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."
Thursday, October 3, 2013
My Guitar
My guitar
sobs.
Glass cups of dawn
burst.
My guitar
sobs.
Unavailing
to hush it.
Impractical
to hush it.
It sobs monotonously
as a drip,
as wind sobs
across snowfall.
Impractical
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.
My guitar
sobs.
Glass cups of dawn
burst.
My guitar
sobs.
Unavailing
to hush it.
Impractical
to hush it.
It sobs monotonously
as a drip,
as wind sobs
across snowfall.
Impractical
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
Éxito
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.
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
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.
FGL
Traducir al inglés, pero sin utilizar la letra "e." Buena suerte. Fecha de entrega: 1 de oct
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.
FGL
Traducir al inglés, pero sin utilizar la letra "e." Buena suerte. Fecha de entrega: 1 de oct
Lo de ella (Thomas)
39
The sea. The blue tropic
that employs a metaphor of the sensation
of being in bed
with the guider of your future.
58
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.
81
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.
99
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.
The sea. The blue tropic
that employs a metaphor of the sensation
of being in bed
with the guider of your future.
58
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.
81
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.
99
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)
39
The sea. This blue cliché
that imitates the feeling
of being in bed
with who guides your future.
41
Thirst and all that
brings me memories of boats
the place where I was born
disappears and then
we meet again.
99
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.
103
Of everything long ago.
The frivolous words, the friction
left unwritten, cards that you find
in an old book
of your body long ago.
106
Green walkways forming
terraces that at their end
border the idea of the fenced
not of the infinite.
--Concha García. Trans. Kayleigh Sellens
The sea. This blue cliché
that imitates the feeling
of being in bed
with who guides your future.
41
Thirst and all that
brings me memories of boats
the place where I was born
disappears and then
we meet again.
99
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.
103
Of everything long ago.
The frivolous words, the friction
left unwritten, cards that you find
in an old book
of your body long ago.
106
Green walkways forming
terraces that at their end
border the idea of the fenced
not of the infinite.
--Concha García. Trans. Kayleigh Sellens
The Day of the Earthquake
The day of the earthquake
the first thing I saw was my grandfather’s feet,
those yellow socks he bought in Paris
rocking in the rocking chair.
Drunkenly he told me: God has lots of money,
and quartz radios on which he listens to Mass
drinking tequila in rooms for rent.
My grandfather had cancer in his legs,
and at night he always awoke
at the end of a nightmare, still shaking,
but relieved because the pain was lost
in the morning’s restless murmurs.
The day of the earthquake I forgot to ask him
what phrase, what normal well-wishes
could prolong his time with us.
The day of the earthquake
everything we stood on came down
lifting up ashes and newspapers,
the t.v. went off and my camera fell to the floor.
My grandfather, crouched in a fetal position
was praying to return to his mother.
Death covered us for ten seconds
and my grandfather still didn’t take off
his thick, ghost blanket
(he had waited too long).
Later boys in uniform appeared
saying that the danger had passed
leaving jugs of water and a bagful of food.
They enclosed everything with rope as if it were a ring,
and took him away as he had wanted,
feet first
and eyes fixated on the ceiling.
Hundreds of volunteers now pave the streets
and the paper boy
has returned after a week of false news.
Everyone has stolen some of my pain,
I’ve spent five days alone
and with the smell of tobacco and a hangover I write this poem.
I am distracted by looking through the skylight.
My eyes point towards the moon and her age-old questions.
The day of the earthquake everything began, and everything ended.
--Jesús Llorente. Trans. Nick Leick.
the first thing I saw was my grandfather’s feet,
those yellow socks he bought in Paris
rocking in the rocking chair.
Drunkenly he told me: God has lots of money,
and quartz radios on which he listens to Mass
drinking tequila in rooms for rent.
My grandfather had cancer in his legs,
and at night he always awoke
at the end of a nightmare, still shaking,
but relieved because the pain was lost
in the morning’s restless murmurs.
The day of the earthquake I forgot to ask him
what phrase, what normal well-wishes
could prolong his time with us.
The day of the earthquake
everything we stood on came down
lifting up ashes and newspapers,
the t.v. went off and my camera fell to the floor.
My grandfather, crouched in a fetal position
was praying to return to his mother.
