• hopilavayi: an erotic dictionary

memories of my ghost sista

~ the dead are never satisfied

memories of my ghost sista

Tag Archives: ZJC

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

the country doctor, by franz kafka

27 Sunday Oct 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in German, Prose

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Ein Landarzt, Franz Kafka, German translation, Happy Halloween, short story, surreal dreams, The Country Doctor, ZJC

I was in great confusion: I had to start upon an urgent journey—-a seriously ill patient was waiting for me in a village 10 miles off—-a thick blizzard of snow filled all the wide spaces between us—-I had a cart, a little cart with big wheels, exactly right for our country roads—-muffled in furs, my bag of instruments in my hand, I was in the courtyard all ready for the journey—-but there was no horse to be had, no horse at all. My own horse had died in the night, worn out by the tortures of this terrible winter—-my servant girl was now running around the village trying to borrow one—-but it was impossible, I knew it, I stood there hopelessly, with the snow gathering heavier, thickly upon me, heavier, unable to move. In the gateway the girl appeared, alone, waved the lantern—-of course, who would lend a horse at this time of night for such a journey? I strode through the courtyard at once—-I could see no way out—-in my confused state I kicked at the broken-down door of the year-long empty pigsty. It flew open, flapped back and forth on its hinges. A foul smell, just like that of horses, came out from it. A dim stable lantern was swinging inside from a rope. A man, crouching on his hands and knees in that low space, stared back at me with an open blue-eyed face. “Want me to yoke up?” he asked, crawling about on all fours. I did not know what to say, merely stooped down to see what else was in the sty. The servant girl was standing beside me. “You never know what you’re going to find in your own home,” she said. We both laughed. “Hey there, Brother, hey there, Sister!” called the groom, bringing out two horses. They were enormous creatures, with powerful flanks, one after the other, their legs tucked close to their bodies, each well-shaped camel head lowered. By sheer strength of massive buttocks they squeezed out through the door hole, which they filled entirely. But at once they were standing up, their long legs, their bodies steaming like blood thickly. “Give him a hand,” I ordered. The willing girl hurried out to help the groom with the harnesses. Suddenly, she wasn’t even next to him, the groom grabbed hold of her, his terrible mouth pushed against hers. She screamed, ran back to me—-on her cheek blood flowed from the red marks of two rows of teeth. “You brute!” I shouted in fury, “do you want a whipping?” but in the same moment reflected that the man was a stranger to our lands—-that I did not even know where he came from, that he was willing to help me when everyone else had betrayed me. As if he knew my thoughts he took no offense at my shouting but, still working with the horses, only turned around once towards me. “Get in,” he ordered. I looked and indeed everything was ready. A magnificent pair of horses, I saw, such as I had never sat behind before. I climbed in happily. “But I’ll drive, you don’t know the way,” I said. “Of course,” said he, “I’m not coming with you anyway, I’m staying with Rose.” “No!” screamed Rose, fleeing into the house with a terrible sense that her fate was sealed: I heard the door chain rattle as she locked herself in—-I heard the key turn in the lock—-I could see, as well, how she snuffed out the lights in the entrance hall, in all the rooms, anything to keep herself from being discovered. “You’re coming with me,” I said to the groom, “or I won’t go—-urgent as my journey is—-I’m not paying for this by handing the girl over to you.” “Get up!” and he clapped his hands—-the cart whirled off like a log in a breakdam—-I could just hear the door of my house splitting inward, bursting their locks as the groom, steaming, broke the wood down. Then I was deafened, blinded, all by the heavy snow-storm that steadily shook and tempest-tossed all of my senses. But this lasted only for a moment, since, as if my patient’s farmyard had suddenly opened up just before me, I was already there—-the horses had come quietly to a standstill—-the blizzard quickly stopped—-moonlight shown all around—-my patient’s mother and father hurried out of the house, his sister behind them—-I was lifted out of the cart. From their confused babble I could not understand a single word—-in the sickroom the air was so foul it was almost unbreathable—-the dying stove was smoking—-I wanted to push open a window—-but first—-first—-I had to look at my patient. Cadaverous, without any fever, not even cold, not even warm, but with vacant eyes, without a shirt, the child heaved himself up from under the feather bed, threw his stick arms round my neck, whispered in my ear: “Doctor, dear, let me die.” I glanced around the room—-no one had heard him speak, had he spoken?