As you well know, my reader, this blog started a good, but gone, June 28.
Yesterday, therefore, it has a month of giving you good literature in English that, with very few exceptions, you could had never found anywhere else.
And I am also glad to announce we have already been sent a hundred dollars in donations, coming from Moscow.
Well, not really. But it sounds great, doesn't it?
You should be grateful, my reader. You think this is all for free?! Let me tell you this... yes, it is!
(But when our main editor starves to death, don't you dare to address any complaints for a sudden quietness)
Cheers,
lunes, 29 de julio de 2013
On major Sabines death, fifth part.
"From nine p.m. and forward
watching tv and chating
I´m wating for my father´s death.
From three months ago, waiting.
At work and when drunk
over the lonely bed and at children´s room,
inside his shed and so full pain,
his sleeplessness, his complaining and his protest,
inside his oxigen tank and his molars
inside the dawning day, looking for hope.
Looking at his bony corpse
that now is my father,
and inserting needles on the meager veins,
trying to get life into him, to give him breath
in the mouth of air...
(I´m embarrassed of myself to the hairs
for trying to write this things.
¡damned the one that believes this is a poem!)
I want to say I´m no nurse,
pimp of death,
patheon speaker, pander,
scullion of God, priest of sorrow.
I want to say I can spare some air."
--Jaime Sabines
watching tv and chating
I´m wating for my father´s death.
From three months ago, waiting.
At work and when drunk
over the lonely bed and at children´s room,
inside his shed and so full pain,
his sleeplessness, his complaining and his protest,
inside his oxigen tank and his molars
inside the dawning day, looking for hope.
Looking at his bony corpse
that now is my father,
and inserting needles on the meager veins,
trying to get life into him, to give him breath
in the mouth of air...
(I´m embarrassed of myself to the hairs
for trying to write this things.
¡damned the one that believes this is a poem!)
I want to say I´m no nurse,
pimp of death,
patheon speaker, pander,
scullion of God, priest of sorrow.
I want to say I can spare some air."
--Jaime Sabines
domingo, 28 de julio de 2013
Parks´ continuity, by Julio Cortázar
"He had started to read the novel a few days before. He abandoned it due to urgent business, opened it again when returning by train to his country house; letting himself get interested again by the plot, by the characters drawings. That afternoon, after sending a letter to his agent and discussing a sharecropping matter with his butler, he went back to the book in the quietness of the studio that looked over the oak park. Leaning back on his favorite couch and with his back facing the only door that could have bothered him with the irritating possibility of intrusions, he let his hand stroke over and over again the green velvet and started to read the last chapters. His memory held easily the main characters´ names and images; the fictional illusion took him almost instantly. He was enjoying the almost wicked pleasure of breaking himself off line by line from his surroundings, and feeling at the same time that his head leaned confortably on the high velvet backrest, that the cigarettes were still within easy reach, that beyond the windows and under the oaks, sunset air was dancing. Word by word, absorbed by the heroes´ sordid dilemma, leaving himself go towards the images that arranged and acquired color and movement, he witnessed the last meeting at the forest cabana. First arrived the woman, suspicious; then arrived the lover, his face injured by the lash of a branch. She dried his blood with kisses, admirably, but he rejected the petting, he had not come to repeat the ceremonies of a secret passion, sheltered by a world of dried leafs and furtive pathways. The dagger warmed upon his chest, under which the freedom pulsated lurking. A longing dialogue ran through the pages like a serpents river, and one could feel that everything was planned from always. Even that necking that wrapped the lover as if looking to hold him or dissuade him, drawn the unspeakable shape of other body that had to be destroyed. Nothing had been forgotten: alibis, chances, possible mistakes. From that hour on, every instant had a meticulously assigned task. The ruthless second review was barely stopped for a hand to stroke a cheek. It was getting dark.
Without looking each other already, rigidly attached to the tasks awaiting, they split at the cabana´s door. She had to follow the north heading pathway. From the opposite way he looked back for a moment, to see her run with loose hair. He ran in turn, crouching behind trees and fences, until distinguishing, through the mallow mist of dusk, the walk that headed to the house. The dogs should have not barked, and they didn't. The butler should have not been at home, and he wasn´t. He went up the porch stair and got inside. The woman´s words came from the galloping blood on his ears: first, a blue livingroom, then a gallery, a carpeted staircase. Two doors at the top. No one at the first room, no one at the second. The lounge door, and then the dagger on the hand. The light coming from the window, the high backrest of a green velvet couch, the man´s head over the couch reading a novel..."
--Julio Cortázar, 1956.
Without looking each other already, rigidly attached to the tasks awaiting, they split at the cabana´s door. She had to follow the north heading pathway. From the opposite way he looked back for a moment, to see her run with loose hair. He ran in turn, crouching behind trees and fences, until distinguishing, through the mallow mist of dusk, the walk that headed to the house. The dogs should have not barked, and they didn't. The butler should have not been at home, and he wasn´t. He went up the porch stair and got inside. The woman´s words came from the galloping blood on his ears: first, a blue livingroom, then a gallery, a carpeted staircase. Two doors at the top. No one at the first room, no one at the second. The lounge door, and then the dagger on the hand. The light coming from the window, the high backrest of a green velvet couch, the man´s head over the couch reading a novel..."
--Julio Cortázar, 1956.
jueves, 25 de julio de 2013
Luck.
"He came from a week of work at countryside
at a son of a bitch´s house and it was December or January,
I can't remember, but it was cold and when he arrived to Barcelona snow
began to fall and he took the subway and got to the corner
of a girlfriend's house and called by phone
for her to go outside and see the snow. A beautiful night, no doubt of it,
and then his friend invited him to have coffee and then they made love
and chatted and much after, he fell asleep and dreamt
he arrived to a countryside house and snow was falling
behind the house, behind the mountains, and snow was falling
and he was trapped on that valley and calling his girlfriend
by phone and her cold voice (cold but gentle) was saying
that not even the bravest one could get out of that immaculate hole,
unless he was very lucky."
