Posts Tagged ‘ translation ’

datableedzine | Aditya Bahl issue 10

Aditya Bahl

Source: datableedzine | Aditya Bahl issue 10

Orion Magazine | Deirdre Remembers a Scottish Glen

Deirdre Remembers a Scottish Glen
translated by MARTIN SHAW and TONY HOAGLAND

Irish, unknown, possibly fourteenth century

Glen of my body’s feeding:

crested breast of loveliest wheat,

glen of the thrusting long-horned cattle,

firm among the trysting bees.

Wild with cuckoo, thrush, and blackbird,

and the frisky hind below the oak thick ridge.

Green roof that covered a thousand foxes,

glen of wild garlic and watercress, and scarlet-berried rowan.

And badgers, delirious with sleep, heaped fat in dens

next to their burrowed young.

Glen sentried with blue-eyed hawks,

greenwood laced with sloe, apple, blackberry,

tight-crammed between the ridge and pointed peaks.

My glen of the star-tangled yews,

where hares would lope in the easy dew.

To remember is a ringing pain of brightness.

Source: Orion Magazine | Deirdre Remembers a Scottish Glen

Today’s Haiku (April 23, 2019) | Blue Willow Haiku World (by Fay Aoyagi)

囀や一人にひとつ葡萄パン 対中いずみ

saezuri ya hitori ni hitotsu budôpan

birds’ chirp—

one raisin bun

per person

Izumi Tainaka

Fay Aoyagi, translation

from ‘Haidan,’ (‘Haiku Stage’) a monthly haiku magazine, April 2017 Issue, Honami Shoten, Tokyo

Fay’s Note:  ‘saezuri’ (bird’s chirp) is a spring kigo.

Source: Today’s Haiku (April 23, 2019) | Blue Willow Haiku World (by Fay Aoyagi)

Haiku – Molenkamp Fuyuko モーレンカンプふゆこ公式サイト

黒鉄の風船白夜を鳴り止まず
Kurogane no fuurin/ byakuya o nariyamazu
Foto

Black-iron wind bell
in the white summer night
tinkles on and on

 

夏逝きぬと我に別れの言葉なく
Natsu yukinu to/ ware ni wakare no/ kotoba naku
Foto

Summer passed away, I hear
without saying
good-bye to me

Source: Haiku – Molenkamp Fuyuko モーレンカンプふゆこ公式サイト

otata 40 April 2019

Eufemia Griffo

ritornano le oche
le loro ali
ancora piene di neve

their wings
still full of snow
the geese return

 

fine dell’inverno
uno scoiattolo segue ancora
il profumo della neve

end of winter
a squirrel still follows
the scent of snow

 

vento di primavera
il riparo di una foglia
da qualche parte

spring wind
the shelter of a leaf
somewhere

 

Robert van  Vliet

third

go on keep at it
till everything fits into two rooms or

 

stand out in the hall and look in and refuse to go in
either room

 

Tim Murphy

cocktail party . . .
the truth
will set you free

 

Tom Becket


THE WORD 

The word Was deferred

But I
Read delivered

*

Let’s dissolve One another

Let’s come Apart together

*

An atmosphere Of gender

As practice Or event

*

A moment Of discovery

Disguised as An ellipse

*

Word has It that

Throughlines wind And comingle

*

The word Was confused

But I
Was aroused

*

Our weathers Of love

And climate Of erosion

*

Lucia Cardillo

iris candidi . . .
perdonando a me stessa
tutti gli errori

white iris . . .
I forgive myself
for every mistake

 

margheritina . . .
piccolo cuore giallo s
ul marciapiede

daisy . . .
tiny yellow heart
from the sidewalk

Nikolay Grankin

покупаю мандарины
падают в кошелёк
снежинки

 

buying tangerines —
snowflakes fall into
my wallet

свежий снег
старушка подчёркивает
даты на календаре

fresh snow
an old lady underlines
dates in the calendar

 

Antonio Mangiameli

 

In the basement of my apartment building lives the lady who worked for many years in the porter’s lodge. I am very fond of her, she has known me since I was a child. In the evening, when I come back home, I often go to say hello to her. I know her habits, I know that at the time of my coming back home, she is cooking for dinner, which is always the same, very frugal.

a hot broth
a spoonful of rice
an old woman

otata 40 April 2019

Zeitgeist Spam: Miyo Vestrini, “THE WALLS OF DEATH IN SPRING” (tr. Rowena Hill) (I think I’m going to need to read Grenade in Mouth: Some Poems of Miyo Vestrini. trs. Anne Boyer & Cassandra Gillig, ed. Faride Mereb

The Walls of Death in Spring

I will not teach my son to till the earth
nor to smell ears of wheat
nor to sing hymns.
He will know there are no crystalline streams
nor clear water to drink.
His world will be a world of hellish downpours
and dark plains.

Of screams and groans.
Of dryness in the eyes and throat.
Of tortured bodies that can no longer see or hear him.
He will know it’s not good to listen to the voices of people
that praise the color of the sky.

I will take him to Hiroshima.  To Seveso.  To Dachau.
His skin will flake off bit by bit at the horror
and it will hurt him to hear a bird singing

the soldiers’ laughter
the firing squads
the walls of death in spring.

