[from tra(n)shumancias (2015) by Luz Pichel]
[translation from the Galician: Neil Anderson (2018)]
Sunday, November 18, 2018
Sunday, November 4, 2018
Luz Pichel-Prologue Poem
A univocidade normativa, que se pretende imprescindible para unha lingua, vén sendo a univocidade do poder contra a pluralidade riquísima de voces que conforman un pobo.
The single voice of standardized language, which is claimed to be of such crucial importance, was and is the single voice of power in opposition to the rich plurality of voices that make up a people.
~Luz Pichel
The piece below is an English version of first poem from Luz Pichel's Cativa en su lughar, the poem that first drew me to Pichel's work. It is a poem that I have always feared to translate, knowing that the linguistic multiplicity and inventive impulse of the original would certainly not arrive intact in any English translation I could devise. Later, through the process of translating some of Pichel's later work from CoCoCoU (2017) and studying Ángela Segovia's remarkable Spanish-language versions, I gave up on the idea of capturing this poem in English, preferring instead to be open to its multiplicity. What follows is but one version of what could be many, rendered in an English that feels to me relaxed and open to invention.
~NA
Prologue Poem
to the animal
The single voice of standardized language, which is claimed to be of such crucial importance, was and is the single voice of power in opposition to the rich plurality of voices that make up a people.
~Luz Pichel
The piece below is an English version of first poem from Luz Pichel's Cativa en su lughar, the poem that first drew me to Pichel's work. It is a poem that I have always feared to translate, knowing that the linguistic multiplicity and inventive impulse of the original would certainly not arrive intact in any English translation I could devise. Later, through the process of translating some of Pichel's later work from CoCoCoU (2017) and studying Ángela Segovia's remarkable Spanish-language versions, I gave up on the idea of capturing this poem in English, preferring instead to be open to its multiplicity. What follows is but one version of what could be many, rendered in an English that feels to me relaxed and open to invention.
~NA
Prologue Poem
to the animal
An
animal, a cat, e’s a cat
two
corneas, two vertical slits before the deep
the
deepest deep, the night, the deepestnight.
In
the darkest night e rises, en plan littleanimal,
e
digs iz back paws into the Alto das Penas,
e
rises up and looks back at the house that was iz master’s
what’s
become of iz master
the
deep down there, it’s so damn deep
e
whines, e mews, e’s
a
wounded pup
a
longass shadow
a
shadow a thread
a
darkass blade
a
blade pitchblack
it’ll
stick you till yer stuck
stick
it tuya till yr goodn stuck n we’re gonna have to killim
we’re
gonna have to killim
Him
we’re gonna hafta kill.
[translated from the Castrapo by Neil Anderson]
Luz Pichel. Cativa en su lughar / casa pechada. Madrid: Progresele, 2013.
Tuesday, June 12, 2018
It's Cherry Season Now
It's Cherry Season Now
by Joseba Sarrionandia
It's cherry season now, but there are no cherries
to be seen anywhere.
Yes, this is their time, because cherry season is
from May to July.
The trees flowered in March and April,
but still there aren't any cherries.
It would be nice, as it's cherry season,
to see
a sweet cherry or, if not, perhaps a bitter one.
Sweet cherries are red,
the bitter ones are yellowish; the bitter cherry flowered
late, later than the sweet.
But nowadays you hardly see cherries anymore,
nor cherry trees.
A cherry tree needs special soil
in order to grow right,
it won't give fruit just anywhere, especially not
sweet cherries.
It's true that bitter cherries come a bit more easily
than sweet ones,
even without the right soil you can still glean
bitter cherries.
These days you won't find cherries, sweet
or bitter.
It's best to plant a cherry tree so its sheltered
toward the northeast.
In dry lands it doesn't grow right, a cherry tree
grows stunted in the dry.
You won't see cherries big or small.
We will have to plant some cherry trees.
The cold winds on the plains, in open valleys,
are most detrimental.
Late winter and early spring frosts
are usually the worst.
The harvest depends on how the weather's been
throughout the year,
but it's hard to tell what sort of cherries
will be there for the picking.
Who knows if the cherry trees will grow, if they will have a chance to flower!
