Posts Tagged ‘ translation ’

Pier Paolo Pasolini: Eight poems for Ninetto (1970–73) | Jacket2

Pier Paolo Pasolini and Ninetto Davoli

Source: Pier Paolo Pasolini: Eight poems for Ninetto (1970–73) | Jacket2

Dawn by Federico García Lorca

Dawn
Federico García Lorca  

Dawn in New York has
four pillars of muck
and a hurricane of black pigeons
splashing in the putrid waters.

Dawn in New York moans
on the immense staircases
searching between the corners
for spikenards of depicted anguish.

Dawn arrives and no one receives it in his mouth
because neither morning nor hope are possible:
at times furiously swarming coins
perforate and devour abandoned children.

The first to arise know in their bones
there will be neither paradise nor leafless loves:
they know the muck of numbers and laws awaits them,
of simple-minded games, of fruitless labor.

The light is buried by chains and noises
in a shameless challenge to rootless science.
Insomniacs stagger around in each district
like refugees from a shipwreck of blood.

 

Willard Bohn, translation

Katerina Anghelàki-Rooke – Post-scriptum poétique | BEAUTY WILL SAVE THE WORLD

Poetic Postscript

Poems cannot be beautiful
anymore, because truth
has turned ugly.
Experience is now
the only body of poems
and the richer the experience
the better the poem is nourished
and the stronger it grows.
My knees ache
I am unable to fall on them
to worship poetry;
the wounds of my experience
is all I have to offer.
The adjectives withered;
only with my fantasies
I can decorate poetry now.
But I shall always serve her
-for as long as she wants me-
because only poetry can make me
forget for a while
the closed horizon of my future.

***

Katerina Anghelàki-Rooke (Κατερίνα Αγγελάκη-Ρουκ 1939, Athènes, Grèce) – Dans le ciel du néant (Al Manar, 2012) – Traduit du grec par Michel Volkovitch – Translated from the Greek by the author and Costas Nisiotis.

Source: Katerina Anghelàki-Rooke – Post-scriptum poétique | BEAUTY WILL SAVE THE WORLD

Charles Bukowski – Pas de meneurs, s’il vous plaît | BEAUTY WILL SAVE THE WORLD

Pas de meneurs, s’il vous plaît

 

Inventez-vous puis réinventez-vous,
ne nagez pas dans le même bourbier
inventez-vous puis réinventez-vous
et
libérez-vous des griffes de la médiocrité.

Inventez-vous puis réinventez-vous,
changez de ton et de forme si souvent qu’on ne pourra
jamais
vous
cataloguer.

Ressourcez-vous et
acceptez ce qui est
mais uniquement selon les termes que vous avez inventés
et réinventés

apprenez par vous-même.

Et réinventez votre vie parce qu’il le faut ;
c’est votre vie et
son histoire
et le présent
n’appartiennent
qu’à vous.

*

No leaders, Please

Invent yourself and then reinvent yourself,
don’t swim in the same slough.
invent yourself and then reinvent yourself
and
stay out of the clutches of mediocrity.

Invent yourself and then reinvent yourself,
change your tone and shape so often that they can
never
categorize you.

Reinvigorate yourself and
accept what is
but only on the terms that you have invented
and reinvented.

be self-taught.

And reinvent your life because you must;
it is your life and
its history
and the present
belong only to
you.

***

Charles Bukowski (1920-1994) – The Pleasures of the Damned (Ecco Press, 2007) – Traduit de l’américain par Stéphane Chabrières

Source: Charles Bukowski – Pas de meneurs, s’il vous plaît | BEAUTY WILL SAVE THE WORLD

Today’s Haiku (April 10, 2017) | Blue Willow Haiku World (by Fay Aoyagi)

 

面倒な奴で結構磯巾着  津野利行

mendô na yatsu de kekkô isoginchaku

no problem

to be called nuisance

sea anemone

Toshiyuki Tsuno
translation by Fay Aoyagi

Source: Today’s Haiku (April 10, 2017) | Blue Willow Haiku World (by Fay Aoyagi)

“Bird” by Shin Dal-Ja – Left/Write Lit

For you,
I was a bird.

Unable to speak,
only cry.
A pitiful bird
with no one to understand.

And each day,
to make my wings ache
I flew to all the places
you traveled.

And at night,
I was the bird
sadly singing
outside your room.

 

나는 당신에게
한마리 새였었다

말은 못하고
울기만 하는
아무도 몰라주는
구슬픈 새였었다

날이 날마다
날개가 아프도록
당신 가는 곳만
날아다니다

밤에
당신 방에 불이 꺼지면
슬피슬피
울어대는 한마리 새였었다.

 

Shin Dal-Ja (image source)

Source: “Bird” by Shin Dal-Ja – Left/Write Lit

“Fading Flesh” by Kim So-Yeon – Left/Write Lit

Monday,
you left to go shopping.
You bought thinly sliced jellyfish, then washed it.
On the veranda, the green onions have bloomed
and round snails rest on their blossoms.

Tuesday,
no matter how hard you tried,
you couldn’t wake me
in my
circle silhouette,
so approaching quietly,
you come lie down again.

Wednesday,
you took the train,
pressing your forehead lightly to the rattling
to better see the scenery rushing by.

On the rooftop, I set out a chair.
I closed my eyes and raised my ears high like a flag
and heard somewhere the faint call of a train.

Thursday,
when love was called by name, we weren’t there.
We had become wild animals each other.
We had become herbivores to each other.
I shook with the fear of it.
Between your shaking and mine,
crimson blood flowed
while we lightly touched the topic of our old conversation
like a scab.

Friday,
while I’m out of the house, you
die by your own strength and are continually reborn.
Flowers, too, bloomed and continually faded.
You saw the footprints of the morning star —
endless clusters, traces
of people gone by.

The smell of food, of flowers, of laundry
thick and overflowing.
The home male and female bluebirds return to must be the same,
you said, while folding the laundry.

Saturday,
you called an obvious mistake like us, love. Turning where I stood, I nodded and called it blasphemy,
the vulnerability of all the bad things in life when their usefulness is gone.
Your tenderness swirls in my ear and spreads throughout my body, and
in my diary I write, “I want to be eaten away. In being worn away, there will be no pain — no nothing.”
Every time I unfold my diary on the desk, my life’s sins
pour out

and

pile

up

in

heaps.

Sunday,
we fold paper airplanes from the letters we’ve sent and make them fly.
With wings having no more room for writing, they scatter and fall like the season’s first snow.

Monday again,
you leave to go shopping
and might not return.
Standing expectantly outside the entrance,
I cover my mouth and cry for a few moments. You could still come back.
Flowers still bloom
and snails form trails from my tears
on the surface of the carrot’s prickly flowers,
taking one steady step and then another.
Like a refrigerator, I am still standing,
my contents growing clear, and cool…
and still waiting.

 

Source: “Fading Flesh” by Kim So-Yeon – Left/Write Lit