Mario Santiago Papasquiaro: Espada de ardor / en el cogote

This poem, published recently in The Bitter Oleander with a translation by Laura Burns, is fun to read.

Here is an audio file of me reading it, but sped up because I didn't like the sound of my voice.

Audio Here.

A translation: "Acaroábanse caóticas as cunchas" by Isaac Xubín

A chaotic convention of shells



The horse and I
lie upon the Boireann,
exhausted,
hiding from words,
licking the thick night mist
from the stones broken by our hips,
by our thighs.
Then, a chaotic convention,
a frenzied convocation of shells,
the broken bodies of mollusks bathed by the waves,
and a vision of nacre in my eyes that carries to my glands
the smells,
the taste of the sea;
lying with aching loins beneath the lemon tree,
the pleasure of eating till my body becomes
no match for its own desires, the tip of the tongue
seeking the last salty flashes
that rise from the tautness of our skin, and other treasures
like horsehair and a wild musky smell
that reminds me
of the feeling of impunity that used to take hold of me
when I snuck out of the house at night.

Because perhaps this journey
was nothing more than an ancient barb
etched in my genetic code,
an ancestral rite that grabbed me from the inside and made me want
to feel this land’s saliva
rising through me every night,
to feel in my roiling fevered groin the fresh sweat
of our bodies’
animal
combustion.

[translated from Galician.]


[info about the author here]

Bike ride, September 28

Field strewn with glass.

Where's the trail?

Steel carcasses.

Plastic bags brought in by high water.

Detail of trail composition.

I guess I can't get across that way.

OCR issues

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Trip to the museum

A bear, historical photos and maps of the Texas Technological College and environs, an NC Wyeth, and some vampiricide. A successful Saturday!

First trail ride in Lubbock

Some photos from my first trail ride in Lubbock.

These trails are located on the east side of town, about 4 miles from my house:


The trails feature loose rock and sand, and some short, steep climbs. And twisty spots!











There is a sketchy pump track and some jumps.




On the way home. Skool's out for summer.




By some warehouses...




Under a highway...








And over a train yard. (I scared a woman on this bridge who said she didn't hear me because she was absorbed in singing and praying to the lord.)

Begoña Díez Sanz: "Combray"

[Original here]

I raised to my lips a spoonful of tea in which [ ]

How can I fix the extent

of love's most carnal expression,

of the beauty of bitmaps on my back

as I arch over your most bucolic, sonorous climax.

Each tile in your kitchen

was somehow illusory

[architectural fantasy of naked bodies on the kitchen table]

from the perspective of foam, everything was submersible

I made myself explicit in body and implicit as a function

of that whole cosmogony you used to penetrate me:

without wings, shields, or apples (...)

and even so, we were archetypes.

If Proust had seen us fucking,

your tongue would have lived on 

as the paradigm case of memory.

               An exquisite pleasure had invaded my senses, but individual, detached, with no suggestion of its origin [ ]

Erasures

Wave Books has a great space on their site where you can explore poems made through a process of selectively erasing words from existing texts. You can also do it yourself!

You can find it here: Erasures. (I think the save feature might be broken but you can still make poems for yourself and pdf them.) Here's mine:

his house

and the night there,

a dream, 

its comments and advice.

the moment,

it is a promise

to betray.

a gathering procession

charges him.

experience had condemned

impulse, love, and ardor

but the old poet

persuades him to enter.

"Extract from the Report SUGAR BLUES..." by Estíbaliz Espinosa

Extract from the Report SUGAR BLUES by Opia Z7 concerning the addictive activities of homo sapiens

marginal notes:

These humans are weird. How could I have fallen in love with them?
Investigate the Italian Dolci preziosi case.
Experience in own circuits the syndrome known by the scientific name Sugar Blues.

BAZAAR OF SWEET HUMAN THINGS COMMA THE LEGENDARY SUKKAR.