The season will come, certainly,
actually it's here already, but perhaps
there are no cherries.
[Orginal title: "Gerezien sasoia iritsi da". This English text based on Isaac Xubín's Galician translation "Xa é tempo de cereixas"]
by Joseba Sarrionandia
Quand nous en serons au temps des cerises...
Jean Baptiste Clément
It's cherry season now, but there are no cherries
to be seen anywhere.
Yes, this is their time, because cherry season is
from May to July.
The trees flowered in March and April,
but still there aren't any cherries.
It would be nice, as it's cherry season,
to see
a sweet cherry or, if not, perhaps a bitter one.
Sweet cherries are red,
the bitter ones are yellowish; the bitter cherry flowered
late, later than the sweet.
But nowadays you hardly see cherries anymore,
nor cherry trees.
A cherry tree needs special soil
in order to grow right,
it won't give fruit just anywhere, especially not
sweet cherries.
It's true that bitter cherries come a bit more easily
than sweet ones,
even without the right soil you can still glean
bitter cherries.
These days you won't find cherries, sweet
or bitter.
It's best to plant a cherry tree so its sheltered
toward the northeast.
In dry lands it doesn't grow right, a cherry tree
grows stunted in the dry.
You won't see cherries big or small.
We will have to plant some cherry trees.
The cold winds on the plains, in open valleys,
are most detrimental.
Late winter and early spring frosts
are usually the worst.
The harvest depends on how the weather's been
throughout the year,
but it's hard to tell what sort of cherries
will be there for the picking.
Who knows if the cherry trees will grow, if they will have a chance to flower!
The season will come, certainly,
actually it's here already, but perhaps
there are no cherries.
[Orginal title: "Gerezien sasoia iritsi da". This English text based on Isaac Xubín's Galician translation "Xa é tempo de cereixas"]
Thursday, May 31, 2018
Olalla Cociña - Ningún Precipicio
No Precipice
I'm holding out a grape leaf
the sheep come over to munch on it
and now I hate
and I love
that roughest tongue
those yellow and unreal eyes
that pull me into their suppliant whorl.
I want to go to them
past my hand, beyond the vine
want them to eat my body up
because a strange kind of peace turns me inside out
leads me
absurdly
deliciously
to no precipice at all.
[Translated from Olalla Cociña's Ningún Precipicio, originally published in Galician by Toxosoutos, 2013]
I'm holding out a grape leaf
the sheep come over to munch on it
and now I hate
and I love
that roughest tongue
those yellow and unreal eyes
that pull me into their suppliant whorl.
I want to go to them
past my hand, beyond the vine
want them to eat my body up
because a strange kind of peace turns me inside out
leads me
absurdly
deliciously
to no precipice at all.
[Translated from Olalla Cociña's Ningún Precipicio, originally published in Galician by Toxosoutos, 2013]
Friday, January 5, 2018
Three Poems by Ismael Ramos
In Each Family Unit There Is a Carpenter, a Maker of Coffins
The father fashions his own death. He takes his time sculpting it. Attends to the shape of the fingers. The signs of his downfall.
I'm thinking about what my father taught me. I am remembering: I didn't want to learn anything.
What I didn't want to say is: I will always be sixteen.
The father makes the son's organs in his own image. He entrusts himself to pi(e)ty.
The father makes himself within the son. Of wood. Then he burns.
The father fashions his own death. He takes his time sculpting it. Attends to the shape of the fingers. The signs of his downfall.
I'm thinking about what my father taught me. I am remembering: I didn't want to learn anything.
What I didn't want to say is: I will always be sixteen.
The father makes the son's organs in his own image. He entrusts himself to pi(e)ty.
The father makes himself within the son. Of wood. Then he burns.
1999
I.
Versions of Jocasta's story do not rely on depicting her life, which is always the same, but on imagining her death.
II.
I woke up one morning like it was 1999, and at twenty-five my mother had left her youth behind without ever trying drugs.
It's sad.
My mother's youth used up on a street named after an architect. In a city by the sea. My mother's twenty-five years, no hecatomb.
Virgins who die like men do not struggle in the moment of sacrifice.
My mother's right side exposed. My hand on her liver.
