Hmmmm.

I always have a tab opened to my LJ friends page. For some  reason it was set to my own journal in the past few weeks and I didn't realise it. So I missed all the recent fun and activity. So Hi to everyone, it's good to know you are all still around here.

Delivery

Delivery

Ahead of you, still shut, the passageway
Into noise, strife and time.
You realize the rocking has stopped
Labours are grinding down
To a shrill end –or just about to start
(Depending on the point of view—but whose?)
At last, after months of secret gestation
Your powers to deal with what awaits you
Shall be put to the test.
Then you are being pushed towards the din
The world explodes on you:
Fierce realm –impossible to make sense of.
For an instant you are dimly aware
Of others calling and grabbing at you
Then knowledge of steel on your body; pain
And the plunge into the cold briny dark.

Death Fugue

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

Era Tiempo

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 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

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.

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.

Curiosity

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.

Curiosidad

No me comprendas más amada. Ya
No absorbas mi sentido. Si saber
Es tu pasión mas grande quiero ser
Misterio que jamás se agotará.