--Roberto Bolaño.
at a son of a bitch´s house and it was December or January,
I can't remember, but it was cold and when he arrived to Barcelona snow
began to fall and he took the subway and got to the corner
of a girlfriend's house and called by phone
for her to go outside and see the snow. A beautiful night, no doubt of it,
and then his friend invited him to have coffee and then they made love
and chatted and much after, he fell asleep and dreamt
he arrived to a countryside house and snow was falling
behind the house, behind the mountains, and snow was falling
and he was trapped on that valley and calling his girlfriend
by phone and her cold voice (cold but gentle) was saying
that not even the bravest one could get out of that immaculate hole,
unless he was very lucky."
--Roberto Bolaño.
miércoles, 24 de julio de 2013
This homeland, by Gabriel García Marquez
"...this homeland that I did not choose by will, but was given to me as you have seen it is, as it always has been, with this unreality feeling, with this shit scent, with this historyless people that believe in nothing but life, this is the homeland imposed to me without asking..."
--Gabriel García Marquez, El otoño del patriarca (The patriach´s autumn)
martes, 23 de julio de 2013
On major Sabines, part two.
"From the sea, also from the sea,
from the fabric of sea that wrap us,
from the bang of the sea and its mouth,
from its dark vagina,
from its vomit,
from its dismal and deep pureness,
comes death, God, the rain
knocking at the window,
night, wind.
Also from earth,
from the sharp roots of houses,
from the naked and bleeding foot of trees,
from certain antique rocks that can´t be moved,
from deplorable pools, coffins of water,
from the fallen trunks where now lightnings are sleeping,
and from grass, that is the shadow of heaven´s branches,
comes God, the one-armed of a hundred arms,
blind of many eyes,
sweet, powerless.
(omniabsent, full of love,
deaf old man, without children,
spilling his heart in his belly´s cup)
Also from bones,
from the soundest salt of blood,
from the most loyal acid,
from the deepest and truthful sould,
the most eager food,
from liver and cry,
comes the tense surf of death,
and comes God laughing.
The books walk towards the bonefire.
The curtain rises: the sea appears.
(I´m not the author of the sea)"
--Jaime Sabines
from the fabric of sea that wrap us,
from the bang of the sea and its mouth,
from its dark vagina,
from its vomit,
from its dismal and deep pureness,
comes death, God, the rain
knocking at the window,
night, wind.
Also from earth,
from the sharp roots of houses,
from the naked and bleeding foot of trees,
from certain antique rocks that can´t be moved,
from deplorable pools, coffins of water,
from the fallen trunks where now lightnings are sleeping,
and from grass, that is the shadow of heaven´s branches,
comes God, the one-armed of a hundred arms,
blind of many eyes,
sweet, powerless.
(omniabsent, full of love,
deaf old man, without children,
spilling his heart in his belly´s cup)
Also from bones,
from the soundest salt of blood,
from the most loyal acid,
from the deepest and truthful sould,
the most eager food,
from liver and cry,
comes the tense surf of death,
and comes God laughing.
The books walk towards the bonefire.
The curtain rises: the sea appears.
(I´m not the author of the sea)"
--Jaime Sabines
Hi, russian
Ever since this blog started, I´ve been suprised by an unexpected--pretty much unexplainable--amount of visits from Russia.
It seems to me this could be most likely caused by two reasons:
1) Many russians speak and read English fluently; they are looking to improve or boost their proficiency by enjoying some spectacular literature in the safety of their homes and the warm company of a vodka glass.
2) Somekind of digital worm or program visits, automaticly and by chance, many blogspot sites, in the search of key words, such as, jum, English perhaps? Godzilla? Bridge? Poetry?
A third reason, not as likely, could involve a spying activity with a very unclever disguise. Of course, I am pushed to consider this choice more seriously than others given the recent unveiling of huge vigilance practices from some countries to their citizens and other countries.
But, goddamn it, why is all this fake shock about? Spying is a tool for power and control. Every capable country has an agency explicitly destined for this purpose.
Around 500 B.C. the tyrannical Dionysius of Siracuse created an ear-shaped jail for his suspects and enemies. From a certain point, and in concordance with its shape, you could hear clear as water everything said inside it.
It still exists. It is called the Dionysius ear! But, you know, back then we humans were not so hypocrite to each other, were we? The Human Rights speech wasn´t delivered to those who had to be calmed down.
So, russian, if you read this, say hi. If you are a worm, I wish someday digital crows are invented and, if you are a spy, well, good work fancy boy, you might learn something useful out of this...
Cheers, мой русский читатель!!
It seems to me this could be most likely caused by two reasons:
1) Many russians speak and read English fluently; they are looking to improve or boost their proficiency by enjoying some spectacular literature in the safety of their homes and the warm company of a vodka glass.
2) Somekind of digital worm or program visits, automaticly and by chance, many blogspot sites, in the search of key words, such as, jum, English perhaps? Godzilla? Bridge? Poetry?
A third reason, not as likely, could involve a spying activity with a very unclever disguise. Of course, I am pushed to consider this choice more seriously than others given the recent unveiling of huge vigilance practices from some countries to their citizens and other countries.
But, goddamn it, why is all this fake shock about? Spying is a tool for power and control. Every capable country has an agency explicitly destined for this purpose.
Around 500 B.C. the tyrannical Dionysius of Siracuse created an ear-shaped jail for his suspects and enemies. From a certain point, and in concordance with its shape, you could hear clear as water everything said inside it.
It still exists. It is called the Dionysius ear! But, you know, back then we humans were not so hypocrite to each other, were we? The Human Rights speech wasn´t delivered to those who had to be calmed down.
So, russian, if you read this, say hi. If you are a worm, I wish someday digital crows are invented and, if you are a spy, well, good work fancy boy, you might learn something useful out of this...
Cheers, мой русский читатель!!
lunes, 22 de julio de 2013
Dangerous women, how I love them.
"Dangerous women, how I love them,
those that, without hesitation,
would spend a life
just in revenging.
You see them in brown skin and
raw night eyes.
Their best attribute is being feline
rub over the bodies
they later stratch wildly.
How I love them
and more when more evil.
Oh, I know
I´ll die pierced
by
tiny fangs.
Oh, how much I love
to be a yarn ball.
Oh, how much
to seem a milk bowl."