Whispering at night.
The feel of certain types of worn out china.
Staying asleep and avoiding the routine obligations that make us acceptable to society.
The sound of copious rainfall outside.
A dimly lit spot.
Chimps that don't mind their keepers.
Dumbo's mom.
Noticing someone staring.
The imaginary voice of Scherazade.
Strung-out junkies in very large cities.
An orgasming woman's neck.
Dragonflies inside a red Nestle's can.
The face of the Childlike Empress.
Lunch with curry smell.
Those swirly bits in Mahler.
Those little out-of-tune music boxes
Those Venezuelan culebrones.
Imagining Paleolithic people painting a cave.
Imagining Paleolithic people copulating because of me.
A girl playing in front of a mirror.
Honey that hangs from his lips without actually dripping.
"Considerando en frío, imparcialmente..."
Waking up every day, every day with a message from him.
The last flakes of a snowstorm.
Bloody Russian stories of Baba Yaga.
The first flakes of a snowstorm.
Naughty kittens.
Hair-dos in photographs of our ancestors.
Catching someone lying for someone else.
"Polar" malt soda.
The rotting of a flower on the grave of an epic hero.
Anarchists sitting in front of grafitti.
Your smile when you read this.
That masculine taste some call musky.
PJ Harvey's Angelene the prostitute.
Opening one's veins and bleeding to death.
Opiates.
Sappho.
The sugar blues when it's Sunday night and there's no message from him.
The sweet sound of your name.
The sweet slavery of one's drives.
The sweet coldness of the galaxies.

(my translation)

[from zoomm textos biónicos]

Mary Szybist: Yet Not Consumed

As ever my hope is that my translations out of English are, in the words of Erín Moure, "defective but effective."


Yet Not Consumed (Mary Szybist, from Incarnadine)

But give me the frost of your name
in my mouth, give me
spiny fruits and scaly husks—
give me breath

to say aloud to the breathless clouds
your name, to say
I am, let me need
to say it and still need you
to give me need, to make me
into what is needed, what you need, no

more than that I am, no more
than the stray wind on my neck, the salt
of your palm on my tongue, no more

than need, a neck that will bend
lower to what I am, so
give me creeping, give me clouds that hang
low and sweep the blue of the sky
to its edges, let me taste the edges, the bread-colored clouds,
here I am, give me

thumb and fingers, give me only
what I need, a turn here
to turn what I am
into I am, what your name writ in clouds
writ on me

--

Mais non se consumía

Mais dáme o carouxo do teu nome
na miña boca, dáme
frutas espiñentas e carapela escamosa
dáme alento

pra dicirlles ás desalentadas nubes
o teu nome, pra dicir
eu son, deixa que me faga falta dicilo
e que me siga facendo falta que ti
me deas a túa necesidade, que fagas de min
o que sexa preciso, o que precises, nada

máis que o feito de que son, nada máis
que o vento peregrino na miña caluga, o sal
da túa palma sobre a miña lingua, nada máis

que a necesidade, unha cabeza que baixe
até o que son, dáme entón
un lento escorregar, dáme nubes impoñentes
que varran o azul do ceo
até os límites, déixame probar os límites, as nubes cor de pan
velaquí me tes, dáme

dedos e polgar, dáme tan só
o que preciso, una volta aquí
pra voltar o que son
en eu son, o que o teu nome escribiu
escribiu sobre min

Lorca's Madrigal á cibdá de Santiago

Lorca's poem, with two translations.


Madrigal á cibdá de Santiago

Chove en Santiago
meu doce amor.
Camelia branca do ar
brila entebrecida ó sol.

Chove en Santiago
na noite escrura.
Herbas de prata e de sono
cobren a valeira lúa.

Olla a choiva pola rúa,
laio de pedra e cristal.
Olla o vento esvaído
soma e cinza do teu mar.

Soma e cinza do teu mar
Santiago, lonxe do sol.
Agoa da mañán anterga
trema no meu corazón.

--

Madrigal for the City of Santiago

It is raining in Santiago
my dear love.
White sky camellia
shining darkly beneath the sun.

