Posts Tagged ‘ translation ’

Today’s Haiku (January 9, 2019) | Blue Willow Haiku World (by Fay Aoyagi)

外套の襟立てて世に容れられず   加藤楸邨

gaitô no eri tatete yo ni irerarezu

I turn up my coat’s collar

not being accepted

in the world

Shuson Kato

translation by Fay Aoyagi

from “Haiku-kai” (“Haiku World,” a monthly haiku magazine),  July 2017 Issue,  Bungaku No Mori, Tokyo

Fay’s Note:  Shuson Kato (1905-1993)

Source: Today’s Haiku (January 9, 2019) | Blue Willow Haiku World (by Fay Aoyagi)

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Today’s Haiku (January 10, 2019) | Blue Willow Haiku World (by Fay Aoyagi)

生きてゐる冬の泉を聴くために    杉山久子

ikiteiru fuyu no izumi o kiku tame ni

I live

to listen

the winter spring

Hisako Sugiyama

translation by Fay Aoyagi

from ‘Izumi’ (‘Spring’) haiku collection by Hisako Sugiyama, Furansu-do, Tokyo 2015

Fay’s Note:   Last line may not work well in English.   ‘sprng’ here is not the season between winter and summer, but a place where water comes to the surface from underground.

Source: Today’s Haiku (January 10, 2019) | Blue Willow Haiku World (by Fay Aoyagi)

Today’s Haiku (January 8, 2019) | Blue Willow Haiku World (by Fay Aoyagi)

降る雪や地上のすべてゆるされたり  野見山朱鳥

furu yuki ya chijyô no subete yurusaretari

falling snow—

everything on the earth

granted

Asuka Nomiyama

from “Haiku-kai” (“Haiku World,” a monthly haiku magazine), July 2017 Issue,  Bungaku No Mori, Tokyo

translated by Fay Aoyagi

Fay’s Note:   Asuka Nomiyama (1917-1970)

Source: Today’s Haiku (January 8, 2019) | Blue Willow Haiku World (by Fay Aoyagi)

from Collected Poems – Asymptote

Contact

The smell of clove
The smell of gunpowder
The smell of Eau de Cologne
Of skin
The smell of a small animal
333333333
159603
23256====00003
V r r r r r r r ++××=×= 0
+++-+∀rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr+××
+×××+Vrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr+××
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
・ ・ ・ ・ ・ ・ ・ ・ ・ ・ ・ ・ ・ ・ ・ ・ ・ ・ ・ ・ ・ ・・ ・ ・ ・ ・ ・ ・ ・ ・ ・ ・
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
Tokio, Le 11 fevrier 1922
                                                       ma bien-aimée
O—n—y—o—u—r—m—i—r—r—o—r—a—d—e—e—r—f—l—y—
R—e—s—t—s—
The flower of a tulip is anxious in the greenhouse
The December sky is fast
The January sky is cold
The February sky is fruitless
The March sky is
Waiting still—
So far away

– Hirato Renkichi
translated from the Japanese by Sho Sugita

 

Source: from Collected Poems – Asymptote

First Known When Lost: What The Leaves Say

Imitation

Far from your own little bough,
Poor little frail little leaf,
Where are you going? — The wind
Has plucked me from the beech where I was born.
It rises once more, and bears me
In the air from the wood to the fields,
And from the valley up into the hills.
I am a wanderer
For ever: that is all that I can say.
I go where everything goes,
I go where by nature’s law
Wanders the leaf of the rose,
Wanders the leaf of the bay.

Giacomo Leopardi (translated by J. G. Nichols), in Giacomo Leopardi, The Canti (Carcanet Press 1994).

The poem is a translation of “La Feuille” (“The Leaf”) by the French poet Antoine-Vincent Arnault (1766-1834).  Hence the title “Imitation.”

Source: First Known When Lost: What The Leaves Say

Palabras Errantes » Archive My Neighbour without Men – Palabras Errantes

MY NEIGHBOUR WITHOUT MEN

By Dinapiera Di Donato. Translated by Fionn Petch.

 

a fence made of cactus
marked the home of the sting ray’s harpoon
her black veils rippled
no one talks to her

not the breeze, not the dried-up well

the girls from Madeira
sell lace from a white bundle
they feel like pigeons beneath her gaze
avoid her

my grandmother takes pails of water for her
an offering placed before the shut door
while teaching us courtesy
forcing on us ladylike manners
comb our hair say thank you bid farewell
and catch stones
in mid-flight

the vengeful sayona gathers up her
Diogenes syndrome and spills
yards of smooth filaments
around her neck
I do the same
in the ceremony of the waters

hers silver with tortoiseshell
mine dark
an eternity taming
my thatch
an eternity she
brushes hers to a shine
between us
the water
my grandmother knew.

we were good demons
taking care of each other

her barbed wire fence attracts hummingbirds
to the cactus flowers

the sweet fruits allowed us

her threadbare cloak washed for us
my four-year-old war cloak
her ninety-year-old solitude

my own
my grandmother knew

that we could
pluck up the courage
murder
if we were to carve
a pathway through
the house
polish gooseberries
as a gift

not me
I didn’t know

my grandmother crosses the threshold
because Gema Orta is dying
I clear a path through the midden
with a junior witch’s
spell
because I am a soldier and
never a princess
and
her remains are carried off
in suitcases full of wind that
I choose

my grandmother knows

it was the wrong choice:
wrong to pack oneself up
fold oneself up inside with fear and
grey cacti with their fuchsia flowers
a shotgun a silence
to protect oneself
alone
and the unfailing love of another old woman
who understands

it was a place of encounters
but I got lost
mixed up the customs

my stubborn grandmother would not succumb to a bribe
for an ID card that lawfully belongs to her
Gema Orta the vampire the weird forlorn one
the only one on our street
without running water
let the stones fall
my grandmother wraps her in Madeira lace

these are different times
a village of unploughed, fog-wrapped hills
golden dust choking the streets
at the bottom of the last water pail I perceive
the future and the starting point:
this shady place of entwined leaves
will be good
the oasis for parched mining caravans
but not yet

a fence of spiky plants
dry tracks of the great river

a suitcase of bones as strong as jasmine flowers
the word canarí
arrives on the breeze

 

 

Source: Palabras Errantes » Archive My Neighbour without Men – Palabras Errantes

from Microliths they are, Little Stones, by Paul Celan – Pierre Joris, tr. | Dispatches from the Poetry Wars

excerpts:

82.11  They asked the man dying of thirst if the dripping faucet in the next door cell didn’t disturb him, and promised to quickly remedy this nuisance.

82.14  Not the measured verse, but the unmeasured, where the lyrical and the tragical meet and cut across each other, is what makes the poem a poem.

103.2-i- Who goes into details, helps things to gain their rights.

104. Truth is revolutionary. I believe that too, but when it is quoted at me, I do sniff a little around the quotation marks.

– from Paul Celan, Mikrolithen sinds, Steinchen, the collected posthumous prose, Barbara Wiedemann and Bertrand Badiou, editors, published by Suhrkamp Verlag, 2005 — apprx 200pp of Celan’s writings (divided into sections of aphorisms, narrative gragments, dialogues, notes, theoretical-critical fragments, unsent letters & texts concerning the Goll affair), all followed by a 700-page apparatus of bio-bibliographic cpmentaries. The English translation by Pierre Joris of the texts with a reduced commentary section, from which the present excerpts are taken, will be published as Microliths they are, Little Stones, in late 2018 by Attem-Verlag.

Source: from Microliths they are, Little Stones, by Paul Celan – Pierre Joris, tr. | Dispatches Poetry Wars

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