2011

17-09-2011


L'ÀNGEL DEL SAGUEIG

Com si la soledat dels homes i del temple
tingués mai un demà de festa i d'harmonia,
com si aquest ploviscó que creix fos un diluvi
que s'insinua amb por,
com una veu que ens vol rebuig i escàndol,
arriba l'àngel del saqueig,
rabent, ales de foc que inflamen tot amb fúria,
revela l'ànima dels llibres,
fendeix l'espai ferit de grocs i blaus i flames,
crema el desig quan surt dels llavis del desig
i marxa amb so de perles en tempesta
mentre s'ensorra el temple.
Ens resta sols un viu dolor
damunt l'altar de la memòria.
—Carles Torner


Übersetzung von ollie aus dem Works:

The Angel of Looting

As if the loneliness of the temple and men
never had a future of fun and harmony,
as if this growing drizzle was a deluge
insinuating itself with fear,
as a voice wishing us rejection and scandal,
the angel of looting comes,
swift, wings of fire inflaming everything in fury,
reveals the soul of books,
rends the air wounded in yellows and blues and flames,
burns desire when it issues from the lips of desire
and leaves with the sound of pearls on a storm
while the temple collapses.
It remains for us only a sharp pain
on the altar of memory.

19-09-2011


Make it a rule of life never to regret and never to look back. Regret is an appalling waste of energy, you can't build on it it's only good for wallowing in.
—Katherine Mansfield

21-09-2011


Time to go Home

Late and starting to rain,
it's time to go home.
We've wandered long enough
in empty buildings.
I know it's tempting to stay
and meet those new people.
I know it's even more sensible
to spend the night here with them,
but I want to go home.
We've seen enough beautiful places
with signs on them saying
This is God's House. That's seeing the
grain like the ants do,
without the work of harvesting.
Let's leave grazing to cows and go
where we know what everyone really intends,
where we can walk around without clothes on.
~ RUMI (from: Open Secret, translated by Coleman Barks)

23-09-2011


Tú venías

No me has hecho sufrir
sino esperar.
Aquellas horas
enmarañadas, llenas
de serpientes,
cuando
se me caía el alma y me ahogaba,
tú venías andando,
tú venías desnuda y arañada,
tú llegabas sangrienta hasta mi lecho,
novia mía,
y entonces
toda la noche caminamos
durmiendo
y cuando despertamos
eras intacta y nueva,
como si el grave viento de los sueños
de nuevo hubiera dado
fuego a tu cabellera
y en trigo y plata hubiera sumergido
tu cuerpo hasta dejarlo deslumbrante.
Yo no sufrí, amor mío,
yo sólo te esperaba.
Tenías que cambiar de corazón
y de mirada
después de haber tocado la profunda
zona de mar que te entregó mi pecho.
Tenías que salir del agua
pura como una gota levantada
por una ola nocturna.
Novia mía, tuviste
que morir y nacer, yo te esperaba.
Yo no sufrí buscándote,
sabía que vendrías,
una nueva mujer con lo que adoro
de la que no adoraba,
con tus ojos, tus manos y tu boca
pero con otro corazón
que amaneció a mi lado
como si siempre hubiera estado allí
para seguir conmigo para siempre.
—Pablo Neruda


Übersetzung von ollie aus dem Works:

YOU WOULD COME

You have not made me suffer,
merely wait.

Those tangled
hours, filled
with serpents,
when
my heart stopped and I stifled,
you would come along,
you would come naked and scratched,
bleeding you would reach my bed,
my bride,
and then
all night we walked
sleeping
and when we woke up
you were intact and new,
as if the dark wind of dreams
had newly given
fire to your tresses
and in wheat and silver had submerged
your body and left it dazzling.

I did not suffer, my love,
I was only waiting for you.
You had to change heart
and vision
after having touched the deep
sea zone that my breast gave to you.
You had to leave the water
pure as a drop raised
by a night wave.

My bride, you had
to die and be born, I was waiting for you.
I did not suffer looking for you,
I knew that you would come,
a new woman with what I adore
out of the one that I did not adore,
with your eyes, your hands, and your mouth
but with another heart,
who was beside me at dawn
as if she had always been there
to go on with me forever.

25-09-2011



KINDNESS ON THE FIELD

Be kind to the hooker, or else in the scrum
Thy poor tender shins he will hack;
Or take the first chance that is offered to him
Of planting his foot in your back.
Be kind to the hooker, he's hidden from view,
And can work his revenge in the dark,
So if you insult him, as sure as you're born,
He'll deprive you of some of your bark.
Be kind to the half-back, he's nippy and sly,
And will grab you when rounding the scrum,
Or will collar you low, your heels up he'll throw,
And bang on the ground you will come.
Be kind to the half-back, that watchful young man,
If you hurt him he'll likely feel wild;
And if he should meet you again in the field,
You'd probably know why he smiled.
Be kind to the winger, or you he may prod
In the home of your afternoon tea;
He's fond of a scrap, and won't mind a rap
If your eye comes to grief on his knee.
Be kind to the winger, he's out for a go,
And promptly pays all that he owes;
So be careful to give him no more than his due,
Or he'll give you the change on your nose.
Be kind to three-quarters, they're heady and strong,
And can run like their master, Old Nick;
So if you tread hard on their corns beg their pardon,
Or limp off the field with a rick.
Be kind to three-quarters again let me say,
For their hatred of roughness is such
That, if you should fend them, or neatly upend them,
You'll travel henceforth on a crutch.
Be kind to the full-back or, when in his grip,
He'll handle you roughly for sure.
He's a virtuous fellow, and hates fast young men,
So take care that your language is pure.
Be kind to the full-back, 'tis kindness well spent,
Don't approach this stern player with vim;
If to score you must try, put your collar-bone by –
A collarbone's nothing to him.
—Robert J. Pope(From The Evening Post, N.Z.)