It was only thus that we could sleep.
III.
Jocasta hanged in Sophocles's Oedipus.
Neck slit over the bodies of her sons in Euripides's The Phoenician Women.
I.
Versions of Jocasta's story do not rely on depicting her life, which is always the same, but on imagining her death.
II.
I woke up one morning like it was 1999, and at twenty-five my mother had left her youth behind without ever trying drugs.
It's sad.
My mother's youth used up on a street named after an architect. In a city by the sea. My mother's twenty-five years, no hecatomb.
Virgins who die like men do not struggle in the moment of sacrifice.
My mother's right side exposed. My hand on her liver.
It was only thus that we could sleep.
III.
Jocasta hanged in Sophocles's Oedipus.
Neck slit over the bodies of her sons in Euripides's The Phoenician Women.
Only thus, in your voice, could we sleep.
Swimmers
In the morning, the children's breath fills the floats that lie scattered around the pool deck.
My sister learned to swim at the age of nine. My mother, at thirty-eight.
It's a matter of moving forward against the water, trying to perpetuate something that I can't understand. Same with children, their dance.
*
My sister looks taller when she's wet. Mom doesn't.
I wait for them, I watch how they swim. The glass fogs over with breath and effort.
Swimmers
In the morning, the children's breath fills the floats that lie scattered around the pool deck.
My sister learned to swim at the age of nine. My mother, at thirty-eight.
It's a matter of moving forward against the water, trying to perpetuate something that I can't understand. Same with children, their dance.
*
My sister looks taller when she's wet. Mom doesn't.
I wait for them, I watch how they swim. The glass fogs over with breath and effort.
My sister crosses the pool, her suit is red. Her arms coordinating with her legs, hammering at the surface, bringing up an indecent amount of water. Yelling, always on the verge of making a scene. I hate it so when we draw attention to ourselves.
Look at me, look at me.
How high the splash. A measure of happiness.
I wave from afar.
Look at me, look at me.
How high the splash. A measure of happiness.
I wave from afar.
The foot returns to its place. Hands switch. She moves forward.
Blood moves forward.
*
The wind lashes the branches of the trees that edge the park.
Inside afternoon cafés people have tea, look out the window, or smile.
The din is intolerable.
Meanwhile, I think about how deep down a tree begins.
*
In the lane nearest the window my mother swims. In the water two men struggle to move forward. Just like her. Sometimes she sinks and hits the bottom of the pool.
My mother is kin to those whose bodies have lived through war without ever going to war. They get in the water and it doesn't hurt anymore.
While I wait I walk around the grounds. It's cold and soon it will be night. A group of women looks at some wedding flowers, white, inside an open van. They speak of the past, not of beauty. I wait.
My mother gave birth to two heathy children and a wound. We imitate each other, the three of us. When they get out of the pool, my sister looks taller.
[These pieces are from Ramos's 2017 book Lumes, which is available through the publisher, Apiario]
[Ismael Ramos's blog: http://otristestephen.tumblr.com/]
Blood moves forward.
*
The wind lashes the branches of the trees that edge the park.
Inside afternoon cafés people have tea, look out the window, or smile.
The din is intolerable.
Meanwhile, I think about how deep down a tree begins.
*
In the lane nearest the window my mother swims. In the water two men struggle to move forward. Just like her. Sometimes she sinks and hits the bottom of the pool.
My mother is kin to those whose bodies have lived through war without ever going to war. They get in the water and it doesn't hurt anymore.
While I wait I walk around the grounds. It's cold and soon it will be night. A group of women looks at some wedding flowers, white, inside an open van. They speak of the past, not of beauty. I wait.
My mother gave birth to two heathy children and a wound. We imitate each other, the three of us. When they get out of the pool, my sister looks taller.
