Posts Tagged ‘ Spanish ’

Tomboy by Claudia Masin – Poem-a-Day | Academy of American Poets

Tomboy

I don’t understand how we walk around the world
as if there were a single way for each of us, a kind
of life stamped into us like a childhood injection,
a cure painstakingly released into the blood with every passing year
like a poison transmuted into antidote
against any possible disobedience that might
awaken in the body. But the body isn’t mere
submissive matter, a mouth that cleanly swallows
whatever it’s fed. It’s a lattice
of little filaments, as I imagine
threads of starlight must be. What can never
be touched: that’s the body. What lives outside
the law when the law is muscled and violent,
a boulder plunging off a precipice
and crushing everything in its path. How do they manage
to wander around so happily and comfortably in their bodies, how
do they feel so sure, so confident in being what they are: this blood,
these organs, this sex, this species? Haven’t they ever longed
to be a lizard scorching in the sun
every day, or an old man, or a vine
clutching a trunk in search of somewhere
to hold on, or a boy sprinting till his heart
bursts from his chest with sheer brute energy,
with sheer desire? We’re forced
to be whatever we resemble. Haven’t
you ever wished you knew what it would feel like to have claws
or roots or fins instead of hands, what it would mean
if you could only live in silence
or by murmuring or crying out
in pain or fear or pleasure? Or if there weren’t any words
at all and so the soul of every living thing were measured
by the intensity it manifests
once it’s set free?

– Claudia Masin
translated by Robin Myers


Tomboy

Yo no sé cómo se hace para andar por el mundo
como si solo hubiera una posibilidad para cada cual,
una manera 
de estar vivos inoculada en las venas durante la niñez,
un remedio que va liberándose lentamente en la sangre
a lo largo 
de los años igual que un veneno
que se convierte en un antídoto

contra cualquier desobediencia que pudiera
despertarse en el cuerpo. Pero el cuerpo no es
una materia sumisa, una boca que traga limpiamente
aquello con que se la alimenta. Es un entramado
de pequeños filamentos, como imagino que son los hilos
de luz de las estrellas. Lo que nunca podría
ser tocado: eso es el cuerpo. Lo que siempre
queda afuera 
de la ley cuando la ley es maciza
y violenta, una piedra descomunal cayendo
desde lo alto de una cima

arrasando lo que encuentra. ¿Cómo pueden entonces
andar tan cómodos y felices en su cuerpo, cómo hacen
para tener la certeza, la seguridad de que son eso: esa sangre,
esos órganos, ese sexo, esa especie? ¿Nunca quisieron
ser un lagarto prendido cada día del calor del sol
hasta quemarse el cuero, un hombre viejo, una enredadera
apretándose contra el tronco de un árbol para tener de dónde
sostenerse, un chico corriendo hasta que el corazón
se le sale del pecho de pura energía brutal,
de puro deseo? Nos esforzamos tanto
por ser aquello a lo que nos parecemos. ¿Nunca
se te ocurrió cómo sería si en lugar de manos tuvieras garras
o raíces o aletas, cómo sería
si la única manera de vivir fuera en silencio o aullando
de placer o de dolor o de miedo,
si no hubiera palabras

y el alma de cada cosa viva se midiera
por la intensidad de la que es capaz una vez
que queda suelta?

Source: Poem-a-Day | Academy of American Poets

One Man’s César Vallejo | Open Letters Monthly – an Arts and Literature Review

I lose contact with the sea
when the waters come to me.

Let us always depart. Let us savor
the stupendous song, the song expressed
by the lower lips of desire.

– César Vallejo

“Vallejo is a difficult poet to quote briefly because he writes with a kind of stutter: his thoughts are constantly breaking off, catching up with themselves late, contradicting. He demands the whole space of a poem to pull off his best effects. Those unable to read the second line of a poem without fully coming to terms with the first will have little truck with Vallejo. But this casual, idiosyncratic, endlessly creative course of expression is his innovation and his legacy.