--One of our associates.
those that, without hesitation,
would spend a life
just in revenging.
You see them in brown skin and
raw night eyes.
Their best attribute is being feline
rub over the bodies
they later stratch wildly.
How I love them
and more when more evil.
Oh, I know
I´ll die pierced
by
tiny fangs.
Oh, how much I love
to be a yarn ball.
Oh, how much
to seem a milk bowl."
--One of our associates.
domingo, 21 de julio de 2013
A poem for Alejandra
You haven´t met her, I know. How could you? You're a no one.
As a proof of her fame and the honor that knowing her means to me, I will translate a little poem that one of her inloved but unlucky followers has written.
One could, I´m afraid, make a book gathering what her lovers have wrote in her name: she is a muse, yes, a real and joyful one.
Such book would be irredeemably bad and pinky, but some of its poems could be considered good (by a very kind reader).
So, before you take a look on this, be sure to be forgiving.
As a proof of her fame and the honor that knowing her means to me, I will translate a little poem that one of her inloved but unlucky followers has written.
One could, I´m afraid, make a book gathering what her lovers have wrote in her name: she is a muse, yes, a real and joyful one.
Such book would be irredeemably bad and pinky, but some of its poems could be considered good (by a very kind reader).
So, before you take a look on this, be sure to be forgiving.
Song for C
"Just for your passion
I would give my life,
I would give my devalued eyes,
I would give my light and what I see,
I would give my mouth for yours,
I would give my remaining pieces,
I would give my introduced power,
I would give my box of senses,
the shadows of my panics
or my deserted alleys,
but for your passion
I would travel searching for the precise keys of the future,
for your passion I would sell my self in installments,
I would waste the watches that inhabit money,
I would desprize the pagan alphabet of sad ones.
I can be a man, a shout, a clown,
but for your passion
I would give my life."
--Manu Cáncer
I would give my life,
I would give my devalued eyes,
I would give my light and what I see,
I would give my mouth for yours,
I would give my remaining pieces,
I would give my introduced power,
I would give my box of senses,
the shadows of my panics
or my deserted alleys,
but for your passion
I would travel searching for the precise keys of the future,
for your passion I would sell my self in installments,
I would waste the watches that inhabit money,
I would desprize the pagan alphabet of sad ones.
I can be a man, a shout, a clown,
but for your passion
I would give my life."
--Manu Cáncer
sábado, 20 de julio de 2013
To be read as a question, by Julio Cortázar.
"Have you seen,
have you truly seen,
the snow, the astros, the plushy steps of breeze...
Have you touched,
have you really touched,
the dish, the bread, the face of the woman you love so much...
Have you lived,
like a slam on your forehead,
the instant, the panting, the fall, the fugue...
Have you known
with every pore of your skin, known
that your eyes, your hands, your sex, your soft heart,
had to be thrown away,
had to be cried upon,
had to be invented again."
--Julio Cortázar.
have you truly seen,
the snow, the astros, the plushy steps of breeze...
Have you touched,
have you really touched,
the dish, the bread, the face of the woman you love so much...
Have you lived,
like a slam on your forehead,
the instant, the panting, the fall, the fugue...
Have you known
with every pore of your skin, known
that your eyes, your hands, your sex, your soft heart,
had to be thrown away,
had to be cried upon,
had to be invented again."
--Julio Cortázar.
Salvalo mamita (Save it, pretty mama), by Julio Cortázar
(Introductory note: this is an example of what would be a magical poetry experiment; seemingly, and perhaps unconsciously, Julio saw it first. According to what science has found, another language carries a different thinking process; ergo, a poem in two languages could be, at least, an exotic experience. In this case I inverted the languages: wrote in spanish what was in english and vice versa)
"Save it, pretty mama,
save me so many sinking nights,
save your blue shirt (it was january, at Rome)
save it all, or save what you can.
This comes from below, mamita,
save it from oblivion, don´t let
the house rains off, that Giovanni´s
trattoria is erased,
run for me for you, save it now,
you´re leaving and the birds are dying,
you leave from me I leave from you, there´s no time,
save it mamita,
Satchmo´s voice and that shout that
sank you to the deepest of loves,
salvalo por mí,
salvalo por ti,
salvalo por nosotros.
Even though you save nothing, save it mamita."
"Save it, pretty mama,
save me so many sinking nights,
save your blue shirt (it was january, at Rome)
save it all, or save what you can.
This comes from below, mamita,
save it from oblivion, don´t let
the house rains off, that Giovanni´s
trattoria is erased,
run for me for you, save it now,
you´re leaving and the birds are dying,
you leave from me I leave from you, there´s no time,
save it mamita,
Satchmo´s voice and that shout that
sank you to the deepest of loves,
salvalo por mí,
salvalo por ti,
salvalo por nosotros.
Even though you save nothing, save it mamita."
viernes, 19 de julio de 2013
Assignment, by Julio Cortázar
"Don´t let me rest, don't you ever forgive me.
Harass me to the blood, every cruel thing shall be
you returning.
Don´t let me sleep, don´t give me peace!
Then, I will earn my kingdom,
I will born slowly.
Don´t lose me like an easy music, don´t be caress
or soft-glove;
shape me as a silex, vex me.
Set aside your human love, your smile, your hair. Give them away.
Come to me with your dry wrath of matches and scales.
Shout. Vomit sand into my mouth, brake my jaws.
I don´t mind ignoring you in broad daylight,
to know you're playing facing sun and men.
Share it.
I ask you for the cruel ritual of the gash,
what no one asks you for: the thorns
to the bone. Tear me off this infamous face,
force me to say, at last, my real, truthful name."
--Julio Cortázar.
Harass me to the blood, every cruel thing shall be
you returning.
Don´t let me sleep, don´t give me peace!
Then, I will earn my kingdom,
I will born slowly.
Don´t lose me like an easy music, don´t be caress
or soft-glove;
shape me as a silex, vex me.
Set aside your human love, your smile, your hair. Give them away.
Come to me with your dry wrath of matches and scales.
Shout. Vomit sand into my mouth, brake my jaws.
I don´t mind ignoring you in broad daylight,
to know you're playing facing sun and men.
Share it.