Death covered us for ten seconds
and my grandfather still didn’t take off
his thick, ghost blanket
(he had waited too long).
Later boys in uniform appeared
saying that the danger had passed
leaving jugs of water and a bagful of food.
They enclosed everything with rope as if it were a ring,
and took him away as he had wanted,
feet first
and eyes fixated on the ceiling.
Hundreds of volunteers now pave the streets
and the paper boy
has returned after a week of false news.
Everyone has stolen some of my pain,
I’ve spent five days alone
and with the smell of tobacco and a hangover I write this poem.
I am distracted by looking through the skylight.
My eyes point towards the moon and her age-old questions.
The day of the earthquake everything began, and everything ended.
--Jesús Llorente. Trans. Nick Leick.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Acccounting
Accounting
From my balcony, I see a man with a large, gray overcoat seated on a bench. A man lost in thought staring fixedly at the ground while he counts the stones in the pathway. He has been there for two days. Every once in a while he looks at his watch. On the third day I went down to the street, stopped in front of him and asked, “Are you waiting for someone? Is something wrong?” He raised his eyes, looked at me, and with a calm yet firm voice he answered, “No, sir, I am just waiting to be able to count the next stone.”
“But if they are always the same, and you have been here for three days, you must have already counted them a thousand times!”
“No, sir, they are not the same. Do you see that one on the left that is a little broken? Okay, yesterday it was the 12,301st, and now it is the 14,567th. And that one at the end that is next to the tree? A couple of hours ago it was the 14,020th; at this very moment it is the 14,550th.”
“Now I see, no two stones are the same!”
With that, the man with the large, gray overcoat finished his conversation with me, and oblivious to everything, immersed himself again into his own little world of accounting.
--Julia Otxoa. Translated by Clare Frantz
From my balcony, I see a man with a large, gray overcoat seated on a bench. A man lost in thought staring fixedly at the ground while he counts the stones in the pathway. He has been there for two days. Every once in a while he looks at his watch. On the third day I went down to the street, stopped in front of him and asked, “Are you waiting for someone? Is something wrong?” He raised his eyes, looked at me, and with a calm yet firm voice he answered, “No, sir, I am just waiting to be able to count the next stone.”
“But if they are always the same, and you have been here for three days, you must have already counted them a thousand times!”
“No, sir, they are not the same. Do you see that one on the left that is a little broken? Okay, yesterday it was the 12,301st, and now it is the 14,567th. And that one at the end that is next to the tree? A couple of hours ago it was the 14,020th; at this very moment it is the 14,550th.”
“Now I see, no two stones are the same!”
With that, the man with the large, gray overcoat finished his conversation with me, and oblivious to everything, immersed himself again into his own little world of accounting.
--Julia Otxoa. Translated by Clare Frantz
Telephone
Telephone
Everyone complains that I never answer the telephone, if they only knew! But of course, they don’t know, they completely ignore the dimensions of my house, the distance that I have to travel, the dangers that I have to avoid to manage picking up the phone before the call finishes.
First of all, due to the island climate, the tiles of the long corridor are always damp, more than once I have slipped on them and been left with a bruised body for weeks. Then there is the issue of the blinding light that pierces through the towering windows leaving me totally blind while I run desperately to catch it in time for the call, and to top it all off there are those strange dogs, always nervous, excited, with a kind of gleam in their eyes from another world. Crossing promptly before I scream, plaintively scream, the whole corridor is then an echo multiplied by cold shadows enveloping me like spider webs, so that I don’t make it, that I never make it. But people ignore all of this and call and call and the more they call the more my life is in danger....
[to be continued]
--Julia Otxoa. Translated by Anna Tatarko.
Everyone complains that I never answer the telephone, if they only knew! But of course, they don’t know, they completely ignore the dimensions of my house, the distance that I have to travel, the dangers that I have to avoid to manage picking up the phone before the call finishes.
First of all, due to the island climate, the tiles of the long corridor are always damp, more than once I have slipped on them and been left with a bruised body for weeks. Then there is the issue of the blinding light that pierces through the towering windows leaving me totally blind while I run desperately to catch it in time for the call, and to top it all off there are those strange dogs, always nervous, excited, with a kind of gleam in their eyes from another world. Crossing promptly before I scream, plaintively scream, the whole corridor is then an echo multiplied by cold shadows enveloping me like spider webs, so that I don’t make it, that I never make it. But people ignore all of this and call and call and the more they call the more my life is in danger....