—-the parents were leaning forward in silence, waiting for my diagnosis—-the sister brought in a chair for my handbag—-I opened the bag, hunted through my instruments—-the boy kept clutching at me from his bed, as if to remind me of his request—-I picked up a pair of tweezers, examined them in the candlelight, then laid them back down again. “Yes,” I thought, blasphemously, “in cases like let this the gods be helpful, send the missing horse home—-no—-send two back because of the urgency, summon the groom—-” Only then did I remember my Rose—-what was I to do for her? how could I rescue her at 10 miles’ distance? with a team of horses I couldn’t control. These horses, now, they had somehow slipped from their reins, pushed the sickroom window open from outside, I did not know how—-each of them had stuck a head in through the window, quite unmoved by the startled cries of the family. They stood, staring at the patient. “Better go back at once,” I thought, as if the horses were summoning me to the return trip home, but I permitted the child’s sister, who thought that I must have been only dazed by the heat, to take my fur coat from me. A glass of rum was poured out for me, the old father clapped me on the shoulder, a familiarity justified by this offer of his last treasure. I shook my head—-in the narrow thoughts of the old man I must have looked ill—-that must be the only reason for refusing his drink. The mother stood by the bedside, called me towards it—-I went, while one of the horses whinnied loudly to the ceiling, calling. I laid my head to the boy’s chest which shivered under my wet beard. I confirmed what I already knew—-the boy was quite sound, something a little wrong with his blood circulation, I am sure. Drunk on coffee by his concerned mother, but healthy. It would be best if his parents kicked him out of bed with one shove. I am no world reformer, so I let him lie. I was a country doctor, I did my duty the best I could, to the point where it became almost too much for me. I was badly paid, yet I am generous, I help the poor. I still had to see that Rose was all right, and once I was gone if the boy wanted to have his way, so be it. I wanted to die, too. What was I doing there in that endless winter? My horse was dead, not a single person in the village would help me. I had to get my team out of the pigsty—-if I could I would have ridden by swine. That was how it was. I nodded to the family. They knew nothing about all this, had they known, would not have believed me. To write prescriptions is easy, but to come to an understanding with common people is hard. Well, this should be the end of my visit, I had once more been called out needlessly, but I was used to that, the whole country zone made my life a misery with my night bell, but that I should have to sacrifice Rose this time as well, my pretty girl, a girl who had lived in my house for years and I had never noticed her—odd—-that sacrifice was too much to ask. I had to figure out something to do, in order not to let explode in rage at this family. The best will in the world would not restore Rose to me. But as I shut my bag, put an arm out for my fur coat, the family meanwhile stood together, the old father sniffing at the glass of rum in his hand, the mother, apparently disappointed in me—why? what do people want?—biting her lip with tears in her eyes, the sister shook out a blood-stained towel. I was almost ready to admit that the boy might be—-what? Ill after all. I went to him, he welcomed me smiling as if I were bringing him the most nourishing broth he had ever tasted—ah! now both horses were whinnying together—-the noise, I suppose, was sent by heaven to assist in my examination of the patient once more—and this time I discovered that the boy was indeed terribly ill. In his right side, near the hip, was a gaping, open wound, as big as the palm of my hand. Infected, inflamed, in many variations of shade, dark in the hollows, lighter at the edges, softly coarse but with irregular clots of blood, open as a hole in the ground is to the daylight. That was how it looked from a distance. But on a closer inspection there was another complication. I could not help but cry out in surprise. Worms, as thick, as long as my little finger, themselves blood-red, blood-spotted, were wriggling from their fastness in the interior of the wound, out and up towards the light, with their small white heads, with many little legs. O! Poor boy, you were past helping. I had discovered your great wound—-this blossom in your side was destroying you. The family was pleased—-they saw me busying myself—-the sister told the mother, the mother told the father, the father told several guests who were coming through the door, through the moonlight in the open door, walking on tiptoes, balancing with outstretched arms. “Will you save me?” whispered the boy with a cry, quite blinded by the life that wriggled deep within his wound. That is what people are like in my country zone. Always expecting the impossible from doctors. They have lost their ancient beliefs—-the preacher sits at home, unravels his vestments because he no longer believes—-but the doctor is supposed to be all-powerful with his merciful surgeon’s hand. Well, if it pleases them—-I was the one they called on—-if they abuse me thinking I can work miracles I suppose I will let them do that to me too—-what else do I want? Old country doctor, robed of my servant girl! So they came, this family, these village elders, they came and stripped me of all clothes—-a school choir with the teacher at the head of it stood before the house, singing these words in an utterly simple tune:

Strip his clothes off, then he’ll heal us,
If he doesn’t, we’ll kill him dead!
He is only a doctor, only a doctor.