It is raining in Santiago
this dark night.
Plants, argent and dreaming,
obscure an empty moon.

Behold the rain in the street,
a plaint of stone and glass.
Behold the hollow wind
ashen shadow of your sea.

Ashen shadow of your sea
Santiago, far from the sun.
Waters of an ancient morning
shiver in my heart.

(my translation)

--

Madrigal for the City of Santiago (rhyming I)

Rain in Santiago
rain my darling one.
Rain, that white camellia,
that shines without the sun

Rain in Santiago
through this night so dark.
Silvery dreamlit grasses
obscure an empty lunar arc.

Behold the rain upon the street,
mineral cry of stone and glass.
Behold the hollow wending wind
merely shadow, merely ash.

Merely shadow, merely ash.
Santiago, far from the sun.
Waters of an ancient morning
upon my heart, my darling one.

(my translation)

--

Madrigal for the City of Santiago

It rains on Santiago
my sweet love.
White camellia of air,
sunlight in a veil.

It rains on Santiago,
in the dark night.
Grass of silver and dream
covers the empty moon.

See the rain in the streets,
the lament of stone and glass.
See on the fading wind
your sea’s shadow and ash.

Your sea’s shadow and ash,
Santiago, far from the sun:
shivering in my heart,
water of ancient dawn.


(Translation by A. S. Kline) [more here]

Two poems by Layla Martínez

From:

El libro de la crueldad

Layla Martínez

(La Vida Rima, 2012)

--

Somos dioses

jóvenes e inexpertos

anhelantemente salvajes.

Deberíamos golpear

a los supurantes

de encías lácteas

y a los parapléjicos

de manos rechonchas.

Deberíamos correr

por las jaulas

como manadas violentas

o meter mascotas

en el microondas.

Somos dioses anémicos

y deberíamos comer.

--

We are gods,

young and green,

savage with longing.

We must lash out

at the oozing ones

with their milky gingiva

and at the paraplegics

with their chubby hands.

We must run

through cages

like violent packs

or put pets

in the microwave.

We are anemic gods

and we must eat.

(my translation)

--

No dejéis solos a los niños

o celebrarán rituales

sádicos y crueles.

No los dejéis solos

o arañarán las paredes

con sus pequeños dientecitos

llenos de odio

y se clavarán agujas

en los genitales

y darán de comer insectos

a sus muñecas

y les arrancarán la cabeza.

No dejéis solos a los niños

o jugarán a ser adultos

y les daréis asco

y pena.

--

Do not leave your children alone

or they will perform 

sadistic rituals.

Do not leave them alone

or they will scar the walls

with their tiny 

hateful teeth

and stick needles 

in their genitals

and will feed insects

to their dolls

and pull off their heads.

Do not leave your children alone

or they will play at being adults

and you will disgust them

and they will pity you.

(my translation)

A poem by Caxigueiro

hai un bosque de imaxes
onde medran os silencios

baixo as pólas
o murmurio das follas
fala das ausencias

[I think this is from the series 400 versos. See more here.]

---

in a forest of images
where silences grow

beneath the branches
the murmur of leaves
speaks of the missing.

beach haiku iv

pewter waves roll, break.

clouds settle low overhead.

let's be heading in.

Beach haiku iii

a helpful voice tells

of mollusk locomotion.

appetite retreats.

Beach haiku

Vegan pelican

dives for soymilk. Has no luck.

Eyes my tofu pup.

Dieste on "furor ontolóxico"

I had some trouble finding this suggestive passage by Rafael Dieste on the topic of a Galician "furor ontolóxico," so I'm posting it here in case anyone else is looking for it.

