Monday, July 6, 2015

Avenida--Federico García Lorca (con traducción al inglés)



Avenida

Las blancas teorías
con los ojos vendados
danzaban por el bosque.

Lentas como cisnes
y amargas como adelfas.


Pasaron sin ser vistas
por los ojos del hombre,
como de noche pasan,
inéditos, los ríos;
como por el silencio
un rumor nuevo y único.


Alguna entre su túnica
lleva una gris mirada
pero de moribundo.
.............................Otras
agitan largos ramos
de palabras confusas.

No viven y están vivas.
Van por el bosque extático.
¡Enjambre de sonámbulas!


(Lentas como cisnes
y amargas como adelfas.)

Federico García Lorca



Avenue

White theories
with blindfolded eyes
waltz through the woods--

Slow and majestic as swans,
bitter as oleander.

Pass they unseen by men's eyes,
as pass by night unprecedented rivers,
as through great silence passes
unheard of and singular murmuring.

Some one of them in robe or shroud
wears a greyish frown, moribund.

.....................................the others
rustle long branches of bewildered words.

Not living still they are alive.
Through the ecstatic forest they waltz--
a swarm of sleep-walkers.

(Slow like swans and bitter like oleander)

Tr. E. A. Costa 6 July, 2015 Granada, Nicaragua
________________________________________________
N.B.: One notes that in the translation the whole tense
structure has been changed to the present. In the original
“dance” or, as in the translation, “waltz” (danzaban) is in
the imperfect and “pass” (pasaron) is in the simple preterite.
The hinge is the generality of the simile (como pasan...ríos),
followed by lleva, agitan, viven & están—all in the present.
So the theories were dancing and passed, but though they do
not live, they are still alive, including the one that is morabund.
In the translation one attempts to transfer this subtle half-life
wholly to the present, with “not living still they are alive”
bearing the brunt of the complicated temporality of the original.
At base the Greek word “theoria” implies something seen,
later used in Geometry and Aristotle, and so forth, quite like
the modern scientific “theory”, adding depth to Lorca's
implication that, though they are alive, they are not seen
sensually by the eyes but by the mind's eye. As a poetic
commonplace, on the other hand, Swans do not sing, but
are considered visually beautiful, much like theories.
Nor clearly is the poem only about scientific theory, but also about
poetic theory, including the theory of his own poetry and
this poem, which, new and unprecedented, fully lives
while reducing the old theories to alive but without life.
The intent, however, is not a historic present but just the reverse.

Friday, July 3, 2015

The Night The Mountains Burned


What is night time to a five-year old
in warm mountains?

The house was on a bluff under
surrounding green.

You cannot imagine the air
if you weren't there.

Town was a rifle-shot down the road.

Movies had just been moved indoors
and a Lebanese family ran the show.

The coal mines were destroying the place.

Kids running through the woods
would run into stills

and just run on.

What is a still to a five-year-old
except a sign to mind your own business

which was running and playing

with Injun ghosts
who knew Daniel Boone

and dead feuders

and cool pools of water in shade
alive with crayfish,

with endless simpicities & complications?

Father—many locals still used Pappy--
knew the Lebanese, or were they Greeks?--
who would have us to supper sometimes

when the B westerns
that toured with their cowboy stars
took the stage

facing a jolly crowd
from ten miles away

armed just as they arrived.

After supper once
two cowboys who
took up acting
let the five-year-old
and brother unholster
their single-actions,

heavy and shiny and bluish black.

“Could you put a bullet
through that keyhole over there?”

“Well, sure,” one of them said,
taking the revolver back.

He wasn't lying
and wasn't shooting.

“Do you know Tom Mix?”

“Well, sure,” one them said
and wasn't talking.

Hill folk familes
came in from their
shotgun cabins
in home-spun
carrying their guns and shoes.

Someone sent Father
a carton of Maine oysters by mail.

It stunk up the PO for days.

Father laughed at the goddamned fool
who tried to send fresh oysters through
the mail.

“He's a good man and a good friend,
with a good heart,” he said,
“But there isn't much upstairs.”

Mother had one of those tightly held back
glowing small smiles.

The night the mountains burned
we were surrounded by fire

as if the stars had fallen molten & burning
on the hills.

What does a five-year-old know

of danger and disaster in Christmas lights?


E. A. Costa 3 July 2015 Granada, Nicaragua

Monday, June 29, 2015

Copla: El candil se está apagando/ The lamp is dying (Spanish and English)


El candil se está apagando,
la alcuza no tiene aceite--
no te digo que te vayas,
no te digo que te quedes.

