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Andrés Paniagua Curiel
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the period of cosmography

Death Fugue

Black milk of dawn we drink it at evening
we drink it at noontime we drink it at night
we drink and we drink
we shovel a grave in the air there one lays unconstrained
A man lives in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when it darkens to Germany your golden hair Margarete
he writes it and steps to the front of the house and the stars beam and he whistles a call to his hounds
he whistles a call to his Jews and orders a grave to be dug in the earth
he orders us now play some dances

Black milk of dawn we drink you at night
we drink you at morning and noontime we drink you at evening
we drink and we drink
A man lives in the house he plays with the serpents he writes
he writes when it darkens to Germany your golden hair Margarete
Your ashen hair Sulamith we shovel a grave in the air there one lays unconstrained

He bellows dig deeper you there you others keep singing and play
he grabs for the rod at his belt and he swings it blue are his eyes
dig deeper those shovels you there you others keep playing your dances

Black milk of dawn we drink you at night
we drink you at noontime at morning and evening
we drink and we drink
a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Sulamith he plays with the serpents
he orders play death so much sweeter Death is a master from Germany
he orders play darker those violins then you will rise up in smoke to the air
then you will have a grave in the clouds there one lays unconstrained

Black milk of the dawn we drink you at night
we drink you at noontime Death is a master from Germany
we drink you at evening at morning we drink and we drink
Death is a Master from Germany blue is his eye
he hits you with leaden bullet he hits you precise
a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarete
he stirs his hounds against us he gives us a grave in the air
he plays with the serpents and dreams Death is a master from Germany

your golden hair Margarete
your ashen hair Sulamith

Paul Celan
Translated by Andrés Paniagua Curiel
This is Paul Celan reciting the poem himself: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gVwLqEHDCQE
Posted in poem, Poetry, Translation | Tagged , | Leave a comment | Edit

Tags: , ,

In perfect silence
A life of toil’s achievement
A science of sound

En lo que tardé en aguantar el aliento
Y zambullirme en la bañera
–para escuchar el tambor de la sangre
En las venas, volver a la superficie—
Mis padres habían muerto,
La casa había sido vendida y ahora
La demolían a mi alrededor,
Muro por muro, con bola y cadena.
Nado media vuelta sumergido,
Y al salir del otro lado, jadeando,
Veo que mi matrimonio se acabó,
Que mis hijas ya están adultas y asentadas,
Que la piel se aguanga
En mis piernas y brazos
Y que este corazón late
Como si no hubiese un mañana.

Robin Robertson
Versión de Andrés Paniagua Curiel

El original se puede leer aquí: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/feb/06/robin-robertson-poem-wrecking-light

Posted in Poema, Poesía, Traducción | Tagged

There was a man appended to a nose,
There was a nose the most superlative,
There was an alembic that did half live,
A swordfish with a beard as if in throes,

A sundial that always bore a scowl,
An Elephant, its head face-up a-jerk,
One hood of a nose both hangman and clerk,
Ovidius Nasus snouted with a cowl.

There was a galley’s fearful rostrum beak
A pyramid the like of Aegypt’s pride,
The full twelve tribes of noses, the whole clique;

A nosestmost unbounded, undefied,
Zanni mask, Archnose Friesian in physique,
A catastrophic chilblain blue and fried.

Francisco de Quevedo
Versión de Andrés Paniagua Curiel

El original se puede ver aquí:

http://www.franciscodequevedo.org/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=837%3Aerase-un-hombre-a-una-nariz-pegado-513&catid=47%3Asonetos-sarcasmos&Itemid=59

Hacer Nada

     „Nada es lo que hace la poesía” W.H. Auden

Antes de que pudiera haber nada, había
Turba de muchos algos y “tohu” contendía
Con “bohu”; el deseo con el dolor, el gozo
Con el temor; saberes en lío; tenue y brilloso
Suspensos en mejunje universal y ella
No quiso permitirles seguir con la querella.
Dijo “Qué sea la noche”; la noche fue creada,
La noche más intensa dentro de la que Nada
Podría verse dejar su tumba derruida;
Y forjarse un lugar sin espacio o medida;
Echar a andar sus máquinas de negación; y ser
Irreversiblemente, acontecer y ser.
Por fin Nada se hizo y de allí en adelante
Algo ya no sería como antes de ese instante.

John Hollander
Versión de Andrés Paniagua Curiel

Original (segundo poema):
http://www.randomhouse.com/knopf/authors/hollander/poem.html

Boston.

            Para Merlina y los otros que estuvieron encerrados.