Tense falado dunha sorte de panteísmo difuso entre os galegos. Eu non acredito moito nelo. Agora, o que se pode haber nos galegos é unha conciencia ontolóxica de seu, unha tendencia manifestada nas formas do románico, nas maneiras mesmo da artesanía nos cruceiros, etc., unha sorte de furor ontolóxico, un desexo de que as cousas eisistan realmente, un degoiro de que teñan una perduranza, mais non unha perduranza pola dureza esterior, pola máscara que se lle poida pór, ben material ou formal, senón entrañable, interior, de xeito que a perduranza esteriormente manifesta sexa máis que o signo, a luz, a mensaxe de algo fondamente sólido, sólido coma o ser, que se encontra dentro e configura rennidade por si sola, pro a perennidade esterna, o énfase de certos moimentos, xeralmente fúnebres, nos que se nos está a falar do grande, do perenne, do eterno, polo común dalle un chisco de riso. No cruceiro máis modesto, nunha margarida, nunha froliña ventureira, é onde pode estar xustamente o que non proz pode dare moimento algún; ise misterio, tan entrañado par Maside, que ao mesmo tempo prodúcelle arrepío, ise misterio ontolóxico, desa solidez total, absoluta, na cal sobrenada a espresión graciosa, aínda que á veces témera, das cousas.

Dieste, Rafael.  Obra galega completa II. Vigo: Galaxia, 1995. 47.

Presencia de John Steinbeck, by Xavier Seoane

Presencia de John Steinbeck (Xavier Seoane)


si, nacín entre piñeiros, en Monterrei:
o vento nos salgueiros
a noite silenciosa
chea de estrelas

cousas tan fermosas
que meten medo
o sol, o amañecer
as montañas da banda do poente

cabalos que na noite miserenta
adoecen
chamando á egua
árbores
revirándose á impotente tristeza do universo

¡qué silencio!
                     ...no casal familiar
cheiraba
                      a salvia o corpo azul
de Elizabeth...

si, nacín entre piñeiros, en Monterrei,
e ela acompañoume, neste val miserento,
á sombra desa empresa que non alcanzarei
mais esa é a miña estrela...

din que alá, cara ao Oeste, está o Edén...

eu non sei o que é iso
mais tal vez nada diferente
á luzada azul de Monterrei
cando o meu pai falaba coas árbores da eira,
hai tempo...

---

John Steinbeck's Presence (my translation)


yes, I was born among the pines, in Monterey:
the wind in the willows
the silent night
full of stars

things so beautiful
they scare you
the sun, daybreak
the mountains off to the west

horses who in the bleak night
suffer
calling out for the mare
trees
defying the universe's impotent sorrow

such silence!
                   ...in the family homestead
her blue body
                   smelled of sage
Elizabeth...

yes, I was born among the pines, in Monterey,
and she was with me, in this valley of misery,
in the shadow of that endeavor that I shall never make
but that is my star...

they say that yonder, to the west, lies Eden...

I don't know what that is
but perhaps it's nothing so different
from the blue dawning in Monterey
when my father spoke with the trees in the yard
so long ago.

Four haiku about hand injuries

Red bike falls, steel bar
pins a thumb to the ground. Blood
blooms behind the nail.

---

Old enough to have
a knife. That's a lot of blood.
I'll go get my dad.

---

Momentum. Pot hole.
Left hand takes one for the team.
Sponge pulls grit from pores.

---

Impact splits nail from
flesh. Later, orphaned, flesh cleaves
to the gauze. Until...


~neil anderson

Icelandic > English > Galician: a poem by Elías Knörr

As near as I can tell, this poem was written in Icelandic, then translated into English by the author. You can find the English version here.

My translation into Galician:

---

Dúas amas de casa bailan nun tendal
fan o amor funámbulas
Unha é flor de algodón
e a outra sedosa bolboreta
borrachas de limpeza
              escriben poesías na roupa

*

Pingas de sangue espertan no espello pola mañanciña
moitos ollos feridos aparecen na casa

Pero fagamos da mañá flores

A verdade é
                  un espazo composto satiricamente
pode ir decorada de fertilidade i estrelas
pode sandarse
                     con flores luminosas

                     unha mañá
a rapaza esperta nun labirinto
e sangra até a cegueira
Ten a súa casa nas imaxes espelladas

Pero fagamos da mañá silencio
        vistamos o eco en camisa de forza

Four poems by Lois Pereiro

My translations of four poems from the 1995 volume Poemas da morte sobrevivida a forza de paixón e sabotaxes by Galician poet Lois Pereiro (1958-1996).