I ask you for the cruel ritual of the gash,
what no one asks you for: the thorns
to the bone. Tear me off this infamous face,
force me to say, at last, my real, truthful name."
--Julio Cortázar.
On how bilingualism improves decision making.
By now, you should have wondered whether you are better or not on taking some decisions using or in the context of a foreign language, or if, in contrast, your native language is more suitable for every case.
But you haven´t, have you?
Considering that this is a blog grounded on a bilingual issue, or, perhaps, on the relationship between two languages (soon three), this is a matter for me to step forward and point out some interesting facts.
We humans have serious a proclivity to make emotional choices. That is to say irrational, swift, biased and, accordingly, wrong choices.
The framing effect, for one, states that it is way more likely for someone to choose a solution, between two, fancying chance when the problem is verbaly framed in noxiousness, and favoring sure outcomes when that same problem is framed in positive terms.
Emotions interfere, as you can see.
And it turns out that, if the problem is embodied in a second language, to which we haven´t been attached in daily or intimate life, such effect fades away.
And thats just the beginning: our personalities and cognitive skills are deeply altered by the language we use. So yes: if you speak two or more languages, you might have multiple personalities. ¡Bienvenido al mundo de los locos! If you read that as well as you did with the rest of this text: it is true, welcome to the insanity realm.
Moreover, and for my delight, I think that I´ve thought about a new literary experience.
Just figure: what if a poem is written half in english and the rest in spanish. Or involving three or four languages. Wouldn´t that be amazing and delirious?
Not to say, first of all, how it could influence literature reading, which intends an emotional mood.
No offence to literature: many writters, as you might know, also make literature using non-maternal languages, and they actually feel the difference; far before scientist drawn these conclutions, Nabokov and Cioran were pointing how cold and insensible it felt to write in a foreign language.
The thesis that states a close relationship between thought and language first arrived, to science world, with Benjamin Lee Whorf.
Far ago, at mid 30s...
Well, for more on this, check out thess articles published at Scientific American and its spanish version, Investigación y Ciencia.
http://www.scientificamerican.com/article.cfm?id=a-way-with-words
http://www.scientificamerican.com/article.cfm?id=foreign-language-improve-decisions
http://www.investigacionyciencia.es/mente-y-cerebro/numeros/2010/9/cerebros-bilinges-8348
http://www.investigacionyciencia.es/mente-y-cerebro/numeros/2012/3/hablar-con-afecto-8563
Cheers,
But you haven´t, have you?
Considering that this is a blog grounded on a bilingual issue, or, perhaps, on the relationship between two languages (soon three), this is a matter for me to step forward and point out some interesting facts.
We humans have serious a proclivity to make emotional choices. That is to say irrational, swift, biased and, accordingly, wrong choices.
The framing effect, for one, states that it is way more likely for someone to choose a solution, between two, fancying chance when the problem is verbaly framed in noxiousness, and favoring sure outcomes when that same problem is framed in positive terms.
Emotions interfere, as you can see.
And it turns out that, if the problem is embodied in a second language, to which we haven´t been attached in daily or intimate life, such effect fades away.
And thats just the beginning: our personalities and cognitive skills are deeply altered by the language we use. So yes: if you speak two or more languages, you might have multiple personalities. ¡Bienvenido al mundo de los locos! If you read that as well as you did with the rest of this text: it is true, welcome to the insanity realm.
Moreover, and for my delight, I think that I´ve thought about a new literary experience.
Just figure: what if a poem is written half in english and the rest in spanish. Or involving three or four languages. Wouldn´t that be amazing and delirious?
Not to say, first of all, how it could influence literature reading, which intends an emotional mood.
No offence to literature: many writters, as you might know, also make literature using non-maternal languages, and they actually feel the difference; far before scientist drawn these conclutions, Nabokov and Cioran were pointing how cold and insensible it felt to write in a foreign language.
The thesis that states a close relationship between thought and language first arrived, to science world, with Benjamin Lee Whorf.
Far ago, at mid 30s...
Well, for more on this, check out thess articles published at Scientific American and its spanish version, Investigación y Ciencia.
http://www.scientificamerican.com/article.cfm?id=a-way-with-words
http://www.scientificamerican.com/article.cfm?id=foreign-language-improve-decisions
http://www.investigacionyciencia.es/mente-y-cerebro/numeros/2010/9/cerebros-bilinges-8348
http://www.investigacionyciencia.es/mente-y-cerebro/numeros/2012/3/hablar-con-afecto-8563
Cheers,
jueves, 18 de julio de 2013
I don´t want peace.
"I don´t want peace, there´s no peace,
I want my solitude.
I want my naked heart
to throw it on the street,
I want to go deaf-mute.
That no one comes to visit
That I don´t look at anyone
and that if there´s someone like me, with disgust,
that they shall swallow it.
I want my solitude.
I don´t want peace, there´s no peace"
--Jaime Sabines
I want my solitude.
I want my naked heart
to throw it on the street,
I want to go deaf-mute.
That no one comes to visit
That I don´t look at anyone
and that if there´s someone like me, with disgust,
that they shall swallow it.
I want my solitude.
I don´t want peace, there´s no peace"
--Jaime Sabines
Don´t save yourself
"Don´t stay standing still
at the side of the highway
don´t freeze the joy
don´t love reluctantly
don´t save yourself now
or ever
don´t save yourself
don´t fill yourself with calm
don´t set aside from world
only a peaceful corner
don´t let your eyelids fall
burdened
as judgements
do not run out of lips
don´t fall asleep sleepless
don´t think yourself unblooded
don´t judge yourself with swiftness
but if
despite everything
you can´t help it
and you freeze the joy
and love with reluctance
and save yourself now
and fill yourself with calm
and set aside from world
only a peaceful corner
and let your eyelids fall
burdened
as judgements
and you let your lips dry out
and lay to slumber sleepless
and think yourself unblooded
and judge yourself with swiftness
and stay standing still
at the side of the highway
and save yourself
then,
don´t stay beside me."
