Thursday, October 3, 2013

My guitar

My Guitar

My guitar starts its crying
Smashing dawn's darkness.
My guitar starts its crying
Impractical to stop it.
No way to stop it.
Humdrum crying, as a drip,
As wind on top of snow.
No way to stop it.
Crying for things far away.
Sands of a hot south,
Calling snowy blooms.
An arrow without a path, crying,
Through a night without morn,
Dawn's bird stiff on a branch.
Oh guitar!
My soul cut by a handful of swords.

FGL. Trans. "La madre de Clare."
My Guitar

My guitar
Glass cups of dawn
My guitar
to hush it.
to hush it.
It sobs monotonously
as a drip,
as wind sobs
across snowfall.
to hush it.
It sobs for things
far away.
Sand of a hot South
calling for ivory blooms.
An arrow astray sobs,
as twilight without morn,
as dawn’s bird
stiff on a branch.
Oh, my guitar!
A soul struck
by many swords.

FGL. Trans. Clare Frantz.

Friday, September 27, 2013


I love seeing all of you translating these works. So far the class project has been a resounding success.

Thursday, September 26, 2013

Watch of the 12th to the 13 of June, 1995

Watch of the 12th to the 13th of June, 1995

The endless cycle of life and death
passes through the intricate route of the clinic.

My little knowledge would not be able to explain
the horrible turmoil that I see every night.

There is not rest in the blood of the living nor
fragile pulses in the veins of the dying.

When I see a delicately made and closed bed,
I am seeing the arrangement of all of our dead.

Where they have put a tongue, bled dry
I see an instant moment of a sphincter.

Within the whiteness of the whole building
burns the unknown, isolated sugar of the fever.

In order to see more gleams of phosphine I go on noting
on this page the velocity of oxygen and the moon.

And it’s like this if everything were to have been dissected:

The shoes of a nurse resound through the hospital.

From Diario de una enfermera (Isla Correyero). Trans. Christina Kienzle.

Tarea tres

La Guitarra

Empieza el llanto
de la guitarra.
Se rompen las copas
de la madrugada.
Empieza el llanto
de la guitarra.
Es inútil
Es imposible
Llora monótona
como llora el agua,
como llora el viento
sobre la nevada.
Es imposible
Llora por cosas
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.


Traducir al inglés, pero sin utilizar la letra "e." Buena suerte. Fecha de entrega: 1 de oct

Lo de ella (Thomas)


The sea. The blue tropic
that employs a metaphor of the sensation
of being in bed
with the guider of your future.


I want you. Half of me
and half of the others that I imagine
are much further than my dreams.
I want you.
You are the rim, the glass is lacking.


There used to be way to get into your heart
the insidious sidewalks of the streets
fear the way to my house
when I sink my teeth in your lyrics.


We were
two advantaged women,
for a few days on that street
where I joined the species
that was the toast of everyone. The joy
of not knowing how to be distilled
into a compact memory.

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

Lo de ella (Sellens)

The sea. This blue cliché
that imitates the feeling
of being in bed
with who guides your future.


Thirst and all that
brings me memories of boats
the place where I was born
disappears and then
we meet again.


We were
two outstanding women,
several days on that street
where I joined a kind
of toast to everything. The joy
of not knowing exudes
in a brief memory.


Of everything long ago.
The frivolous words, the friction
left unwritten, cards that you find
in an old book
of your body long ago.


Green walkways forming
terraces that at their end
border the idea of the fenced
not of the infinite.

--Concha García. Trans. Kayleigh Sellens