UPDATE 4-30-14: Due to pure sloth on my part, an earlier version of this post did not include the original poems. I have rectified this. You can also find these poems, as well as other work by Pereiro, here.

Transmigración

Esta enerxía xa non vai ter fin,
non foi creada nin será destruída.
Irá ocupando diferentes vidas,
transformándose en emocións alleas
tatuadas noutros corpos paralelos,
en simultáneas procesións
sen pausa.

Nun cálido universo apaixonado
voume dosificando con usura,
ata que chegue a hora de voltar,
canso e feliz,
ó punto de partida.


Transmigration

This energy will have no end,
it wasn't made nor will it be destroyed.
It will occupy different lives, 
transforming itself into other emotions
tattooed on parallel bodies,
in simultaneous ceaseless
parades.

In a warm empassioned universe
I share myself out usuriously,
until the hour of arrives when I
tired and happy must return
to the point of departure.

---

Mala sorte

E por primeira vez desde que souben
que aínda respiraba e seguía vivo
sei o que é sentir medo a non estalo

Interrompido na mellor escea
cando estaba soñando un soño dérmico
de paixón e beleza
cunha serea distancia literaria e sabia

Só ela podía ser tan inoportuna
groseira inculta e pouco delicada
chamándome despois de ter sobrevivido
á confortable atracción do fracaso
e saber dunha vez o que era a vida
amar e ser amado.


Bad luck

And for the first time since I figured out
that I was still breathing and still alive
I know what it is to fear the alternative

Interrupted during the best part
while I was dreaming a dermal scene
of passion and beauty
with the serene distance of literature and wisdom

Only she could have such bad timing
be so rude classless and uncouth
as to call for me after I'd survived
the comfortable appeal of failure
and finally learned what life was
loving and being loved.

---

Un soño alleo repetido

O certo é que teño a impresión ás veces
que se fai máis patente cada día
de que pese ás evidencias en contra
debín morrer daquela

e estou vivindo un soño repetido
nas noites dos que me seguen querendo.

Someone else's recurring dream

It's true that sometimes I get the impression,
and it's getting clearer day by day,
that despite evidence to the contrary
I must have died a while back

and I'm living now inside a dream that repeats itself
at night in those who keep on loving me.

---

Poderíano escoller como epitafio

Cuspídeme enriba cando pasedes
por diante do lugar no que eu repouse
enviándome unha húmida mensaxe
de vida e de furia necesaria.


This could be my epitaph

Spit on me as you pass by
the place where I shall repose
sending me a humid sign
of life and necessary fury.

A poem by José Ángel Valente

SÉ TÚ MI LÍMITE

Tu cuerpo puede
llenar mi vida,
como puede tu risa
volar el muro opaco de la tristeza.

Una sola palabra tuya quiebra
la ciega soledad en mil pedazos.

Si tu acercas tu boca inagotable
hasta la mía, bebo
sin cesar la raíz de mi propia existencia.

Pero tú ignoras cuánto
la cercanía de tu cuerpo
me hace vivir o cuánto
su distancia me aleja de mí mismo
me reduce a la sombra.

Tú estás, ligera y encendida,
como una antorcha ardiente
en la mitad del mundo.

No te alejes jamás:
Los hondos movimientos
de tu naturaleza son
mi sola ley.
Retenme.
Sé tú mi límite.
Y yo la imagen
de mí feliz, que tú me has dado.

[Ver más aquí]

---

LIMIT ME (my translation)

Your body
fills up my life,
just as your laughter
blasts away sad, glaucous walls.

Just one word from you smashes
blind loneliness into pieces.

If you bring your endless lips
close to mine, I drink
a long draft of my own being.

But you don't know how much
the closeness of your body
makes me feel, or how much
its distance exiles me,
leaving only my shadow behind.

