Posts Tagged ‘ translation ’

Bruno Bettelheim, “Freud and Man’s Soul” – Rethink.

I could say more about the book, but for those of you who also grapple with the question of the character of political philosophy, you can see how psychoanalysis, or something like it, begins to open a most necessary inquiry. Something about way political philosophy inspired by Leo Strauss is conducted nowadays stays deliberately blind to the educative process. It’s strange how one can detail a number of techniques used by the greatest authors, gain a number of insights, and have nothing to say about who people actually are.

Source: Bruno Bettelheim, “Freud and Man’s Soul” – Rethink.

“Horizon Over the Sea, Horizon Over the Land” by Koichiro Yamauchi | Versoteque

Horizon Over the Sea, Horizon Over the Land




Hey, poet.  You, mankind.

In this disaster, what did you see?


Did you see the man who lost his family, lost his home, lost his hometown, lost Japan—did you see his fist wiping away his tears?


Did you see the terrifying face of radiation?  The profile?


Did you see the man, his hometown lost, Japan lost, nestling his cheek upon the cow he’s raised, crying.

Shrinking from the once-familiar breeze and earth,

did you stare into the sandbox where no one is playing?

Did you see the walnut tree, which was cut down

because people feared an aftershock would topple it?

Can your poems recover the lost families, homes, hometowns, Japan? Can they comfort the man wiping his tears, his fist wiping them away, his hometown lost to him, Japan lost to him, the man crying and nestling his cheek on his cherished cow? Can they restore the once-familiar breeze and earth? Can they bring back the children to the sandbox?


(continued ) at Versoteque


Fernando Pessoa: Alberto Caeiro: The Keeper of Flocks

from The Keeper of Flocks

by Alberto Caeiro da Silva

from I

* * *

I don’t have ambitions or desires.
Being a poet isn’t my ambition,
It’s my way of being alone.

* * *


When I look, I see clear as a sunflower.
I’m always walking the roads
Looking right and left,
And sometimes looking behind…
And what I see every second
Is something I’ve never seen before,
And I know how to do this very well…
I know how to have the essential astonishment
That a child would have if it could really see
It was being born when it was being born…
I feel myself being born in each moment,
In the eternal newness of the world…

I believe in the world like I believe in a marigold,
Because I see it. But I don’t think about it
Because to think is to not understand…
The world wasn’t made for us to think about
(To think is to be sick in the eyes)
But for us to see and agree with…

I don’t have a philosophy: I have senses…
If I talk about Nature, it’s not because I know what it is,
But because I love it, and that’s why I love it,
Because when you love you never know what you love,
Or why you love, or what love is…

Loving is eternal innocence,
And the only innocence is not thinking…


Live, you say, in the present;
Live only in the present.

But I don’t want the present, I want reality;
I want things that exist, not time that measures them.

What is the present?
It’s something relative to the past and the future.
It’s a thing that exists in virtue of other things existing.
I only want reality, things without the present.

I don’t want to include time in my scheme.
I don’t want to think about things as present; I want to think of them as things.
I don’t want to separate them from themselves, treating them as present.

I shouldn’t even treat them as real.
I should treat them as nothing.

I should see them, only see them;
See them till I can’t think about them.

See them without time, without space,
To see, dispensing with everything but what you see.
And this is the science of seeing, which isn’t a science.



I went out very early in the morning today
Because I woke up even earlier
And there was nothing I wanted to do…

I didn’t know which road to take
But the wind rose strong, sweeping up from one side,
And I followed the road where the wind pushed at my back.

That’s how my life has always been, and
That’s how I’d like to be able to have it always be —
I go where the wind leads me
And don’t feel like thinking.



The Last Poem
(dictated on the day of his death)

It may be the last day of my life.
I saluted the sun by raising my right hand,
But I didn’t really salute it or even say good-bye to it.
I showed it that I’ve liked seeing it before. Nothing else.


Alberto Caeiro Blogspot

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

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
libérez-vous des griffes de la médiocrité.

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

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
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
stay out of the clutches of mediocrity.

Invent yourself and then reinvent yourself,
change your tone and shape so often that they can
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


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