Then, old man that I am, I was naked. I looked at the people quietly, my fingers in my beard, my head cocked to one side. I was still composed. I was still equal to this situation. I would remain so, although it was no relief to me to do so, since they now carried me to the bed. They laid me down in it, next to the wall, on the side of the open wound. Then they all left the room—-the door was shut—-the singing stopped—-clouds covered the moon—-the bedding was warm around me—-the horses’ heads in the open windows wavered like shadows. “Do you know,” said a tiny voice in my ear, “I have very little faith in you. Why, you were only blown in here like snow, you didn’t even come on your own feet. Instead of helping me, you’re crushing me on my own deathbed. What I’d like best is to jab your eyes out.” “Right,” I said, “it is a shame. Yet I am the doctor. What am I to do? Believe me, it is not too easy for me either.” “Am I supposed to be content with this apology? Oh, I suppose that I must be, I can’t help it. I always have to put up with these things. A terrible wound is all I brought into this world—-that was my only gift.” “My young friend,” I said, “you are mistaken. You have not a wide enough view. I have been in all the sickrooms of this country zone and I tell you that your wound is not so bad. Maybe it happened with two strokes of the ax. Many get hit in the side, for they can hardly hear an ax in the forest as it is coming to to them.” “Is that really the truth? or are you lying to me because of my fever?” “It is really so, take the word of an official doctor.” He took it, then lay still. But now it was time for me to think of escaping. The horses were still standing faithfully in their places. My clothes, my fur coat, my bag were quickly collected—-I didn’t want to waste time putting them on—-if the horses raced home as they had come, I would soon be in the bed of my own. Obediently a horse backed away from the window—-I threw my bundle into the cart—-the fur coat was caught on a hook, hanging only by its sleeve. So what? Good enough. I swung myself naked onto the horse. With the reins loosely trailing, the two horse barely fastened to each other, my fur coat dragging in the snow, I shouted: “Get up!” But there was no galloping—-only, like old men, we crawled through the snowy wasteland—-for a long time a new song of the children echoed behind us:

Be joyous, you patients,
The doctor had been laid in bed beside you!

Never will I ever reach home at this rate—-my country practice is in ruin—-my neighbors robbing me—-that beast that I once called a disgusting groom is hidden in my house—-Rose is no more—-I do not want to think about what lays for me in the snow. Naked, exposed to the hoarfrost, lost in this most unhappy of ages, old man that I am, I wander in the winter like a stray. My fur coat is hanging from the back of the cart—-but I cannot reach it. No one will lift a finger. Betrayed! Betrayed! Once a person responds to a false alarm calling to you from a night bell there is no making anything ever good again—never again.

(by Franz Kafka, translation by ZJC)

][][

notes:

This isn’t a horror story but it is my favorite Halloween story. Written in 1919 in German, it was originally titled, “Ein Landarzt.” I love this because it has been the nearest I’ve ever gotten to reading about what dream-state is really like—-nightmares and surreal images that swirl before you … and there is never anything that anyone can do. In dreamland stupid, brutal things occur, things you’d never do in the waking world, and yet there is never anything that we can do to alter it. It’s pointless to take this story literally. Of course the Doctor wants to save Rose, but he is powerless to do anything. Of course any sane physician would check all of the boy’ body before pronouncing a diagnosis, but in the dreamland that just doesn’t happen. In dreamland we are slaves to all that we fear and have no power over.

ballad of the spanish civil guard, by federico garcia lorca

28 Saturday Sep 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, Spanish, Translation

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Federico Garcia Lorca, romance de la guardia civil española, Spanish translation, ZJC

Black are the horses,
their horses are shod in black.
On their capes glitter
stains of ink and wax.
This is why they do not weep:
their skulls are cut in lead.
They ride the highways
with patent leather souls.
Hunchbacked and nocturnal,
they ride forth and command
the silences of dark rubber
and the fears like fine sand.
They go where they want,
and hide in their skulls
vague astronomical ideas,
amorphous pistols.

Ai, city of gypsies!
Corners hung with colors.
The moon and pumpkins
and cherries in sweet preserve.
Ai, city of gypsies!
Who could see you and not recall?
City of musks and agony,
city of cinnamon towers.