--Mario Benedetti
at the side of the highway
don´t freeze the joy
don´t love reluctantly
don´t save yourself now
or ever
don´t save yourself
don´t fill yourself with calm
don´t set aside from world
only a peaceful corner
don´t let your eyelids fall
burdened
as judgements
do not run out of lips
don´t fall asleep sleepless
don´t think yourself unblooded
don´t judge yourself with swiftness
but if
despite everything
you can´t help it
and you freeze the joy
and love with reluctance
and save yourself now
and fill yourself with calm
and set aside from world
only a peaceful corner
and let your eyelids fall
burdened
as judgements
and you let your lips dry out
and lay to slumber sleepless
and think yourself unblooded
and judge yourself with swiftness
and stay standing still
at the side of the highway
and save yourself
then,
don´t stay beside me."
--Mario Benedetti
miércoles, 17 de julio de 2013
Dirty, badly dressed.
"Upon the dog´s road my soul found
my heart. Torn apart, but alive,
dirty, badly dressed and full of love.
Upon the dog´s road, where no one wants to go.
A road only walked by poets,
when they have, at last, nothing else to do.
But I had so many things to do yet!
And, however, there I was, killing myself
at the hands of red ants and also black ants,
wandering inside the empty villages: the fright
that rose till touching stars.
A Chilean educated at Mexico can endure anything,
I thought, but it wasn´t true.
My heart cried at night. The river of being, said
some feverish lips that I then knew to be mine,
the river of being, the river of being, the ecstasy
that folds upon the riversides of these abandoned villages.
Sumulists and theologians, fortunetellers
and road robbers emerged from
aquatic realities in the middle of a metalic reality.
Only fever and poetry trigger visions.
Only love and memory.
Not these roads nor this plains.
Not these labyrinths.
Until finally my soul found my heart.
It was sick, it´s true, but was alive."
--Roberto Bolaño
my heart. Torn apart, but alive,
dirty, badly dressed and full of love.
Upon the dog´s road, where no one wants to go.
A road only walked by poets,
when they have, at last, nothing else to do.
But I had so many things to do yet!
And, however, there I was, killing myself
at the hands of red ants and also black ants,
wandering inside the empty villages: the fright
that rose till touching stars.
A Chilean educated at Mexico can endure anything,
I thought, but it wasn´t true.
My heart cried at night. The river of being, said
some feverish lips that I then knew to be mine,
the river of being, the river of being, the ecstasy
that folds upon the riversides of these abandoned villages.
Sumulists and theologians, fortunetellers
and road robbers emerged from
aquatic realities in the middle of a metalic reality.
Only fever and poetry trigger visions.
Only love and memory.
Not these roads nor this plains.
Not these labyrinths.
Until finally my soul found my heart.
It was sick, it´s true, but was alive."
--Roberto Bolaño
martes, 16 de julio de 2013
The greek
"We saw a brown skin woman constructing the cliff.
Not more than a second, as if speared by the sun. Like
the injured eyelids of the god, the premeditated child
of our infinite beach. The greek, the greek,
the mediterranean whores repeated, the masterly
breeze: the one that´s selfdirected, like a phalanx
of marble statues, streaked with blood and will,
like a diabolic and smiling plan sustained by sky
and by your eyes. Renegade of cities and of the Republic,
when believing that everything's lost, upon your eyes I will rely.
when the tender defeat convinces us of how useless it is to
keep struggling, upon your eyes I will rely"
--Roberto Bolaño.
Not more than a second, as if speared by the sun. Like
the injured eyelids of the god, the premeditated child
of our infinite beach. The greek, the greek,
the mediterranean whores repeated, the masterly
breeze: the one that´s selfdirected, like a phalanx
of marble statues, streaked with blood and will,
like a diabolic and smiling plan sustained by sky
and by your eyes. Renegade of cities and of the Republic,
when believing that everything's lost, upon your eyes I will rely.
when the tender defeat convinces us of how useless it is to
keep struggling, upon your eyes I will rely"
--Roberto Bolaño.
Godzilla at Mexico
"Listen to this, my son: the bombs fell
over Ciudad de Mexico
but no one noticed.
The air carried the poison throughout
streets and open windows.
You just had your lunch and were watching
cartoons at the tv.
I was reading at the next room when I knew
we were about to die.
Despite dizziness and nausea I crawled to the
dinning room and found you lying at the floor.
We huged. You asked me what happened
and I didn´t say we where on death´s program
but that we were about to start a trip,
one more, together, and you shouldn´t fear.
When she left, Death didn´t even
close our eyes.
what are we? a week or a year after you asked,
ants, bees, wrong ciphers at
chance´s rotten soup?
We are human beings, my son, almost birds,
public and secret heroes."
--Roberto Bolaño
over Ciudad de Mexico
but no one noticed.
The air carried the poison throughout
streets and open windows.
You just had your lunch and were watching
cartoons at the tv.
I was reading at the next room when I knew
we were about to die.
Despite dizziness and nausea I crawled to the
dinning room and found you lying at the floor.
We huged. You asked me what happened
and I didn´t say we where on death´s program
but that we were about to start a trip,
one more, together, and you shouldn´t fear.
When she left, Death didn´t even
close our eyes.
what are we? a week or a year after you asked,
ants, bees, wrong ciphers at
chance´s rotten soup?
We are human beings, my son, almost birds,
public and secret heroes."
--Roberto Bolaño
lunes, 15 de julio de 2013
On Latin American literature.
So here we are, at a blog whose very title states a difference between Latin American and American poetry.
Someone should be wondering what is the point in defining such border.
Then the next logical question is: what links an artist to a specific national or regional space?
In any case, editorial and patriotic values and views are what's more powerful when you look at an author's claimed nationality.
Borges, for instance, taking into account his refined litteracy, could as well be considered to be an English writer. But how could argentinian people let that happen? Ergo, he is a Latin American.
A reasonable last note is this: many intelectuals, after nationalism bonded to romantic movements faded, are more confortable with a world citizen status.
But, will politics some day acknowledge that trend?
Futhermore, does it really count regarding editorial affairs?
Someone should be wondering what is the point in defining such border.
Then the next logical question is: what links an artist to a specific national or regional space?
In any case, editorial and patriotic values and views are what's more powerful when you look at an author's claimed nationality.