He will have the memory we did not have
and he will believe in the violence
of those who believe in nothing.

– Miyo Vestrini

Rowena Hill, translation

Source: Zeitgeist Spam: Miyo Vestrini, “THE WALLS OF DEATH IN SPRING” (tr. Rowena Hill) (I think I’m going to need to read Grenade in Mouth: Some Poems of Miyo Vestrini. trs. Anne Boyer & Cassandra Gillig, ed. Faride Mereb

Things I Didn’t Know I Loved by Nazim Hikmet | 3 Quarks Daily

Sunday Poem

Things I Didn’t Know I Loved

it’s 1962 March 28th
I’m sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
night is falling
I never knew I liked
night descending like a tired bird on a smoky wet plain
I don’t like
comparing nightfall to a tired bird

I didn’t know I loved the earth
can someone who hasn’t worked the earth love it
I’ve never worked the earth
it must be my only Platonic love

and here I’ve loved rivers all this time
whether motionless like this they curl skirting the hills
European hills crowned with chateaus
or whether stretched out flat as far as the eye can see
I know you can’t wash in the same river even once
I know the river will bring new lights you’ll never see
I know we live slightly longer than a horse but not nearly as long as a crow
I know this has troubled people before
……………………………….and will trouble those after me
I know all this has been said a thousand times before
………………………………and will be said after me

I didn’t know I loved the sky
cloudy or clear
the blue vault Andrei studied on his back at Borodino
in prison I translated both volumes of War and Peace into Turkish
I hear voices
not from the blue vault but from the yard
the guards are beating someone again

I didn’t know I loved trees
bare beeches near Moscow in Peredelkino
they come upon me in winter noble and modest
beeches are Russian the way poplars are Turkish
“the poplars of Izmir
losing their leaves. . .
they call me The Knife. . .
…………………………………….lover like a young tree. . .
I blow stately mansions sky-high”
in the Ilgaz woods in 1920 I tied an embroidered linen handkerchief
……………………………………………………………to a pine bough for luck

I never knew I loved roads
even the asphalt kind
Vera’s behind the wheel we’re driving from Moscow to the Crimea
……………………………………………………………………………..Koktebele
………………………………………………formerly “Goktepé ili” in Turkish
the two of us inside a closed box
the world flows past on both sides distant and mute
I was never so close to anyone in my life
bandits stopped me on the red road between Bolu and Geredé
…………………………………………………………… when I was eighteen
apart from my life I didn’t have anything in the wagon they could take
and at eighteen our lives are what we value least
I’ve written this somewhere before
wading through a dark muddy street I’m going to the shadow play
Ramazan night
a paper lantern leading the way
maybe nothing like this ever happened
maybe I read it somewhere an eight-year-old boy
………………………………………………. going to the shadow play
Ramazan night in Istanbul holding his grandfather’s hand
…..  his grandfather has on a fez and is wearing the fur coat
.   with a sable collar over his robe
… and there’s a lantern in the servant’s hand
… and I can’t contain myself for joy

flowers come to mind for some reason
poppies cactuses jonquils
in the jonquil garden in Kadikoy Istanbul I kissed Marika
fresh almonds on her breath
I was seventeen
my heart on a swing touched the sky
I didn’t know I loved flowers
friends sent me three red carnations in prison

I just remembered the stars
I love them too
whether I’m floored watching them from below
or whether I’m flying at their side

I have some questions for the cosmonauts
were the stars much bigger
did they look like huge jewels on black velvet
………………………………………… or apricots on orange
did you feel proud to get closer to the stars
I saw color photos of the cosmos in Ogonek magazine now don’t
…… be upset comrades but nonfigurative shall we say or abstract

…… well some of them looked just like such paintings which is to
…… say they were terribly figurative and concrete
my heart was in my mouth looking at them
they are our endless desire to grasp things
seeing them I could even think of death and not feel at all sad
I never knew I loved the cosmos

snow flashes in front of my eyes
both heavy wet steady snow and the dry whirling kind
I didn’t know I liked snow

I never knew I loved the sun
even when setting cherry-red as now
in Istanbul too it sometimes sets in postcard colors
but you aren’t about to paint it that way

I didn’t know I loved the sea
…………..    except the Sea of Azov
or how much

I didn’t know I loved clouds
whether I’m under or up above them
whether they look like giants or shaggy white beasts

moonlight the falsest the most languid the most petit-bourgeois
strikes me
I like it

I didn’t know I liked rain
whether it falls like a fine net or splatters against the glass my
…… heart leaves me tangled up in a net or trapped inside a drop
…… and takes off for uncharted countries I didn’t know I loved
…… rain but why did I suddenly discover all these passions sitting
…… by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
is it because I lit my sixth cigarette
one alone could kill me
is it because I’m half dead from thinking about someone back in Moscow
her hair straw-blond eyelashes blue

the train plunges on through the pitch-black night
I never knew I liked the night pitch-black
sparks fly from the engine
I didn’t know I loved sparks
I didn’t know I loved so many things and I had to wait until sixty
…… to find it out sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train
…… watching the world disappear as if on a journey of no return

by Nazim Hikmet
from Selected Poetry
Persea Books, Inc.

translation by Randy Blasing and Mutlu Konuk

Source: Sunday Poem | 3 Quarks Daily