As the night was approaching
the night so deep, dark, nightish,
the gypsies at their forges
were hammering suns and arrows.
A deeply wounded stallion
knocked at each door.
Glass cocks were crowing
in Jerez de la Frontera.
The naked wind, turning
in the silver night, around
the corner with surprise,
in the night so deep, dark, nightish.

The Virgin and Saint Joseph
have lost their castanets.
They are looking for the gypsies
to see if they can help find them.
Here comes the Virgin, dressed
just like the mayor’s wife
in silvery chocolate paper,
with a necklace of almonds.
Saint Joseph swings his arms
beneath a cloak of silk.
Behind comes Pedro Domecq
and three Persian sultans.
The half moon dreamed
out an ecstasy of the stork.
And ensigns and lanterns
stormed the roof tiles.
Hipless dancers sob
in every mirror.
Water and shadow, shadow and water
in Jerez de la Frontera.

Ai, city of gypsies!
Corners hung with colors.
Quell your green lights:
for here come the Civil Guard.
Ai, city of gypsies!
Who could see you and not recall?
Let her be, far from the sea,
with no combs to hold back her hair.

To the celebrated city
they ride two abreast.
The gossip of the everlasting
invades their cartridge belts.
They ride two abreast.
A night of twin shadows in cloth.
The sky, they conclude,
a window full of spurs.

The city, unsuspicious,
unfolding its doors.
40 Civil Guards, to sack
and burn, poured through.
The clocks stopped and the brandy
bottles impersonated November
so as not to stir any suspicion.
Up rose from the weathercocks
a series of long screams.
Sabers slashed the air,
trampling under black horse hoof.
Old gypsy women tried to flee
through the half-lit streets
with their benumbed horses
and enormous crocks of coins.
Up the palisade streets
climbed the sinister capes
leaving behind brief
whirlwinds of scissors.
In the gate of Bethlehem
all the gypsies gathered.
Saint Joseph, mortally wounded,
laid a shroud upon a girl.
Sharp and stubborn, rifle
bursts rang through the night.
The Virgin healed children
with spit from a fallen star.
But the Civil Guard advances,
starting cruel fires
where the naked hope of youth
burns. Rosa, the Comborio,
sits keening at her door
with her mutilated breasts
before her on a tray.
Other girls run in horror,
pursued by their trailing braids,
in a wind exploding
with the roses of black gunpowder.
When all the tiled roofs
have been laid as furrows in the earth,
dawn rocked its shoulders about
in a long silhouette of stone.

Ai, city of gypsies!
The Civil Guard saunters away
through a tunnel of silence
leaving you in flames.
Ai, city of gypsies!
Who could see you and not recall?
Let them find you on my deep brow:
blazon of sand and moon.

—- translation by ZJC

][][

romance de la guardia civil española

Los caballos negros son.
Las herraduras son negras.
Sobre las capes relucen
manchas de tinta y de cera.
Tienen, por eso no lloran,
de plomo las calaveras.
Con el alma de charol
vienen por la carretera.
Jorobados y nocturnos,
por donde animan ordenan
silencios de goma oscura
y miedos de fina arena.
Pasan, si quieren pasar,
y ocultan en la cabeza
una vaga astronomía
de pistolas inconcretas.

¡Oh ciudad de los gitanos!
En las esquinas banderas.
La luna y la calabaza
con las guindas en conserva.
¡Oh ciudad de los gitanos!
¿Quién te vio y no te recuerda?
Ciudad de dolor y almizcle,
con las torres de canela.

Cuando llegaba la noche,
noche que noche nochera,
los gitanos en sus fraguas
forjaban soles y flechas.
Un caballo malherido,
llamaba a todas las puertas.
Gallos de vidrio cantaban
por Jerez de la Frontera.
El viento vuelve desnudo
la esquina de la sorpresa,
en la noche platinoche
noche, que noche nochera.

La Virgen y San José,
perdieron sus castañuelas,
y buscan a los gitanos
para ver si las encuentran.
La Virgen viene vestida
con un traje de alcaldesa
de papel de chocolate
con los collares de almendras.
San José mueve los brazos
bajo una capa de seda.
Detrás va Pedro Domecq
con tres sultanes de Persia.
La media luna soñaba
un éxtasis de cigüeña.
Estandartes y faroles
invaden las azoteas.
Por los espejos sollozan
bailarinas sin caderas.
Agua y sombra, sombra y agua
por Jerez de la Frontera.