Borges, for instance, taking into account his refined litteracy, could as well be considered to be an English writer. But how could argentinian people let that happen? Ergo, he is a Latin American.
A reasonable last note is this: many intelectuals, after nationalism bonded to romantic movements faded, are more confortable with a world citizen status.
But, will politics some day acknowledge that trend?
Futhermore, does it really count regarding editorial affairs?
Mister Wiltshire
"It´s all over, the dream voice said, and now you´re the reflection
of that mister Wiltshire, copra´s merchant at the south seas,
the white that married Urna, that had many children,
the one that killed Case and never returned to England,
you´re like the cripple that love turned into hero:
you´ll never return to your homeland (yet, which is your homeland?)
you´ll never be a wise man, well, not even a man
of reasonable inteligence, but love and your blood
moved you to make a step, uncertain but necessary, in the middle
of the night, and the love that guided that step saves you."
--Roberto Bolaño.
of that mister Wiltshire, copra´s merchant at the south seas,
the white that married Urna, that had many children,
the one that killed Case and never returned to England,
you´re like the cripple that love turned into hero:
you´ll never return to your homeland (yet, which is your homeland?)
you´ll never be a wise man, well, not even a man
of reasonable inteligence, but love and your blood
moved you to make a step, uncertain but necessary, in the middle
of the night, and the love that guided that step saves you."
--Roberto Bolaño.
domingo, 14 de julio de 2013
Nietzsche, by William Ospina
"A god is dying at the very center of a twilight-coloured opal.
A grass leaf is dying over Christ´s chest.
A rose is dying at the stagnant air of Maguncia´s
cathedral,
pierced by a burning sun needle.
A plain where drunk leopards romp is dying,
An angel is dying over a very white glacier.
A ship crowed with old people is dying over a heaven´s
hill, which air is loaded of light and blue dolphins.
A dome is dying under the siege of butterflies.
A luxurious and sonorous lupanar of sick kisses is dying
My heart is dying under the cruel falcons of Lou´s
oblivion.
I am being erased in her pupils, beatiful and hopeful
like a canvas.
A bird is dying inside a forest of clouds.
A glacier struggle is dying under my silk sheets.
Something, very beatiful, is dying at my childhood bay.
Something, very dreary, is silent on its violins."
--William Ospina
A grass leaf is dying over Christ´s chest.
A rose is dying at the stagnant air of Maguncia´s
cathedral,
pierced by a burning sun needle.
A plain where drunk leopards romp is dying,
An angel is dying over a very white glacier.
A ship crowed with old people is dying over a heaven´s
hill, which air is loaded of light and blue dolphins.
A dome is dying under the siege of butterflies.
A luxurious and sonorous lupanar of sick kisses is dying
My heart is dying under the cruel falcons of Lou´s
oblivion.
I am being erased in her pupils, beatiful and hopeful
like a canvas.
A bird is dying inside a forest of clouds.
A glacier struggle is dying under my silk sheets.
Something, very beatiful, is dying at my childhood bay.
Something, very dreary, is silent on its violins."
--William Ospina
Saint January
"You that with flamboyant spear
break the ice of my soul
and push it howling into the sea
of its supreme hope,
every time clearer and healthier,
free, in its loving subjection:
that´s why it celebrates your miracles
¡Beatiful January!"
--Friedrich Nietzsche
break the ice of my soul
and push it howling into the sea
of its supreme hope,
every time clearer and healthier,
free, in its loving subjection:
that´s why it celebrates your miracles
¡Beatiful January!"
--Friedrich Nietzsche
On Nietzsche
I thought about how wonderful it had been to translate Walt Whitman's poem and the poem on him by William Ospina.
I thought, well, lets do that again, with a different writer.
With William Ospina being the constant figure, such exercise could be repeated, with Nietzsche as our new guest.
Much of Nietzsche´s prose contain, as it usually does, a poetic strength.
He wrote barely a few poems, though; not too long.
And, if you ask me, or your honest taste, they can't be compared with his aphorisms.
One could hardly know for sure if he would have liked to be recalled by his own poems, but I guess he would be annoyed.
Yet as he wrote a cruel speech for God's funeral, then he deserves no mercy on his soul, or diligence on his posthumous will.
For the sake of righteousness, here we go again...
I thought, well, lets do that again, with a different writer.
With William Ospina being the constant figure, such exercise could be repeated, with Nietzsche as our new guest.
Much of Nietzsche´s prose contain, as it usually does, a poetic strength.
He wrote barely a few poems, though; not too long.
And, if you ask me, or your honest taste, they can't be compared with his aphorisms.
One could hardly know for sure if he would have liked to be recalled by his own poems, but I guess he would be annoyed.
Yet as he wrote a cruel speech for God's funeral, then he deserves no mercy on his soul, or diligence on his posthumous will.
For the sake of righteousness, here we go again...
viernes, 12 de julio de 2013
Rain
"It rains and you say it´s like if clouds
cried. Then you cover your mouth and
hurry up. Like if those scrawny clouds cried?
Imposible. But then, from where is all that anger,
that dispair that shall take us all to hell?
Nature hides some of it´s proceedures
in Mysterty, its stepbrother. So this afternoon
which you now consider to be as one of the world ending
sooner than you think will seem to you just
a melancholic afternoon, a lost in memory
loneliness afternoon: the mirror of Nature. Or you
would as well forget it. Nor rain, or cry, or your steps
that resonate in the way to the cliff matter;
now you can cry and let your image dilute
in the windshield of the cars parked all along
the Sea Walk. But you can´t get lost."
--Roberto Bolaño
cried. Then you cover your mouth and
hurry up. Like if those scrawny clouds cried?
Imposible. But then, from where is all that anger,
that dispair that shall take us all to hell?
Nature hides some of it´s proceedures
in Mysterty, its stepbrother. So this afternoon
which you now consider to be as one of the world ending
sooner than you think will seem to you just
a melancholic afternoon, a lost in memory
loneliness afternoon: the mirror of Nature. Or you
would as well forget it. Nor rain, or cry, or your steps
that resonate in the way to the cliff matter;
now you can cry and let your image dilute
in the windshield of the cars parked all along
the Sea Walk. But you can´t get lost."