Este Abril,
Entre lo abstracto y lo concreto,
Me quedo con pasar la tarde
Viéndote sonreír,
Con el guitarreo de Eric Clapton,
Con un lobster melt de Charlie’s Kitchen,
Con los números que sin ser del todo son
Más que las cosas que se rozan con las yemas ásperas,
Con la amargura helada de un vaso de cerveza,
Con la luz de John Singer Sargent que ninguna cámara captura,
Con la tibieza sorpresiva de un meteorito
Venido de quiénsabedonde
(tocado furtivamente en un museo),
Con tu mirada –o la de Rebecca Pidgeon si no me la das,
Y la tristeza de Robert Mitchum en “The Friends of Eddie Coyle”.
La tristeza de Robert Mitchum en esa ciudad
Hecha con cortes de luz helada y con el humor
Inescrutable de su gente –el calor que expresan ocultándolo;
Cúpulas de colores y encrucijada de calles
Que son imaginaciones
Si nadie esta allí, caminándolas.

Don’t understand me any more my love
Don’t take more of my meaning in, for see:
Since knowledge is your passion I must be
A mystery you’ll never weary of.
No me comprendas más amada. Ya
No absorbas mi sentido. Si saber
Es tu pasión mas grande quiero ser
Misterio que jamás se agotará.
I wish you all to have a wonderful Sunday. Whatever this particular one means to you.

Current Mood: blah blah

I
Aquí la arena es la única verdad
En el calor que niega los sentidos
El mundo es de contraste y vastedad
Y dos o tres aromas y sonidos

II
El viento sopla –y no va a parar
Se quiebra el orden en tan diminutos
Fragmentos; perlas de tiempo y azar
No quedan horas ni quedan minutos

III
El sol del día engendra ambigüedad
Las formas son inciertas y las huellas
Pero no existe otra claridad
Si no la de esta noche y sus estrellas

IV
Aquí se entra una vez; no más
Puedes salir –dejar atrás: jamás

Proema

                                      I.

¿Y como habrá sonado aquella lengua
Que sabía significar sin verbos
Y con nombres que ya no dicen nada?
¿Y como aquella voz cuando la hablaba?

I'm not quite sure but this might interest good frien joculum

http://www.davidbowie.com/vision?videopremiere=true

La piel de los versos

El verso mide su medida, mide
Y va acentuado donde va acentuado
Y tiene un fin rimado o no rimado
Su forma es: se cuide o no se cuide.

Es tan deliberado, no se olvide
Ceñirse a un molde antiguo, a un ritmo dado
Como dejar fluir lo inusitado
Pues el poeta –no el azar– decide.

La forma no es prisión sino la piel
Y no por ser domados menos tersos
Sus gestos. La pasión ya relucía

Cuando la rima junto al ritmo fiel
Eran estuches que guardaban versos
De voz; las letras no eran todavía.


Some Words of Warning for Time Travellers

for John Crowley

Good day, come in and state your heart’s desire.

You might have planned your trip to foreign times
To learn about the shape of things to come
To fetch a bit of knowledge,
The winning lotto numbers,
The best performing stocks,
Game scores and race results,
And such outcomes as you may safely bet on.
Perhaps you’ll trigger wars or cause a famine;
A bit of profiteering never made
A clever person poorer.
To alter still unwritten history
To make it turn out right for you. Destroy
The future of a billion
To put another billion in your pocket.
Don’t look so scared now, it is not illegal
Although they did talk of outlawing it
–At least they thought about it for a while–
But then they realized that this was just
Another method of accomplishing
What has kept mankind busy since the fall:
Make sure your future’s bright
No matter what the price to pay might be
To everybody else.
So you’ll be perfectly all right, just take
A lot of care that you don’t get entangled
In any kind of loop
See, paradoxes have a nasty way
Of getting sprung on you. But Time is not
The only one who takes
Revenge on the incautious.

Perhaps you’re one of those who want to save
Humanity from all its evil ways;
The things we’ve done! –since Time’s very beginnings.
Go back and bar the worst atrocities
From having taken place at all. Prevent
Catastrophes and horrors,
That is a righteous purpose you pursue!
I beg you, pardon me the cynicism
That seems to tint my words
Sincerely, I admire your reckless drive,
Your fierce determination,
And do not mind at all that by your act
My present will be altered
In unimagined ways. I might regret
Not being part of the resulting era
The world you seem to strive for –after all–
Should be a better one.
To step into the past and stop the tyrant
From murdering uncounted innocents
To stop the world from plunging into darkness,
To keep a worthy culture
from being conquered, wiped out and forgotten,
To save a single life –even just one–
For isn’t every single life most sacred?
To keep a wondrous species from extinction,
And to preserve creation’s purity.
You see? I praise the selfless
Nobility of your brave enterprise,
Admire the virtue of your just intent.
But listen, for there is this thing that put
The edge into my voice,
The nagging tinge of incredulity:
You’re not the first I’ve met
That set out on a quest to make times better
In fact this very moment
There must be men and women
At every turning point of history
Who strive to bend it hoping for the best
–And theory leaves no doubt that they must be
Succeeding in the bending.
For all we know, our present has mutated
A thousand times since you entered the store.
But if you care to check your memory,
Or else those books that stand there on the shelves
(If you prefer to trust the written word)
You will confirm the world is still imperfect;
That death, despair and evil still are there
As part of it as any other thing.
It’s just as if the facts of history
Are subject to the rule of evolution:
If you remove one evil deed, another
Will rise and take its place,
For there may be no niches left unfilled.
But I’m not speaking to deter you –No,
The world has always needed righteous champions
To justify us sinners.