¡Oh ciudad de los gitanos!
En las esquinas banderas.
Apaga tus verdes luces
que viene la benemérita.
¡Oh ciudad de los gitanos!
¿Quién te vio y no te recuerda?
Dejadla lejos del mar, sin
peines para sus crenchas.

Avanzan de dos en fondo
a la ciudad de la fiesta.
Un rumor de siemprevivas
invade las cartucheras.
Avanzan de dos en fondo.
Doble nocturno de tela.
El cielo, se les antoja,
una vitrina de espuelas.

La ciudad libre de miedo,
multiplicaba sus puertas.
Cuarenta guardias civiles
entran a saco por ellas.
Los relojes se pararon,
y el coñac de las botellas
se disfrazó de noviembre
para no infundir sospechas.
Un vuelo de gritos largos
se levantó en las veletas.
Los sables cortan las brisas
que los cascos atropellan.
Por las calles de penumbra
huyen las gitanas viejas
con los caballos dormidos
y las orzas de monedas.
Por las calles empinadas
suben las capas siniestras,
dejando atrás fugaces
remolinos de tijeras.
En el portal de Belén
los gitanos se congregan.
San José, lleno de heridas,
amortaja a una doncella.
Tercos fusiles agudos
por toda la noche suenan.
La Virgen cura a los niños
con salivilla de estrella.
Pero la Guardia Civil
avanza sembrando hogueras,
donde joven y desnuda
la imaginación se quema.
Rosa la de los Camborios,
gime sentada en su puerta
con sus dos pechos cortados
puestos en una bandeja.
Y otras muchachas corrían
perseguidas por sus trenzas,
en un aire donde estallan
rosas de pólvora negra.
Cuando todos los tejados
eran surcos en la sierra,
el alba meció sus hombros
en largo perfil de piedra.

¡Oh ciudad de los gitanos!
La Guardia Civil se aleja
por un túnel de silencio
mientras las llamas te cercan.
¡Oh ciudad de los gitanos!
¿Quién te vio y no te recuerda?
Que te busquen en mi frente.
Juego de luna y arena.

the riddle of the guitar, by federico garcia lorca

28 Saturday Sep 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, Spanish, Translation

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adivinanza de la guitarra, Federico Garcia Lorca, poem, riddle of the guitar, Spanish translation, ZJC

At the round
crossroads,
6 maidens
dance.
3 of flesh,
3 of silver.
Dreams from yesterday pursue them,
but they are held fast by
a Polyphermus of gold.
Ai, the guitar!

—- translated by ZJC

][][

adivinanza de la guitarra

En la redonda
encrucijada,
seis doncellas
bailan.
Tres de carne
y tres de plata.
Los sueños de ayer las buscan
pero las tiene abrazadas
un Polifemo de oro.
¡La guitarra!

hush, baby, hush, by federico garcia lorca

28 Saturday Sep 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, Spanish, Translation

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Blood Wedding, Federico Garcia Lorca, hush baby hush, Poetry, Spanish translation, ZJC

Hush, baby, hush.
Dream of a great black stallion
that would not drink the water.
Wouldn’t drink the water.
The water was black
under the branches.
Under the branches
the water was black.
Under the bridge
it stopped and sang.
Who can say, my baby,
of the water’s pain?
Of the water’s pain
who can say?
As it draws its long tail
through deep green room …

][][

Nana, niño, nana
del caballo grande
que no quiso el agua.
El agua era negra
dentro de las ramas.
Cuando llega el puente
se detiene y canta.
¿Quién dirá, mi niño,
lo que tiene el agua
con su larga cola
por su verde sala …

sleep, sleep my little rose, by federico garcia lorca

28 Saturday Sep 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, Spanish, Translation

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Blood Wedding, Federico Garcia Lorca, sleep sleep my little rose, Spanish translation, ZJC

Sleep, sleep my little rose,
for the horse now starts to weep.
The hooves are all red with blood,
and all its horsey hair frozen.
And deep within its eyes
rests a broken silver dagger.
Down they went to the river’s edge.
Ai!, how they went down!
And its blood ran faster
than the running water.

—- from the drama Blood Wedding, translation by ZJC

][][

Duérmete, rosal,
que el caballo se pone a llorar.
Las patas heridas,
las crines heladas,
dentro de los ojos
un puñal de plata.
Bajaban al río.
¡Ay, cómo bajaban!
La sangre corría
más fuerte que el agua.

the hooves are all red with blood, federico garcia lorca

28 Saturday Sep 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, Spanish, Translation

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Blood Wedding, Federico Garcia Lorca, Spanish translation, the hooves are all red with blood, ZJC

The hooves are all red with blood,
and all its horsey hair frozen.
And deep within its eyes
rests a broken silver dagger.
Down they went to the river’s edge.
Ai!, how they went down!
And its blood ran faster
than the running water.

