to Tennyson to A.E. Stallings.) In addressing itself specifically to Russians (it translates the second instance of the word gadže with the word for "Russian") it points out that Romani may indeed have a smaller passive vocabulary, but the issue isn't how many dictionary entries your language has, let alone whether "your language doesn't have many words of its own" (a common dismissal leveled at Romani by people too numerous even to name, let alone punch in the throat.) Even if you (i.e. a Russian) try to write poetry, you'll remember Paganini. It won't be easy for you either, more words won't do you much good. The last two lines in Russian read semi-literally "And if you ever set yourself to write verses /  you'll remember Paganini in any case." 

The Russian version for all that it differs from the Romani in its dynamics, has the same point at its core. The trappings and epiphenomena of long and varied written use aren't the end-all. It is something else, apart from merely the size of the passive vocabulary, that makes a language great, rich or evocative. It is something else that makes for great or rich poetry, or a great poet, in it.

Alexander Germano: On Wheels Of Fortune (From Russian Romani)

A bit of propagandistic blasting from Germano about abandoning Romani itinerancy and settling down. Puns ahoy. 

On Wheels Of Fortune
By Alexander Germano
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
Click to hear me recite the original Romani

What fate, what fortune we keep seeking
Roaming the roads and woods for years!
And what in seeking have we seen?
Oh we have seen our share of tears.

We sing all day, we sing at night. 
That is where drunkards' Fortunes lie. 
We like the horse, we like the whip,
Believe in something in the sky.

Devil and God can't do a damn.  
The cards deal us a pack of lies.
What do they do but do us in,
And raze us down where we would rise? 

The time has come for better living.  
We're free to make ourselves at home.
Fortune won't smile in campgrounds....
Lets move on from the need to roam.

The Original:
For reasons explained on this page, all Cyrillic Romani texts I translate are accompanied by transcription in Roman characters. 

Бахт Александр Германо Сави э-бахт амэ родаса Пиро дрома, пиро вэша. И со дро лодыпэ дыкхаса? — Амэ дыкхаса бут ясва. Ратя и дывэса багаса, Со сы екх бахт дро матыбэ, Чюпны и грэн амэ камаса, Патяса дро екх болыбэ. Дэвэл и бэнг ничи на дэна. Бут хохадэ патря амэн. Ёнэ амэнгэ хась кэрэна И подрискирна джиибэн. Авэла тэ дживас адякэ,— Вавир кэраса джиибэ. Нанэ э-бахт прэ фэлда, Чюрдаса пэскро лодыпэ.

Baxt Aleksandr Germano Savi e-baxt ame rodasa Piro droma, piro veša. I so dro lodîpe dîkhasa? — Ame dîkhasa but jasva. Ratja i dîvesá bagasa, So sî jekh baxt dro matîbe Čupnî i gren ame kamasa Patjasa dro jekh bolîbe Devel i beng niči na dena. But xoxade patrja amen. Jone amenge xasj kerena I podriskírna džiiben Avela te dživas adjake Vavir kerasa džiibe. Nane e-baxt pre felda, Čurdasa peskro lodîpe.

Ilija Jovanović: Poor Black Skin (From Gurbet Romani)

Poor Black¹ Skin
By Ilija Jovanović
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Poor black skin
it sticks in the white of the eye
like a needle
like a nail
like a knife

A little black man
didn't want to be alone anymore.
His back loaded with books,
he went to live among white people.
He wanted to study with them,
to live with them.

They asked each other
with hardened looks:
what's that black doing here?

Poor black skin
it sticks in the white of the eye
like a knife
like a needle
like a nail.

Notes:

¹ - The word for black, kalo, is used as an endonym by some Roma groups such as those of Finland and Spain. 

The Original:

Ćori Kali Morći

Ćori kali morći
phusaves e parnen ande jak
sar jek ćhuri
sar jek dopo
sar jek suv.

Jek cikno kalo
ćikamla maj but
korkoro te trajil.

Lija pese lila
talaj khank
gelo maśkar e parne manuśo
lençar te trajil
lençar te sićol.

Von phućle pes
e zoraja
so ćerel kadava kalo
kadathe.

Ćori kali morći
phusaves e parnen ande jak
sar jek suv
sar jek ćhuri
sar jek dopo.

Rasim Sejdić: Their Boots Crushed the Gypsy Violin (From Romani)

Their Boots Crushed The Gypsy Violin
By Rasim Sejdić
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

Their boots crushed the Gypsy violin
all that remains is Gypsies' ash
the fire the smoke 
rise heavenward.

They carted away the Roma
children they ripped from mothers
wives from husbands
they carted away the Roma.

Jasenovac* — packed with Roma
tied to cement pillars they can't budge
their hands and feet in heavy shackles
down to their knees in mud and sludge.

There in Jasenovac* remain
their bones as witness
to indict the works of inhumanity

Dawn breaks anew, the sun 
warming the Roma as it has always done. 

*Jasenovac was an extermination camp. Run by the Croatian Ustaše with the material support of the Third Reich, and later dubbed "the Auschwitz of the Balkans" it was one of the largest and most sadistically administrated of all death camps. Inmates consisted of ethnic Serbs, Roma, Jews, Bosnian and Croat Muslims and anti-fascist dissidents. Approximately 45–52,000 Serbs, 15-20,000 Roma, 12-25,000 Jews, and 5-12,000 Muslims were murdered there. Roma taken to the camp did not undergo selection, but were kept in open air in subsection III-C, before being brought to the killing-grounds of Gradina and Ustice for liquidation interspersed with forced labor. The Ustaše made killing them a sport, and used knives, mallets, pick-axes, saws and other implements to dismember, bludgeon, exsanguinate, and behead their victims. 