[These pieces are from Ramos's 2017 book Lumes, which is available through the publisher, Apiario]
[Ismael Ramos's blog: http://otristestephen.tumblr.com/]
Saturday, June 24, 2017
[it's utopia ma]
from -CO CO CO U- by Luz Pichel
they're trying impossible things he said he said ssshowing his wares
excited
you can see he's excited
whatr you carryin there what kinda light is that?
it's utopia ma look how purty
I caught a little bit of utopia when I seen it fall I put it up
nis box for later to have it
it was a bunch of us
a whole bunch of us there
there where?
there
out there
meanwhile others not so excited at all are hollerin
thundrin the day of the frost cause they feel
the killer blades a-comin
(my translation)
they're trying impossible things he said he said ssshowing his wares
excited
you can see he's excited
whatr you carryin there what kinda light is that?
it's utopia ma look how purty
I caught a little bit of utopia when I seen it fall I put it up
nis box for later to have it
it was a bunch of us
a whole bunch of us there
there where?
there
out there
meanwhile others not so excited at all are hollerin
thundrin the day of the frost cause they feel
the killer blades a-comin
(my translation)
Wednesday, December 21, 2016
Translation - Antía Otero - Non quixera morrer
A very beta translation from Antía Otero's -O cuarto das abellas- (Xerais 2016)
I shouldn’t like to die
I shouldn’t like to die
without knowing how many lies I can tell
without you noticing
how many leaves come through the window
in autumn when the world seems to end in every cell
of the honeycomb.
I shouldn’t like to die
without imagining the funeral
what they would wear
the state of the body
the mortician’s hands
covering up the causes of my misfortune
the possibility that dwells between provocation
and chance
I set down that I am to be perfumed, mom,
make sure that among the worms there is the smell of citrus,
placebo for the crawlies
let’s raise a glass to this exquisite corpse
but don’t be hasty
don’t let them come for me so quick
with their mouths like sickles dancing
upon my eyes, rubbing out
the blue
I shouldn’t like to die
without a lady bird
slim as a wicker switch
singing in my ear high notes
I could never reach
with Her, wasting fine powder on sparrows
and for one moment living beyond the possible
our large family our pride we
recycled
the yard birds into meat pies
and wore
all the hand-me-downs of all the siblings who came before
I shouldn’t like to die
without arranging my lovers in order
embracing them, running my hands over their wrinkles
part of them
part
of their soft muscles and gray hair, dyed perhaps
of their cars’ upholstery
of the sons daughters pets wives who are not me
in this bed I am building to shelter them all
to have them near and to kiss them
goodnight
on the forehead
a chance to say
that with time I have forgotten the feeling of their tongues
on my sex
and everything else that once was vital, important
to the story
I shouldn’t like to die
without driving in the desert
jumping rope on a breezy monday
leaving a club in the light of day
already so hungover
bumming a cigarette off the ladies at the market
their cabbages in wicker baskets
taking off my shoes and running
down the street
yelling —I’m asymmetrical—
that I’ve got no cure no cocacola light
that I need you like never before
or that I know I love you
like the characters in the movies
who die
just as they’ve found love
the kind where eyelids relax
and everything seems at once beautiful and unjust
I shouldn’t like to die
without feeling it was worth it
that my daughters will be grateful
for the absence
that the stones I scrubbed
will shine from this side street
I shouldn’t like to die
without raising my hand
to greet death
for such is the pain of the wound yet unmade
days that sculpt the skin
fluids that wipe clean the ground
consciousness in flight
just before
the fall
that leaves no way back
no way to find ourselves
I will remember myself
in post codes
in the grooves
they left behind
I will remember myself
in the times I said no and it cost me
in the times I said yes only to regret it
later
In gazing upon skin
like a cut that opens clean
between here and there
a wound that bleeds
unendingly
inevitably
in a damp room
feet on the verge of slipping
in a leap
between avenues
where the harness belies
all weight
so many arms
ready to grab hold
of something more than air
I will remember myself
in the times I made the sheets taut
and cleared leftovers
from the dinner table
wrapped them in foil
in the times I thought I’d been
somewhere
but only intended to go
I will remember myself
laughing
nails bitten down
bags under my eyes and crystal chiming
when movie houses close
theaters gulp down anemia
and libraries go up in alexandrine flames
I will remember myself
though planting the garden
might be the closest I come to taking communion through my hands
a prayer surrounded by green iron sulphate
while I beat my chest
I repeat three times like Scarlett O’Hara
grandmother, here’s a prayer, here’s the land…I promise I won’t wreck it, I won’t mess this up.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)