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memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Category Archives: Translation

gosto [taste]

20 Friday Mar 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

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cunnilingus, gosto, poem, Poetry, Portuguese translation, taste

TASTE

Full of the mystery of taste.
Reckless with my mouth.

Throbbing fruit
fresh. My mouth

on your skin. A light kiss
with the touch

of the tongue.
Suck your

fruit; with a grip,
howling, and hair

pulling. Strange
fruit.

][][

GOSTO

Plena do gosto da mistério.
Afoita com minha boca.

Latejando de fruta
fresca. Minha boca

na teu pele. Um leve beijo
com o toque

da língua.
Chupo teu

fruto; com um aperto,
um urro, e puxão

de cabelo. Fruto
estranho.

Bilac’s DELÍRIO

20 Friday Mar 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

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cunnilingus, Delírio, Olavo Bilac, Portuguese translation

Olavo Bilac, Delirium

Naked since love doesn’t need shame
In my her mouth I pressed.
And, as for carnal thrills, she said:
“Lower down, baby, I want your kiss!”

Crude, unconsciousness of my desire
Trembling, my mouth obeyed,
And I bit her taut breasts
So that she gasped like broken chords.

In endless sighs of joys
She told me, still almost crying:
“Lower down, baby!” – All in a frenzy.

On her belly I laid my mouth,
“Lower, baby!” – She said, crazy,
Puritans, forgive me! but I obeyed …

][]][

Delírio

Nua, mas para o amor não cabe o pejo
Na minha a sua boca eu comprimia.
E, em frêmitos carnais, ela dizia:
– Mais abaixo, meu bem, quero o teu beijo!

Na inconsciência bruta do meu desejo
Fremente, a minha boca obedecia,
E os seus seios, tão rígidos mordia,
Fazendo-a arrepiar em doce arpejo.

Em suspiros de gozos infinitos
Disse-me ela, ainda quase em grito:
– Mais abaixo, meu bem! – num frenesi.

No seu ventre pousei a minha boca,
– Mais abaixo, meu bem! – disse ela, louca,
Moralistas, perdoai! Obedeci …

note:

Olavo Brás Martins dos Guimarães Bilac (1865 – 1918) was a Brazilian poet, journalist and translator. This poem comes from his, Poesias (1888)

​schall’s AMOR EM AZUL E BRANCO

10 Tuesday Feb 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

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poem, Poetry, Portuguese translation, Virgínia Schall

AMOR EM AZUL E BRANCO
Virgínia Schall
LOVE IN BLUE AND WHITE
translation by ZJC
Nuvens brancas
espumas flutuando os andes
Brancas geleiras
pinceladas impressionistas
descendo sobre os cimos
do Ozorno
Branco em flor
campo de margaridas
ondulando ao vento
Branco-amor
esvoaça em lençois e cortinas
desnudando os corpos no quarto
róseos, ardentes, úmidos e ungidos
Branco enevoado do ar
em cheiro de sêmen-vida
do encontro que exala
e enche a casa
perfuma a brisa e se espalha
por entre as ondas suaves
do marinho Pacífico,
ornando a cena, túrgido e cingido
ao azul celeste da Terra em cio.
White clouds
foam floating across the Andes
White glaciers
Like impressionist brushstrokes
coming down off the peaks
of the Ozorno
White flowers
a field of daisies
rippling in the wind
White-love
fluttering in the sheets and curtains
they bare their bodies in this room
all rosy, glowing, wet and anointed
White misty air
that smells of vital cum
from the encounter that exudes
and fills the house
with perfumes the breeze spreads
through the gentle waves
of the Pacific ocean,
gracing the world, surrounding the turgid
heat of the blue Earth.

Poet’s Biography:

Besides writing poetry, VIRGINIA TORRES SCHALL is a psychologist, biological scientist (neurophysiology and behavior), and holds a Ph.D. in education. She has been working at Fundacao Oswaldo Cruz (Rio de Janeiro, Brazil) since 1981 as a researcher. In 1990, she created the Laboratory of Environmental and Health Education (Department of Biology, Oswaldo Cruz Institute). According to her website she is also currently working at Rene Rachou Research Center (Fundacao Oswaldo Cruz, Belo Horizonte).

teixeira’s VISITA

10 Tuesday Feb 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

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poem, Poetry, Portuguese translation, Virna G. Teixeira

VISITA
Virna G. Teixeira
VISIT
translation by ZJC
criado-mudo:
bíblia e
rosário de contas

na cama, ao lado
a nudez
sem nome

Bedside table:
a bible and
rosary beads

In bed
this nakedness
has no name

Poet’s Biography:

Born in Fortaleza, Brazil, in 1971 VIRNA G. TEIXEIRA works as a neurologist in São Paulo, and has published three books of poetry: Visit (2000), Distance (2005) by 7 Letters Press and Transits (2009) by Lumme Editor, as well as several titles of Scottish poetry translations.

marjorie agosín’s “peces”

08 Thursday Jan 2015

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, Spanish, Translation

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Marjorie Agosín, Peces, poem, Poetry, Spanish translation, ZJC

Saludo a los peces del mar
respetando su milenaria
genealogía,
sus danzas fugaces y suaves,
los colores que delatan
otros colores,
sus colas iridiscentes
parecidas a los cristales
de las adivinanzas.