Then maybe you just want to live the thrills
Of a specific era.
That would be fun indeed,
To see and feel the way that people were
In that precise moment in history
You always have preferred.
Yet you should be aware that epochs don’t
Exist outside the reminiscing pages
Of period books and picture magazines.
Each hour concerned with bringing forth an hour
A day is nothing but
The birthing pangs of yet another day.
You’d like to live forever in the sixties?
Well let me tell you then, they didn’t last
Not even for ten years.
No wonder if you stop to think how busy
They kept at making everything brand new.
Or is it one of those lost periods that
Historians and romantics
Though lacking any records to go by
Admire for their apparent lack of progress,
The placid slumber of their centuries?
Well, even if it turned out that the flow
Of fashion and ideas could slow down
Become the faintest trickle of mutation,
Would you find any permanence at all?
A sense of sameness that persists through time?
Think twice: what happened to that place you used
To visit faithfully, you still pass by
It sometimes. They still have the same decor
Same pictures hanging from the wall, a bit
More pale perhaps, a bit more anachronic.
The same and yet it all feels different now.
The patrons changed, their fashions too, their drinks,
Their voices and the flavour of their talk.
And you? What changed in you that stopped you going?
Maybe you’ll find a solid future era
Eons of tranquil immobility
Peace for a lifetime, even if they find
A cure for everything.
But don’t forget the future
Has still not happened yet.
Who knows what’s coming? What with all these trips
With everybody making things unmade
The future, frankly, is a mess that’s changing
Irrevocably even as we speak.
Oh, don’t give up so fast, don’t be discouraged
All travel, after all, has always been
Time travel –and the fact that you can never
Arrive at just the place that you set out for,
Has never stopped a soul
From taking to the road or boarding ships.
See for yourself, pick up a souvenir
For even if you find things not as rosy
As can be seen on postcards, even if
You find yourself, bewildered, wondering
What all the fuzz they made
–all the romantic nonsense– was about
There still is hope you’ll find a special place
A corner of the world
That never has been seen as by your eyes.

Now take your seat, adjust the straps, relax
And goodbye, for no two
shall ever meet two times.


La culpa es una red que el tiempo tiende
De mar a mar al aire y trasciende
La fe del inocente,
Y fue anudada con sedal de sueño.

A Sonnet to Prove the Infinitude of Primes

To prove there is an infinite amount
Of primes. Assume we know all primes, assume
A largest prime, a prime that caps the count,
Then step through from that premise to its doom.

If it were true then you could multiply
That prime with every other prime and add
The unit to the product – and thereby
Obtain a number larger than we’ve had,

Which couldn’t be divided by primes known,
And thus is either product of a tandem
Of primes not known, or prime itself unknown
A paradox! quod erat demonstrandum.

This proof I wrote in rhyme with tongue in cheek
Was given by good Euclid in old Greek!


El Capitán Villalta despierta

En cambio, sin haber visto la aurora
Despierto, sin saber porqué, inquieto.
La hora está preñada, está viscosa
Apenas logro ver, algo me roza
Pero es el aire nada más, aliento
Acumulado en siglos de penumbra.
Se hace algo nuevo algo agudo,
Acero sobre piedra -son mis pasos
Rechina y cruje toda la armadura
Y sé que el peso frío en mi mano
No ha perdido el filo hambriento y puro
Mientras avanzo, firme hacia el barullo
Que viene con la luz -igual de claro
Y aumenta con el día y me llama
A entrar en la batalla convocada
En tiempos mas valientes y aguerridos.

Marginalias de Fermat

               Porque muchos son llamados, y pocos escogidos.

La prueba que no cupo en el espacio
Del margen de Diofanto fue matriz
Tan fértil de la ciencia emperatriz
Que si viviera aun sería reacio
A darles de beber a los sedientos
Que buscan entre fáciles teoremas
La clara deducción según esquemas
Que no sólo comprendan pocos cientos
La tuve, eso sí, y la tendría
Si en esta condición que trae la muerte
Tener no fuera un verbo desmentido
Tan sólo Wiles comparte mi alegría
Hasta que un necio terco tenga suerte
Y encuentre donde tantos se han perdido


En Babel
Y si no fue en Babel
Sería porque las lenguas olvidaron
El nombre del lugar donde cayó
La torre no –la torre habría caído
Tirada por el tiempo como todas
Sino el primer silencio verdadero
Ese que no es ausencia de sonido
Ese que brota donde se despierta
La tormenta que clama
Silencio de la voz que todos oyen
Y que nadie escucha
Diré entonces que fue en Babel
—Porque ya da lo mismo
Porque después los nombres ahuecados
Ya no significaron—
Que te perdí por no poder llamarte
Hey, John Crowley is on Lapham's and not telling!
http://www.laphamsquarterly.org/essays/a-well-without-a-bottom.php?page=all