[to be continued]
--Julia Otxoa. Translated by Anna Tatarko.
The Red River
The red river
I was a girl,
and they did not notice me,
when it all began
I, being frightened, left for the other shore,
alongside the pomegranate tree,
from there I saw how disguised men
broke the drums, the flutes
and the violins over their knees,
one of them laughed so savagely,
that I started to bleed from the left ear,
then, once all the instruments were destroyed,
they started with the scores and the musicians.
At one moment I must have lost consciousness,
my blood dyed the river the color of the pomegranate tree.
Later when I awoke,
all of the city had been reduced to silence,
and I had turned
into the red river that had seen the music die.
--Julia Otxoa. Translation by Kelly Burke.
I was a girl,
and they did not notice me,
when it all began
I, being frightened, left for the other shore,
alongside the pomegranate tree,
from there I saw how disguised men
broke the drums, the flutes
and the violins over their knees,
one of them laughed so savagely,
that I started to bleed from the left ear,
then, once all the instruments were destroyed,
they started with the scores and the musicians.
At one moment I must have lost consciousness,
my blood dyed the river the color of the pomegranate tree.
Later when I awoke,
all of the city had been reduced to silence,
and I had turned
into the red river that had seen the music die.
--Julia Otxoa. Translation by Kelly Burke.
Two White Butterflies
That night the grandmother brought two white butterflies
and placed them over the eyes of the sleeping one,
later, under the light of the full moon
a wolf's cold cry comes from within the night,
the dreams of the man
who was sleeping beneath the butterflies,
helped us to grow in serenity.
--Julia Otxoa. Translation by Rachel Mcguire.
That night the grandmother brought two white butterflies
and placed them over the eyes of the sleeping one,
later, under the light of the full moon
a wolf's cold cry comes from within the night,
the dreams of the man
who was sleeping beneath the butterflies,
helped us to grow in serenity.
--Julia Otxoa. Translation by Rachel Mcguire.
Olores
OLORES
I want to be a smell manufacturer
So that people will have something
Different to give on birthdays,
At baptisms, at weddings
Or on holidays.
I want to sell a jar that contains
Extract of white chalk,
Mixed with a pinch
Of recently sharpened pencil
For those that miss childhood.
For the trapped I will have
Gasoline eau de toilette,
Subtly mixed
With a touch of bitter beer.
For the sad people, a smell of popcorn
And chocolate with churros.
For the exiled in cities,
Extract of garlic stew and soup.
For the elderly a soft balm
With an aroma of newborn.
And for those who experience
The same smell, the same flavor,
The same form,
I’ll give them an empty jar,
Like their life.
--Sonia San Román Olmos. Translated by Jordan Milan.
I want to be a smell manufacturer
So that people will have something
Different to give on birthdays,
At baptisms, at weddings
Or on holidays.
I want to sell a jar that contains
Extract of white chalk,
Mixed with a pinch
Of recently sharpened pencil
For those that miss childhood.
For the trapped I will have
Gasoline eau de toilette,
Subtly mixed
With a touch of bitter beer.
For the sad people, a smell of popcorn
And chocolate with churros.
For the exiled in cities,
Extract of garlic stew and soup.
For the elderly a soft balm
With an aroma of newborn.
And for those who experience
The same smell, the same flavor,
The same form,
I’ll give them an empty jar,
Like their life.
--Sonia San Román Olmos. Translated by Jordan Milan.
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Tumulto de acordes
Bienvenidos. El propósito de este blog es recoger poemas y narraciones breves traducidos como proyecto colectivo del curso Spanish 522, en el otoño del 2013. En su conjunto, estas traducciones forman una antología de la escritura contemporánea.
Welcome. The purpose of this blog is to collect poems and short-short stories translated as a class project for Spanish 522, a course given in 2013. Taken together, these translations form an anthology of contemporary Spanish writing.
Welcome. The purpose of this blog is to collect poems and short-short stories translated as a class project for Spanish 522, a course given in 2013. Taken together, these translations form an anthology of contemporary Spanish writing.
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