—- from the drama Blood Wedding, translated by ZJC

][][

Las patas heridas,
las crines heladas,
dentro de los ojos
un puñal de plata.
Bajaban al río.
La sangre corría
más fuerte que el agua.

the stuff of heroes, by qiu jin

28 Saturday Sep 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Chinese, Poetry, Translation

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Capping Rhymes with Sir Shih Ching From Sun's Root Land, Chinese translation, Qiu Jin, ZJC

Don’t tell me women are not the stuff of heroes,
I alone rode over the East Sea’s winds for ten thousand leagues.
My poetic thoughts ever expand, like a sail between ocean and heaven.
I dreamed of your three islands, all gems, all dazzling with moonlight.
I grieve to think of the bronze camels, guardians of China, lost in thorns.
Ashamed, I have done nothing; not one victory to my name.
I simply make my war horse sweat. Grieving over my native land
hurts my heart. So tell me; how can I spend these days here?
A guest enjoying your spring winds?

—- translation by ZJC

][][

漫云女子不英雄,
萬里乘風獨向東。
詩思一帆海空闊,
夢魂三島月玲瓏。
銅駝已陷悲回首,
汗馬終慚未有功。
如許傷心家國恨,
那堪客裡度春風。

the invisible man, by pablo neruda

28 Saturday Sep 2013

Posted by babylon crashing in Poetry, Spanish, Translation

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el hombre invisible, Pablo Neruda, purpose of poetry, Spanish translation, The Invisible Man, ZJC

I laugh,
I smile
at the old poets,
I cherish all
their poetry,
all their dew,
moon, diamond, droplets
from submerged silver
that my graybeard brothers
festoon onto roses,
but
I smile;
for they always say “I,”
every where they go
something occurs
and it is always “I,”
down these streets,
only they
or their beloved,
walk down these streets,
no one else,
there are no fishermen about,
no bookstore merchants,
no bricklayers walking about,
no one stumbles and falls
from their scaffolding,
not one person suffers,
not one person loves,
only my poor brother,
the poet,
everything is happen
to him
and to his beloved,
no one lives
but him, the solitary poet,
no one weeps from hunger
or anger,
not one person suffers
in all his poetry
because he was unable
to pay the rent,
not one person
in all his poetry
is evicted from his house
with everything he owns,
and in factories,
nothing happens, no,
all our umbrellas, cups and bowls, are forged
bombs, guns and trains are built,
the elements are mined
by scraping up hell,
there is a worker’s strike,
military police arrive
and open fire,
they fire upon the people,
which is also to say,
against poetry,
ai, but my brother,
the poet,
was in love,
or he was agonizing
for in his throbbing heart
is only the sea,
and distant ports of call
yes, he loves their names,
and he writes about the ocean
the one he has never seen,
when life is as full
as the grain from an ear of corn
he walks by, never wondering
once how to harvest corn,
and he rides upon waves
without ever touching the shore,
and, now and then,
he is moved, perhaps profoundly
and deeply, but with despair,
you see, he is too sublime
to fit inside his own skin,
he gets himself ensnared, unscrambled,
he declares that he must be accursed,
with great sighs he drags about the cross
of darkness,
he knows that he is at odds with
everyone else in the world,
still, he eats bread every
morning but he has never
seen a baker
never attended union
meeting of bakers,
and so, my poor brother,
he becomes intentionally tricky,
he twists his words and writhes
and finds himself
and his words
complex,
complex,
ai, that’s the word,
I am no better
than my brother,
but I smile,
because when I walk down the street
I am the only one who does not exist,
all of life floods about me
like tidal rivers,
but I am the only
one who is now invisible,
I have no cryptic shadows,
no melancholia, nothing is dark,
you see, people speak to me,
people want to tell me things,
to talk about their families,
all their grief, all their gaiety,
people pass by, and people
talk to me about things,
look at all the things they do!
They chop wood,
string up electrical lights,
they bake bread late into the night,
our morning bread,
with pick ax and irons
they pierce the entrails
of the earth
and convert the minerals
into locks,
they rise into the sky and
carry airmail and sobs and kisses,
someone is standing
in every single doorway,
someone is being born,
my beloved is waiting for me,
and, as I walk along, these things
call out for me to sing them,
but how can I? I haven’t time,
I must examine everything
I hurry home now,
hurry off to the Party office;
what else can I do?
People everywhere ask me
to sing for them, yes, sing forever,
until everyone is drowned
in dreams and in colors,
ai, life is a gift
flooded with songs, the gift flies
open and a flock
of wild birds fly out
and they all want to tell me things,
they perch on my shoulders,
life is a struggle,
just like a rolling river and
all of humanity
wants to tell me,
to tell you,
why they are struggling,
and, if they are to be executed,
why they will die,
and I pass them all and haven’t
time enough for so many lives,
I want
them all to live
inside my soul,
to sing out my song,
I am not important,
I have no free time
for my own passions,
all night and all day
I must write this down
what is occurring, please
let me try not to miss anything.
It is true that, extraordinarily,
at times I do get tired,
I look up at the cosmos,
I lie down in the grass, a bug
the same color as a violin
marches by,
I place my palm across
a sapling breast
or between the hips
of the woman I love,
I try to study the silk
of the trembling night,
all frozen with destiny,
then
I feel waves of mystery
pouring out from my soul,
ai, childhood, my little self
weeping in a corner,
my heartbreaking youth,
I feel so sleepy
so I sleep
just like a log,
in no time I am
unconscious,
with or without destiny,
with or without my lover,
and when I wake up
all the night is long gone,
all the streets have come alive without me,
the poor barrio girls
are off on their way to work,
fishermen return
from the sea,
the miners
in brand new boots
are going down into the mines,
yes, everything is alive, awake,
yes, everyone is
hurrying back and forth,
and I have scarcely enough time
to struggle into my clothing,
I must fly:
no on must
pass by without my seeing
where he is going,
what she is doing.
I cannot live without
life,
without people being people,
I must run and look and listen
and sing,
stars have nothing
for me, solitude
bears not a single flower,
not a single fruit.
For my life, give me
every life,
give me every agony
the world has ever had
and I will transform them all
into desire.
Give me
every rapture,
even the most secret,
because if not,
how will they ever be known?
I must tell them,
please, give me your
daily struggles
so I can make up my song,
that way we will be together,
shoulder to shoulder,
everyone single one,
let my song unite us:
this song of the invisible man
singing along with everyone.