(Canto popular español)

The lamp is dying,
the oil bottle empty.
I don't say go--
I don't say stay.


tr. E. A. Costa 29 June, 2015 Granada, Nicaragua

Sunday, June 14, 2015

Pablo Neruda Poema VII & English Translation (de 20 poemas...)



Poema VII*

Inclinado en las tardes tiro mis tristes redes
a tus ojos oceánicos.

Allí se estira y arde en la más alta hoguera
mi soledad que da vueltas los brazos como un náufrago.

Hago rojas señales sobre tus ojos ausentes
que olean como el mar a la orilla de un faro.

Sólo guardas tinieblas, hembra distante y mía,
de tu mirada emerge a veces la costa del espanto.

Inclinado en las tardes echo mis tristes redes
a ese mar que sacude tus ojos oceánicos.

Los pájaros nocturnos picotean las primeras estrellas
que centellean como mi alma cuando te amo.

Galopa la noche en su yegua sombría
desparramando espigas azules sobre el campo.


Poem VII

Arched into the afternoon I cast my grieving nets
into your ocean eyes.

Vaults and burns in the loftiest of pyres
my solitude, flinging back my arms like one shipwrecked.

I build signal fires over your absent eyes,
oiling our last rites like sea on lighthouse's shore.

You keep to the darkness, my far off female and mate--
& from your stare now and then emerges the coast of all terror.

Arched into the afternoon I throw my grieving nets
at the sea jouncing your ocean eyes.

The night birds peck out the first of the stars,
sparkling and flashing like my soul when I love you.

Nightfall gallops on her shade mare
strewing blue spikes of corn over the countryside.

Tr. E. A. Costa 14 June, 2015 Granada, Nicaragua
_________________________________________________

* from 20 poemas de amor y una canción desesperada 

Wednesday, June 3, 2015

Sappho Again/ Safo otra vez


Through her sleep
without end or moon
her lovers of every age
keep true and nevermore
sleeps she alone.

E. A. Costa 3 June, 2015 Granada, Nicaragua


Sáfo otra vez

Por su sueño
sin fin o luna
sus amantes
de cada época
permanecen leales
y ella nunca más
duerme sola.

Tr. E.A. Costa junio 3 2015 Granada, Nicaragua



Sunday, May 31, 2015

Los cuatro costados de Ludwig Wittgenstein/ The Four Sides Of Ludwig Wittgenstein



Los cuatro costados de Ludwig Wittgenstein
                            
                             A ése le gustaría volar pero
                             le faltan las plumas.

La interior de esta caja es otra caja.

Al otro lado de esta cara está otra cara.

El revés de esta máscara también es una máscara.

Y el anverso de tí es la otra superficie de tú.


E. A. Costa 31 May, 2015 Granada, Nicaragua


The Four Sides Of Ludwig Wittgenstein

                                The chap wants to fly
                                but has no feathers.

The inside of this box is another box.

On the other side of this face is
another face.

The reverse of this mask
is also a mask.

And the obverse of thee is
the other surface of you.

Tr. E. A. Costa 31 May, 2015 Granada, Nicaragua

Tuesday, May 26, 2015

The Catechism Of Venus


                     ...rerum naturae sola gubernas...
                                                        Lucretius

Who is Venus?

Born grown and whole out of the mind and wind of Zeus her skin of sea is like a tree endlessly branching into an illusion of final surface.

What  is Venus' mien?

Shimmering joy of sky her eyes, breasts full and lolling, lascivious thighs and hips inviting an infinity of fathoming.

What is the essence of Venus' divinity?

She is the solar furnace who concentrates rays of desire out of vacuum, creating all about to be.

What is Venus' role in the nature of things?

She is the playful ghost limb of a universe that rises and subsides with the tides--the moved through of every mover--she is purest, lewdest, most alluring mother and the antimatter of the cosmos' fiery pasts and futures.

Is Venus a virgin?

No. She is married with children.

Who is Venus' husband?

Vulcan the smith.

How many children do they have?

None. Venus has numerous children, among them Cupid (by Mars) and Fortuna (by Hermes or Zeus). She was also the mother of Aeneas by Anchises.

Does Venus have a cult?

Yes. Venus is courted by all gamblers as the highest winning throw in dice....

E. A. Costa 27 May, 2015 Granada, Nicaragua