Brindo un vaso
de agua
por todos los peces
todavia libres
por su elegante sangre fria
y sus simetrias perfectas.

][][

I greet the fish of the sea
respecting their ancient
tribes,
their fleeting and smooth dances,
colors that reveal
other colors
their iridescent tails
like a fortune teller’s
crystal ball.

I drink a glass
water
for all fish
still free
their elegant coolness
and perfect symmetries.

Marjorie Agosín, “Fish”
– translated by ZJC

garcia lorca’s sorpresa [por michael brown]

13 Wednesday Aug 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Armenian, Poetry, Spanish, Translation

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Tags

Federico Garcia Lorca, Ferguson, Michael Brown, Missouri, poem, Poetry, Sorpresa

… because even as I work on this translation another person has been shot by police in Ferguson, MO.  As Garcia Lorca said about an apathetic country when its children are murdered by their own police, “Nobody could look into his eyes staring up into the hard air.” I suppose this is the point where I say something cliché like, “I pray for peace,” when in reality the only way there will be peace is when those who have been hiding behind their “to serve and protect” badges are held accountable.

][

SORPRESA

— by Federico Garcia Lorca

Muerto se quedó en la calle con un puñal en el pecho.

No lo conocía nadie.

¡Cómo temblaba el farol!

¡Madre, cómo temblaba el farolito de la calle!

Era madrugada.

Nadie pudo asomarse a sus ojos abiertos al duro aire.

Que muerto se quedó en la calle que con un puñal en el pecho y que no lo conocía nadie.

][

[in English]

SURPRISE

Dead they left him in the street with a knife in his chest.

No one knew who he was.

How the lamppost trembled!

Mother! How the little lantern trembled!

It was early morning.

Nobody could look into his eyes staring up into the hard air.

And he was dead in the street with a knife in his chest, and no one knew who he was.

][

[in Armenian, transliteration]

ANAKNKAL

Merrats e, vor lk’yel e nran p’voghots’um danakov ir krtsk’avandaki.

Voch’ vok’ ch’giter, t’ye ov e na:

Vor lapterasyun vakhets’av!

Mayry! P’vok’r lamperi vakhets’av!

Da vagh arravotyan:

Voch’ vok’ ch’i karogh nayel nra ach’k’yeri mej ch’ap’azants’ ach’k’i ynknogh mej tsanr od:

Yev na merrats p’voghots’um danakov ir krtsk’avandaki, yev voch’ vok’ ch’giter, t’ye ov e ink’y:

][

[in Armenian]

ԱՆԱԿՆԿԱԼ

Մեռած է, որ լքել է նրան փողոցում դանակով իր կրծքավանդակի.

Ոչ ոք չգիտեր, թե ով է նա:

Որ լապտերասյուն վախեցավ!

Մայրը! Փոքր լամպերի վախեցավ!

Դա վաղ առավոտյան:

Ոչ ոք չի կարող նայել նրա աչքերի մեջ չափազանց աչքի ընկնող մեջ ծանր օդ:

Եւ նա մեռած փողոցում դանակով իր կրծքավանդակի, եւ ոչ ոք չգիտեր, թե ով է ինքը:

garcia lorca’s la guitarra [in english and armenian]

13 Wednesday Aug 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Illustration and art, Poetry, Spanish, Translation

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Tags

Armenian translation, art, Federico Garcia Lorca, la guitarra, poem, Poetry

awesome

Note from the Translator:

I must apologize with my sorry attempts to bring a beautiful Spanish poem by Federico Garcia Lorca into both English (my mother tongue) and fantastic Armenian. I’ve been told on more than one occasion that both my grasp of Spanish and Armenian are comically pathetic, usually by native speakers, which is only fair. However, life is short and as far as I can tell there is nobody who lives near by to help in my translations, so I present these new labors, not because it is the best that you can find for free on the Internets but because it’s the best that I can do. You’ll find four versions here; the original Spanish, my English translation, and since not a lot of people can read pure, uncut Armenian, a transliteration version as well as the pure Heyeren. Hope it does not displease. Cheers!

][

LA GUITARRA

— Federico Garcia Lorca

Empieza el llanto de la guitarra.

Se rompen las copas de la madrugada.

Empieza el llanto de la guitarra.

Es inútil callarla.

Es imposible callarla.