—- translated by ZJC

][][

el hombre invisible

Yo me río,
me sonrío
de los viejos poetas,
yo adoro toda
la poesía escrita,
todo el rocío,
luna, diamante, gota
de plata sumergida,
que fue mi antiguo hermano,
agregando a la rosa, pero
me sonrío,
siempre dicen “yo,”
a cada paso
les sucede algo,
es siempre “yo,”
por las calles
sólo ellos andan
o la dulce que aman,
nadie más,
no pasan pescadores,
ni libreros,
no pasan albañiles,
nadie se cae
de un andamio,
nadie sufre,
nadie ama,
sólo mi pobre hermano,
el poeta,
a él le pasan
todas las cosas
y a su dulce querida,
nadie vive
sino él solo,
nadie llora de hambre
o de ira,
nadie sufre em sus versos
porque no puede
pagar el alquiler,
a nadie en poesía
echan a la calle
con camas y con sillas
y en las fábricas
tampoco pasa nada,
no pasa nada,
se hacen paraguas, copas,
armas, locomotoras,
se extraen minerales
rascando el infierno,
hay huelgas,
vienen soldados,
disparan,
disparan contra el pueblo,
es decir,
contra la poesía,
y mi hermano
el poeta
estaba enamorado,
o sufría
porque sus sentimientos
son marinos,
ama los puertos
remotos, por sus nombres,
y escribe sobre océanos
que no conoce,
junto a la vida, repleta
como el maíz de granos,
él pasa sin saber
desgranarla,
él sube y baja
sin tocar la tierra,
o a veces
se siente profundísimo
y tenebroso
él es tan grande
que no cabe en sí mismo,
se enreda y desenreda,
se declara maldito,
lleva con gran dificultad la cruz
de las tinieblas,
piensa que es diferente
a todo el mundo,
todos los días come pan
pero no ha visto nunca
un panadero
ni ha entrado a un sindicato
de panificadores,
y así mi pobre hermano
se hace oscuro,
se tuerce y se retuerce
y se halla
interesante,
interesante,
ésta es la palavra,
yo no soy superior
a mi hermano
pero sonrío,
porque voi por las calles
y sólo yo no existo,
la vida corre
como todos los ríos,
yo soy el único
invisible,
no hay misteriosas sombras,
no hay tinieblas,
todo el mundo me habla,
me quierem contar cosas,
me hablan de sus parientes,
de sus miserias
y de sus alegrías,
todos pasan y todos
me dicen algo,
y cuántas cosas hacen!
cortan maderas,
suben hilos eléctricos,
amasan hasta tarde en la noche
el pan de cada día,
con una lanza de hierro
perforan las entrañas
de la tierra
y converten el hierro
en cerraduras,
suben al cielo y llevan,
cartas, sollozos, besos,
en cada puerta
hay alguien,
nace alguno,
o me espera la que amo,
y yo paso y las cosas
mi piden que las cante,
yo no tengo tiempo,
debo pensar en todo,
debo volver a la casa,
pasar al Partido,
qué puedo hacer,
todo me pide
que hable,
todo me pide
que cante y cante siempre,
todo está lleno
de sueños y sonidos,
la vida es una caja
llena de cantos, se abre
y vuela y viene
una bandada
de pájaros
que quieren contarme algo
descansando en mis hombros,
la vida es una lucha
como un río que avanza
y los hombres