26-09-2011


"Fins El Mai"

Vull estimar el teu cos fins el mai, fins cansar-me,
fer de la teva pell corriols i estimballs,
jo, vianant d´amor si tu ets el meu viatge,
i assedegar-me del tot si tu ets la meva font.
Vull tot l´aroma fresc de la teva besada,
poder sentir els segons pels batecs del teu cor,
jo, mariner expert si tu ets la meva barca,
i amarinar-me amb tu més enllà de l´horitzó.
—Lluís Llach


Übersetzung von ollie aus dem Works:

Until Never

I want to love your body until never, until I´m tired,
make pathways and ravines of your skin,
I, a passerby of love if you are my journey,
and thirst myself completely if you are my fountain.
I want all the fresh scent of your kissing,
and be able to feel the seconds through the beating of your heart,
I, an experienced sailor if you are my boat,
and go to sea with you beyond the horizon.

06-10-2011


Remember, any lie you are told, even deliberately, is often a more significant fact than a truth told in all sincerity.
— Halldór Laxness, (from Under the Glacier)

13-10-2011

Be not afraid of life. Believe that life is worth living, and your belief will help create the fact.
—Henry James


We work n the dark - we do what we can - we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art.
—Henry James


Stupidity is the deliberate cultivation of ignorance.
—William Gaddis

14-10-2011


Araucaria

Todo el invierno, toda la batalla,
todos los nidos del mojado hierro,
en tu firmeza atravesada de aire,
en tu ciudad silvestre se levantan.

La cárcel renegada de las piedras,
los hilos sumergidos de la espina,
hacen de tu alambrada cabellera
un pabellón de sombras minerales.

Llanto erizado, eternidad del agua,
monte de escamas, rayo de herraduras,
tu atormentada casa se construye
con pétalos de pura geología.

El alto invierno besa tu armadura
y te cubre de labios destruidos:
la primavera de violento aroma
rompe su sed en tu implacable estatua:
y el grave otoño espera inútilmente
derramar oro en tu estatura verde.
—Pablo Neruda


Araucaria sind immergrüne Bäume, die auf der Südhalbkugel der Erde zu finden sind, z. B. in Chile, Argentinien und Brasilien.

22-10-2011


The Betrayal*

My faith in poetry is betrayed, as blood,
gushing from the heart of the square,
now masks the face of words

My eyes can no longer
make out the shape of things,
the tone of things

Blood, blood, and more blood

It shrouds my soul, my tongue
it envelopes the horizon
and stains people's bread,
falling on plates,
coffee cups,
and the eyes of children.

What dark shadow
casts its corpse across our homeland,
in this city made of light?

What day long bloody hours
lurk over the public square,
in a time of darkness,
hunting for young men
at the age of youthful dreams
and the most beautiful vision
of days to come?

What shame it brings
when the light dies,
shot by bullets of blind hatred

I have no words
but pale ones,
and can offer only tears
streaming down my face,
onto the pages

I tell you: this people
has sent many, many heroes,
and offered many, many sacrifices,
along the path to freedom!

Oh Ghaymaan! Oh Aybaan!
Aren't you crushed as tears
shed by the street turn to stone,
and the heart of the public square
anguishes at the passing of sons
who sacrifice for the meaning of change?

They bare their chests
and raise their heads high
catching betrayal's bullets
in a full embrace
of the nation's precious soil

Tens killed, hundreds injured,
is it enough, oh Ghaymaan,
that your heart weeps,
is it enough, oh Aybaan,
that you soul is touched by tragedy?

Or must we construct
a dam and mountains
made of human beings
to obstruct this savage rising tide,
and stop the blood baths?!

(Translation of the poem and commentary below by Stephen Day)
* translator's title

27-10-2011


Be careless in your dress if you will, but keep a tidy soul.
—Mark Twain


A man who carries a cat by the tail learns something he can learn in no other way.
—Mark Twain


The most interesting information comes from children, for they tell all they know and then stop.
—Mark Twain

28-10-2011


Why Experience Is No Teacher

Not mine -- the body you were promised
is buried at the heart
of an unusable machine
no one can stop or start.

You'll lie with it? You might dig deep --
escape a Law or two -- see a dart
of light. You
won't get near the heart.

I tried -- I am the same -- come the same.
I wanted my senses to rave.
The dart was ordinary light.
Will nothing keep you here, my love, my love?
—Leonard Cohen
(from FLOWERS FOR HITLER, 1964)

30-10-2011


There is a crack in everything,
that's how the light gets in.


En todo hay una fisura,
así es como entra la luz.


—Leonard Cohen