Llora monótona como llora el agua, como llora el viento sobre la nevada.

Es imposible callarla.

Llora por cosas lejanas.

Arena del Sur caliente que pide camelias blancas.

Llora flecha sin blanco, la tarde sin mañana, y el primer pájaro muerto sobre la rama.

¡Oh guitarra!

Corazón malherido por cinco espadas.

][

[in English]

THE GUITAR

The crying of the guitar begins.

The glasses of dawn are broken.

The crying of the guitar begins.

It is useless to stop her.

It is impossible to stop her.

She weeps endlessly, as water weeps, as the wind weeps over the snow.

It is impossible to stop her.

She weeps for things remote.

The hot southern sands yearning for a white camellia.

A weeping arrow without target, evening without morning, and the first dead bird on the branch.

Ai, guitar!

Heart wounded by five knives.

][

[in Armenian, transliteration]

KIT’ARR

Sksvum e kit’arri lats’y.

Skahakner ein arravotyan kotrel.

Sksvum e kit’arri lats’y.

Anogut e lrrets’nel ayn.

Anhnar e lrrets’nel ayn.

Da lats’ e linum anverj, ayn lats’ e linum jri pes, ayn lats’ e linum nman k’amu nkatmamb dzyan.

Kit’arry artasvum e baneri hamar herravor.

T’yezh haravayin avazner klk’i spitak kamelianeri.

Lats’ e linum mez slak’y arrants’ npatakayin yerekoyan, arrants’ arravotyan, yev arrajin mahats’ats t’rrch’ni masnachyughi.

Ai, kit’arr!

Sirty mahats’u viravorvats e hing danakner.

][

[in Armenian] 

ԿԻԹԱՌ

Սկսվում է կիթառի լացը:

Սկահակներ էին առավոտյան կոտրել:

Սկսվում է կիթառի լացը:

Անօգուտ է լռեցնել այն:

Անհնար է լռեցնել այն:

Դա լաց է լինում անվերջ, այն լաց է լինում ջրի պես, այն լաց է լինում նման քամու նկատմամբ ձյան:

Կիթառը արտասվում է բաների համար հեռավոր:

Թեժ հարավային ավազներ կլքի սպիտակ կամելիաների:

Լաց է լինում մեզ սլաքը առանց նպատակային երեկոյան, առանց առավոտյան, եւ առաջին մահացած թռչնի մասնաճյուղի:

Օ, կիթառ!

Սիրտը մահացու վիրավորված է հինգ դանակներ:

queimando, ardendo, incendiando

17 Monday Mar 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

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Tags

ardendo, art, incendiando, poem, Portuguese translation, queimando, spliff

tumblr_m7mewlvhvg1rspimto1_250

Pretty and pink, I want to sleep.
Waiting for a touch, I forget you until daybreak.
I am the full moon, if I smoke a joint and excite my libido.
Burning, burning, burning, and then … ashes.

][][

Linda e rosada, quero dormir.
À espera de um toque, quero esquecer até o dia clarear.
Eu sou o lua cheia, se eu fumar um charro, e libido a excitam.
Queimando, ardendo, incendiando, e … cinza.

minha língua

16 Sunday Mar 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

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Tags

art, cunnilingus, poem, Poetry, Portuguese translation

March 16, 2014 (2)

Drinking angels.
Saliva. My tongue.
My language. My words.

Lick my wings with your verb.
Until you feel the orgasm flower within my shoulders.

Slowly lick my clit, said the angel.
The pulse of your tongue touches it.
You devil, the angel said.
You leave me nearly dead horny.

][][

Bebem os anjos.
A saliva. Minha língua.
Minha lingua. Meus palavras.

Lambe-me as asas com a teu verbo.
Até que você sente a flor orgasmo dentro da meus ombros.

Devagar lambesse o meu clitóris, disse o anjo.
O dos teus pulsos isso língua toca.
Você diabo, disse o anjo.
Você me deixa de tesão quase morto.

do gosto da vida libidinosa

14 Friday Mar 2014

Posted by babylon crashing in Erotic, Poetry, Portuguese, Translation

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Tags

do gosto da vida libidinosa, erotic, poem, Poetry, Portuguese translation, taste of libidinous life

 

My skin and the wind
sings your verses
to the moon. Your body
on mine. Your willingness
to taste. Desire
to do crazy things before,
during and after. Your
tongue to know me.
My mouth to suck you.
Under the influence
of the moon
Under the taste of
libidinous life.

][][

Minha pele e o vento
canta teus versos
para a Lua. Teu corpo
no meu. Teu vontade
de sentir o gosto. Desejo
de fazer loucuras antes,
durante e depois. Da tua
língua a me conhecer.
Minha boca a te sugar.
Sob a influência
da Lua.
Sob a do gosto da
vida libidinosa.

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