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.
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
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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