The Original:

Gazisarde Romengi Violina
Rasim Sejdić

Gazisarde romengi violina
ačile ognjište romane
e jag o dimo
ando oblako vazdinjalo.

Idžarde e Romen
čavoren restavisarde pe datar
e romnjen pe romendar
idžarde e Romen.

Jasenovco perdo Roma
pangle pala betonse stubujra
pale lantsujra pe prne pe va
ando balto dzi ke cang.

Ačile ando Jasenovco
lenge kokala
te pricin, o nemanušengim djelima
zora vedro osvanisarda
i Romen o kam pre tatarda.

Ilija Jovanović: The Lost (From Gurbet Romani)

      Ilija Jovanović was born in 1950 in Rumska, Serbia, the only child of a penurious Romani family. He worked as a farmhand until 1971 when he moved to Vienna and worked first in a metal factory, then as a pharmacist's assistant. He served as cultural advisor and secretary general of the Romano Centro and in 1999 won Austria's prestigious Theodor-Körner prize for cultural contribution. He died in 2010 after a protracted illness. The Romani text reproduced here, in Gurbeti dialect, is taken from his collection Budžo (Landeck, 2000.)

The Lost

By Ilija Jovanović

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

The tongue that sang our words is lost —

We are a silenced people. 

The world we lived has been killed off —

We are dying people.

When we stay in one pleasant place,

They drive us out.

Our threads are cut to shreds. 

Borders block our every rout.

We do not know anymore where we can go.

To the gadje¹ we aren't really people

Of the right kind
Because we are different. 

They hound us over all the world.

We go and we go.

How long? How far? We do not know.

Note:

1 - a term for non-Roma, people alien to Romani ways.  

The Original:

Xasardo Them

Xasardi si amarai đilanbadi čhib.

Amen sam bi svatoso them.

Amaro trajo si mudardo.

Amen sam bi trajoso them.

Te ačhilam pe jek kamlo than

traden amen lestar.

E dora si maškar amende čhinđarde,

e granice phanden jek avreste amaro drom.

Amen ni džanas kaj maj dur te džas.

E gadžénđe naj sam manuša sar von,

kaj aver čhande sam.

Traden amen pe sa o them.

Amen džas thaj džas

ni džanas kaj thaj dži kaj.

Margita Reiznerová: Alight by a Fire (From East Slovak Romani)

The Romani text here given is as it occurs in the author's book Suno "Dream" (Prague, 2000.)

Alight by a Fire
By Margita Reiznerová
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

In a little hut
Find a place to sleep,
Clasp your baby boy to your breast.
Hungry eyes
Are covered by the night.

The Original:

Thanoro Jaguno

Andro cikno kheroro
ko soviben o than keres,
čhavores ke tiro koľin ispides,
jakha bokhale
e rat zaučharel.

Vittorio Pasquale: Prisoner's Song (From Sinti)

Prisoner's Song
By Vittorio Mayer Pasquale
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

A bird is at my window 
in song. 
The heart in me is weeping
along.
I spot a flower downed
in dirt
With two tears keeping it
alive.
Dear flower me and you  
are alike... 
Taken from the green field,
I'm dying.

The Original:

Ap mar fénstri
jek tíkno čírklo
givéla.
Mur Herz an mánde
rovéla.
Hacjóm jek blúma
ab i čik...
Duj suá diénla
i džibén.
Me hom har du
o blúma...
Vri fon i víza
meráva !

Leksa Manush: To Wine (From Latvian Romani)

A light little Romani Sonnet.

To Wine
Leksa Manush
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

A cup of wine does anything you will: 
It gives a manly courage to shy men,
And to the weakest man a strength of will.
Wine knocks strong men out cold beyond their ken. 

And wine bonds strangers unknown to each other. 
They sit as friends, and each one drinks his fill.  
With song, wine calls them up to dance together. 
A good life, lived with wine, is better still.  

Sons and daughters of the sun and earth!
The grape born of the vine has given birth
To wine, to make us happy and at home. 

May vineyards never empty of the vine
And may the jug forever fill with wine
To the happiness and health of every Rom. 

Моляке Лекса Мануш Тахтай моляса, со камэс, кэрэл: Ладжякунэскэ дэл о муршипэн, Конэскэ зор нанэ, зоралипэн, Кон зорало сас — мол лэс пэравэл.   Пхандэл ёй кхэтанэ бипинджярдэн, Бэштэ, сар амала, тэ сако пьел. Мол тэ кхэлэн гилэнца лэн кхарэл. Бахталэдыр моляса джиипэн. Кхамэски и пхувьяки чяёри, Дракхэндар бияндёл ёй, молори, Пэ бахт тэ лош дыны ёй си амэнгэ. Мэ на чючёл дракхэнги барори! Моляса тэ пхэрдёл дурулори Пэ бахт тэ састыпэн сарэ ромэнгэ!

Moljáke Leksa Manuš Taxtaj moljása, so kames, kērel: Lādžakuneske del o muršipen, Koneske zor nane, zoralipen, Kon zoralo sas — mol les pēravel. Phandel joj khetane bipindžarden, Bešte, sar amala, te sako pjel. Mol te khelen gilenca len khārel. Baxtaledîr moljasa džiipen. Khameski i phuvjáki čhajōrí, Drakhendar bijandźol joj, molōri, Pe baxt te loš dînî joj si amenge. Me na čučol drakhéngi bārōri! Moljasa te pherdźol durulōri Pe baxt te sastîpen sāre romenge!