Although a number of poets are translating or have translated all of Vallejo’s poetry into English, Clayton Eshleman is the first to have published the entirety of his work in a single volume. It’s no book for the squeamish. Vallejo is a violent writer in every sense. Thwarted and inherited loves, inspiring patriotism, a resentful standoff with God, the dream of perfect socialism, and a loving, brutal fuck with language lace his poems like loaded coils.” – John Cotter, from César Vallejo: The Complete Poetry, Edited and Translated by Clayton Eshleman

Source: One Man’s César Vallejo | Open Letters Monthly – an Arts and Literature Review

This posting is inspired by the following discovered at “Questa notte scendo da cavallo.. – César Vallejo at Vengodalmare

Stephen Page: A Night of Poetry & Music, Part 1, at the Fundacion Ernesto Sabato, 29 Sept 2012. – YouTube

Suzanne Gardinier’s “Stammering translated sonnet in which the poet sends the rains of Havana to her love in New York” |

Stammering translated sonnet in which the poet sends the rains of Havana to her love in New York

Suzanne Gardinier1961

Got your message, here
in the letter you didn’t write:
burned, with a forbidden seal,
marking the burial site
of what has neither voice nor definition,
what has no face, no peace, no place to sleep,
a whisper in which I can’t [inaudible]
—what the sea doesn’t say, whispering, every night,
and when the rain comes to erase the streets
tomorrow, & all the dusks that follow that,
and runs around making up street dances
from what you once said, I’ll have this map,
without details, made of what I’ve missed,
telling me that that which isn’t is.

Spanish:

Soneto Balbuciendo En Que La Poeta Manda A Su Amor En Nueva York La Lluvia de La Habana

He leído el mensaje que mandaste,
aquí, en la carta no me has escrito:
quemada, y con sello prohibido,
diciéndome dónde enterraste
lo que no tiene voz ni luz ni cara,
ni paz, ni un lugar para dormir,
susurro donde yo puedo oír
cada noche lo que no dice el mar,
y cuando la lluvia borrará las calles
mañana, y los crepúsculos después,
y correrá haciendo bailes
de lo que me dijiste una vez,
yo tendré este mapa, sin detalles,
que me dice que lo que no es, es.

Copyright © 2015 by Suzanne Gardinier. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on July 15, 2015, by the Academy of American Poets.

One Today, Inaugural Poem by Richard Blanco in Commemoration of President Barack H Obama’s Second Inauguration

Visit One Today, Inaugural poem by Richard Blanco for the text of the poem.

A DAY IN THE CITY OF LAKES by OCTAVIO PAZ [modern haiku 36.1] ~ El Dia en Udaipur translated by Chris Gordon / antantantantant

:

:

The white palace

white on the black lake

lingam and yoni

:

As the goddess does the god

night has encircled me

:

The cool veranda

You are boundless, boundless

but surveyable

:

The stars they’re inhuman

This hour though is ours

:

Falling I rise

Burning I grow wet

Do you have only one body?

:

Birds skimming the water

Dawn comes to my eyelids

:

Filled with thoughts

immense as death itself

the marble looms over you

:

Palaces run aground

their whiteness is adrift

:

Women and children

roam through the street

fruit scattered about

:

Flashy rags or lightening?

A procession on the plain

:

Cold and jingling

on their wrists and ankles

bands of silver

:

In a rented suit a guy

goes to his wedding

:

Clean and draped to dry

among the stones clothes

you watch in silence

:

On the island monkeys

with red asses are screaming

:

Sun dim in the heat

Hanging from the wall

a wasp’s nest

:

My face is also the sun

of blackened thoughts

:

Flies and blood

fill the courtyard of Kali

A young goat flits about

:

Eating from the same plate

gods and men and beasts

:

Over the pale god

the black goddess

dances headless

:

Heat and the hour splits open

These rotting mangoes

:

Your face a lake

smooth, without thoughts

Out splashes a trout

:

Afternoon’s gone

Lights kindle over the water

:

A rippling in

the golden plain and a grotto

Your clothes nearby

:

Over your body in the shade

I am like a lamp

:

A scale made of

living bodies bound together

over the void

:

The water sustains us

The sky overwhelms us

:

I open my eyes

How many trees were born

just last night

:

What I’ve seen and wanted to say

the white sun blots out

:

:

El Dia en Udaipur translated by Chris Gordon
antantantantant’s blog

Angelitos Negros by Roberta Flack ~ from vinyl

On Barcelona: From a “prominent Barcelona writer” via Richard Kostelanetz

On Barcelona: From a “prominent Barcelona writer” via Richard Kostelanetz.

Joan Baez / Te Recurdo Amanda