[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/]
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