You are there, light and alight,
like a torch burning
in the middle of the world.

Never go away:
The groundswell
of your nature is
my only law.
Hold me back.
Limit me.
And I will be the image
of the fortunate self you've given me.

Two poems by Rochelle Hurt

Translations of two poems from The Rusted City by Rochelle Hurt, which I highly recommend. The translations, and the mistakes therein, are mine. [UPDATE July 14, 2014: a mystery editor offered to help me a bit with these texts. I present the revised translations immediately after the originals in English. The first translations I did can still be seen at the end of this post.]


The Smallest Sister Plays

a piano in the ballroom. The spaces between the keys are full of red crust and the orange-stained ivory is jamming, cracking up. The song is stuck, a tongue in a throat, a bird on a leash, a boomerang. She plays faster, but the keys are fracturing like glass. Limp with splinter-slits, her fingertips can barely tap them.

Determined, she turns over her hand, knuckles down, and drags a bony song out. But the piano now is just a rust boat full of broken teeth. The song is nothing but a sack full of feathers tied to a string.

--

A irmá máis pequena toca 

un piano no salón de baile. Os espazos entre as teclas están cheos dunha tona ferruxenta e o marfil tinguido de alaranxado atóase, agrétase. A canción está atrapada, unha lingua nunha gorxa, un paxaro coutado cun cordel, un búmerang. Ela toca máis rápido, pero as teclas crébanse como vidros.  Febles e feridas as xemas dos seus dedos apenas logran premelas.

Determinada, volve as mans cara arriba, os cotelos para baixo, e arrinca una canción osuda. Pero o piano non é máis agora ca unha embarcación enferruxada chea de dentes rotos. A canción non é outra cousa ca unha bolsa de plumas amarrada cun fío.

--

In the Century of the Breaking Sentences

words swelled with earnestness and burst

between teeth like overripe grapes.

The verbose were found choked

on their own superfluous vociferousness,

adjectives stuck like seeds to their chins.

Sentences drooped like old vines, half-empty.

Scraps of dropped conversations grew

black and rancid in the streets. Eventually,

the city was strung with dried up phrases,

brittle echoes of even the dead,

whose words still burned for ears.

--

No século das frases que rompen

as palabras ínchanse de seriedade, estoupando

entre os dentes coma uvas maduras de máis.

Os locuaces aparecen atragoados

pola súa propia verbosidade,

os adxectivos pegados coma sementes ás barbelas.

As frases dóbranse coma vides antigas, medio baleiras.

Cachos de conversas perdidas vólvense

negras e rancias nas rúas. Ao final,

a cidade fica engalanada de frases resecas,

os ecos crebadizos até dos mortos,

que arden polo oído que as escoite.

--

First Drafts:

A irmá máis pequena toca 

un piano no salón de baile. Os espazos entre as teclas están cheos dunha codia ferruxenta e o marfil tinguido de alaranxado atóase, agrétase. A canción está atrapada, unha lingua nunha gorxa, un paxaro suxeito cunha correa, un búmerang. Ela toca máis rápido, pero as teclas crébanse como vidrios.  Fláccidas e feridas as xemas dos seus dedos apenas logran premelas.

Determinada, pon as mans cotelos abaixo e arrinca una canción osuda. Pero o piano non é máis agora ca unha embarcación enferruxada chea de dentes rotos. A canción non é outra cousa ca unha bolsa de plumas amarrada cunha corda.

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No século das frases que se rompen

as palabras íncanse de sinceridade, estoupando

entre os dentes coma uvas maduras de máis.

Os locuaces aparecen apedados

pola súa propia verbosidade,

os adxetivos pegados coma sementes ás barbelas.

As frases dóbranse coma vides antigas, medio baleiras.

Cachos de conversas perdidas vólvense

negros e rancios nas rúas. Ao final,

a cidade fica engalanada de frases resecas,

os ecos crebadizos até dos mortos,

que arden polo oído que as escoite.