--Roberto Bolaño
Roberto Bolaño
If you seriously think of the posibility of this blog being some other unnecesary honor and sacrifice upon the mainstream latinamerican artists, well... you might be thinking of Roberto Bolaño.
It doesnt mean that he was in some way a hipster. Yet it is undeniable that our idea of a hipster is strongly linked with a crew of writers that was first seen at the early 20th century, and whose habits and signs were recieved and continued by some artists born in the 50s and 60s.
Coffee shops, dark lonely streets, bleak city benches, forbidden-forgotten subways... images that could describe their elemental tools and resources.
Roberto, let us sit on your chairs, stroll around your huge crime cities, let us get wet under gray rainy afternoons, and be not-in-good-mood intelectuals, lost but happy
It doesnt mean that he was in some way a hipster. Yet it is undeniable that our idea of a hipster is strongly linked with a crew of writers that was first seen at the early 20th century, and whose habits and signs were recieved and continued by some artists born in the 50s and 60s.
Coffee shops, dark lonely streets, bleak city benches, forbidden-forgotten subways... images that could describe their elemental tools and resources.
Roberto, let us sit on your chairs, stroll around your huge crime cities, let us get wet under gray rainy afternoons, and be not-in-good-mood intelectuals, lost but happy
jueves, 11 de julio de 2013
On death.
With time one gets to discover, I think, that horrors, fear, darkness and evil are easier to bite when writing poems.
Dante's Divine Comedy has more intensity due to the journey into hell.
Baudelaire isn´t know by his encouraging images.
Ezra Pound isn´t... well, Ezra pound is no death chanter, but his verses are, at least, ironic.
One gets to assume, at some point, that it may be a modern issue or trend.
But you look at the holy bible and see, even without reading, that it is biased towards guilt and pain.
"Blessed are those who mourn..."
Jaime Sabines has a splendid mourning.
Let him share his blessing with all of us.
Dante's Divine Comedy has more intensity due to the journey into hell.
Baudelaire isn´t know by his encouraging images.
Ezra Pound isn´t... well, Ezra pound is no death chanter, but his verses are, at least, ironic.
One gets to assume, at some point, that it may be a modern issue or trend.
But you look at the holy bible and see, even without reading, that it is biased towards guilt and pain.
"Blessed are those who mourn..."
Jaime Sabines has a splendid mourning.
Let him share his blessing with all of us.
On major Sabines, first part.
"1. Let me repose,
loose the muscles of the heart
and put to sleep my soul
to be able to speak loud,
to be able to recall this days,
the longest of my time.
We barely convalesce in anguish
and we are weak, and frightened,
waking up three o four times in our scarce sleep
to see you at night and know that you´re breathing.
We need to wake up to be more awaken
in this nightmare full of people and noises.
You are the invulnerable trunk and we its branches,
that why this hack make us tremble.
We never standed upon your death
to think of your death,
nor we have never seen you as more than strenght and joyness.
We don´t know well, but suddenly it comes
an endless notice,
a sword escaped from God´s mouth
that falls and falls and falls slowly.
And here it is that we shake with fear,
that contained mourn choke us,
that our throat is squeezed by fear.
We start moving and we will never
stop moving, after midnight,
in the hallway of this silent sanatory
where a nurse is awaken as an angel.
Waiting for you to die was dying slowly,
being dropping from the death´s pipe,
die a little, to pieces.
There has not been a longer hour than the one you were sleepless,
nor a denser tunnel of horror and misery,
than the one your mournings filled,
your poor wounded body."
-Jaime Sabines.
loose the muscles of the heart
and put to sleep my soul
to be able to speak loud,
to be able to recall this days,
the longest of my time.
We barely convalesce in anguish
and we are weak, and frightened,
waking up three o four times in our scarce sleep
to see you at night and know that you´re breathing.
We need to wake up to be more awaken
in this nightmare full of people and noises.
You are the invulnerable trunk and we its branches,
that why this hack make us tremble.
We never standed upon your death
to think of your death,
nor we have never seen you as more than strenght and joyness.
We don´t know well, but suddenly it comes
an endless notice,
a sword escaped from God´s mouth
that falls and falls and falls slowly.
And here it is that we shake with fear,
that contained mourn choke us,
that our throat is squeezed by fear.
We start moving and we will never
stop moving, after midnight,
in the hallway of this silent sanatory
where a nurse is awaken as an angel.
Waiting for you to die was dying slowly,
being dropping from the death´s pipe,
die a little, to pieces.
There has not been a longer hour than the one you were sleepless,
nor a denser tunnel of horror and misery,
than the one your mournings filled,
your poor wounded body."
-Jaime Sabines.
miércoles, 10 de julio de 2013
Walt Whitman, by William Ospina.
"I don´t deplore ignoring what happened next between
the States,
in other or in many centuries, what came next
after swift railroads,
after the amazing telegraphs and the cosmic
death of Lincoln.
Something shall have happened, faster ships
will replace those,
huge reapers would have substituted men
in the harvest of continental cornfields,
and men that way freed of their labour shall
have been able to devote to live freely
and to sing idler songs
(that´s, at least, my hope)
or shall have been thrown, commanded by obscene bosses, to
war in remote ricefields
(there will always be place for fright
to win).
Ignoring it does not afflict me. I will ignore so much
I couldn´t count it:
the future is as numberless as the most curdled
and clear-cut sky in winter.
I don´t dedicate to melancholic counting of
what I leave:
if something truly exists, it was before me,
and will last longer,
I bearly stroked it by the way like a handful
of grass.
What came after the inmense rotatories, after the
crowded towers?
Did they do better ships, with bolder sails
and more complex masts?
And how did my relatives ended their lives?
Perhaps the small and blonde niece got to be
a severe old woman, abandoned by her seven children,
and that boy I loved became a great Magistrate, or
a great criminal, or a dementic genius...
Always something unpredictable, something that anguish
happily solved,
or that awfuly turned over what was radiantly
progressing.
Ignoring what will happen with my loved republic
does not afflict me.
Every end is melancholic, but is sorrounded by
splendid beginnings,
and it is beautiful to see the great oak rolling
under the axe of the scrapping
if around young oaks rise.