quieren decirme,
decirte,
por qué luchan,
si mueren,
por qué mueren,
y yo paso y no tengo
tiempo para tantas vidas,
yo quiero
que todos vivan
en mi vida
y cante en mi canto,
yo no tengo importancia,
no tengo tiempo,
para mis asuntos,
de noche y de día
debo anotar lo que pasa,
y no olvidar a nadie.
Es verdad que de pronto
me fatigo
y miro las estrellas,
me tiendo en el pasto, pasa
un insecto color de violín,
pongo el brazo
sobre un pequeño seno
o bajo la cintura
de la dulce que amo,
y miro el terciopelo duro
de la noche que tiembla
con sus constelaciones congeladas,
entonces
siento subir a mi alma
la ola de los misterios,
la infancia,
el llanto en los rincones,
la adolescencia triste,
y mi sueño,
y duermo
como un manzano,
me quedo dormido
de inmediato
con las estrellas o sin las estrellas,
com mi amor o sin ella,
y cuando me levanto
se fue la noche,
la calle ha despertado antes que yo,
a su trabajo
van las muchachas pobres,
los pescadors vuelven
del océano,
los mineros
van con zapatos nuevos
entrando en la mina,
todo vive,
todos pasan,
andan apresurados,
y yo tengo apenas tiempo
para vestirme,
yo tengo que correr:
ninguno puede
pasar sin que yo sepa
adónde va, qué cosa
le ha sucedido.
No puedo sin la vida vivir,
sin el hombre ser hombre
y corro y veo y oigo
y canto,
las estrellas no tienen
nada que ver conmigo,
la soledad no tiene
flor ni fruto.
Dadme para mi vida
todas las vidas,
dadme todo el dolor
de todo el mundo,
yo voy a transformarlo
en esperanza. Dadme
Todas las alegrías,
aun las más secretas,
porque si así no fuera,
cómo van a saberse?
Yo tengo que cantarlas,
dadme las luchas
de cada día
porque ellas son mi canto,
y así andaremos juntos,
codo a codo,
todos los hombres,
mi canto los reúne:
el canto del hombre invisible
que canta con todos los hombres.

age difference anal sex Armenia Armenian Genocide Armenian translation ars poetica art artist unknown Babylon Crashing blow job conversations with imaginary sisters cum cunnilingus drama erotic erotica erotic poem erotic poetry Federico Garcia Lorca fellatio feminism finger fucking free verse ghost ghost girl ghost lover gif Greek myth Gyumri haiku homoerotic homoerotica Humor i'm spilling more thank ink y'all incest Japanese mythology Lilith Love shall make us a threesome masturbation more than just spilled ink more than spilled ink mythology Onna bugeisha orgasm Peace Corps photo poem Poetry Portuguese Portuguese translation prose quote unquote reblog Rumi Sappho Shakespeare sheismadeinpoland sonnet sorrow Spanish Spanish translation story Syssk Tarot Tarot of Syssk thank you threesome Titus Andronicus translation video Walt Whitman war woman warrior xenomorph Xenomorph Prime

erotica [links]

  • the pearl (a magazine of facetiae and volupous reading, 1879-1880)
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