Everything that´s loved will follow its faith, every thing
will stay with it´s rust of chances,
all those who I loved shall start surrending gently to the
arms of the formless,
I know that fading is the condition for the sun to
fly again from hands of night.
Parents, blurry parents of my parents, supreme
bonfire of generations which alive blood
runs through my veins,
It wasn´t given to them forsee the future, always amazing
and new, nor to harvest what they planted.
Swifter vehicles, miraculous ways of sending
messages from distance,
unspoiled jungles conquered, the seabeds,
the planets, everything is well set for men´s
sons advance in ther formidable adventure.
And it could well be that wars or plagues reduced
this vasts republic again into villages,
or that a curse sealled for ever books and
tumbs
and memory of past days was forbidden.
Nothing would be lost, any way,
wine is magnificent, but water is better, it make us drunk
in a more mystical way,
it won´t reveal that other that hides in me, it reveals
myself.
To you, in many centuries, all I can tell you is that nothing
was given to us differently,
you could see yourself in every bush and river, in the dizzy
fly of the bee.
What I name is eternal.
Nothing will be better than it has been.
The parties at the pink pavilions where with
savage flowers and incomprehensible liquors the
audacious crews are shipped off.
(heading to Mars and Venus, their grandchildren will
go across Andromeda)
aren´t less joyful and solemn that those celebrations at
asirian tents (I´m looking at them) before
battle.
And while beer remains beer it will taste the same
at Moon´s pubs
or at sunny Mesopotamian tables.
There aren´t centuries, nor millenia, nor ages for twinkling
stars:
every glint is a beginning, every blink an
agony,
and the silver bands in which future ships will travel
aren´t what´s most amazing,
nor it is the tower they rose at Babel, next to
the big river,
it is this summer noon, the little window
upon which universe waves smash,
and this blind that sections light,
and this magical voices that cross the lobbies,
and this red stair of massif shadows that joins
every plane of the world"
-William Ospina, El país del viento (The wind country).
the States,
in other or in many centuries, what came next
after swift railroads,
after the amazing telegraphs and the cosmic
death of Lincoln.
Something shall have happened, faster ships
will replace those,
huge reapers would have substituted men
in the harvest of continental cornfields,
and men that way freed of their labour shall
have been able to devote to live freely
and to sing idler songs
(that´s, at least, my hope)
or shall have been thrown, commanded by obscene bosses, to
war in remote ricefields
(there will always be place for fright
to win).
Ignoring it does not afflict me. I will ignore so much
I couldn´t count it:
the future is as numberless as the most curdled
and clear-cut sky in winter.
I don´t dedicate to melancholic counting of
what I leave:
if something truly exists, it was before me,
and will last longer,
I bearly stroked it by the way like a handful
of grass.
What came after the inmense rotatories, after the
crowded towers?
Did they do better ships, with bolder sails
and more complex masts?
And how did my relatives ended their lives?
Perhaps the small and blonde niece got to be
a severe old woman, abandoned by her seven children,
and that boy I loved became a great Magistrate, or
a great criminal, or a dementic genius...
Always something unpredictable, something that anguish
happily solved,
or that awfuly turned over what was radiantly
progressing.
Ignoring what will happen with my loved republic
does not afflict me.
Every end is melancholic, but is sorrounded by
splendid beginnings,
and it is beautiful to see the great oak rolling
under the axe of the scrapping
if around young oaks rise.
Everything that´s loved will follow its faith, every thing
will stay with it´s rust of chances,
all those who I loved shall start surrending gently to the
arms of the formless,
I know that fading is the condition for the sun to
fly again from hands of night.
Parents, blurry parents of my parents, supreme
bonfire of generations which alive blood
runs through my veins,
It wasn´t given to them forsee the future, always amazing
and new, nor to harvest what they planted.
Swifter vehicles, miraculous ways of sending
messages from distance,
unspoiled jungles conquered, the seabeds,
the planets, everything is well set for men´s
sons advance in ther formidable adventure.
And it could well be that wars or plagues reduced
this vasts republic again into villages,
or that a curse sealled for ever books and
tumbs
and memory of past days was forbidden.
Nothing would be lost, any way,
wine is magnificent, but water is better, it make us drunk
in a more mystical way,
it won´t reveal that other that hides in me, it reveals
myself.
To you, in many centuries, all I can tell you is that nothing
was given to us differently,
you could see yourself in every bush and river, in the dizzy
fly of the bee.
What I name is eternal.
Nothing will be better than it has been.
The parties at the pink pavilions where with
savage flowers and incomprehensible liquors the
audacious crews are shipped off.
(heading to Mars and Venus, their grandchildren will
go across Andromeda)
aren´t less joyful and solemn that those celebrations at
asirian tents (I´m looking at them) before
battle.
And while beer remains beer it will taste the same
at Moon´s pubs
or at sunny Mesopotamian tables.
There aren´t centuries, nor millenia, nor ages for twinkling
stars:
every glint is a beginning, every blink an
agony,
and the silver bands in which future ships will travel
aren´t what´s most amazing,
nor it is the tower they rose at Babel, next to
the big river,
it is this summer noon, the little window
upon which universe waves smash,
and this blind that sections light,
and this magical voices that cross the lobbies,
and this red stair of massif shadows that joins
every plane of the world"
-William Ospina, El país del viento (The wind country).
La canción de Mí Mismo
"1
Me celebro a mí mismo, y canto a mí mismo,
y lo que yo asuma habrás de asumir,
pues cada átomo de mí, tan bien a ti te pertenece.
Desempleo mi alma e invito a mi alma,
Me acuesto y vago a mi aire observando una lanza de hierba veraniega.
Mi lengua, cada átomo en mi sangre, se formó de este suelo, de esta tierra,
nacidos aquí de padres nacidos aquí de padres que igual, y sus padres igual.
Yo, ahora de treinta y siete años de edad y perfecta salud comienzo,
a esperar que así sea hasta la muerte.
Credos y escuelas en receso,
retirándose un poco satisfechas de su ser, sin olvidarse,
yo albergo al bien y al mal, y me permito hablar a cualquier riesgo,
naturaleza inédita de energía original."
--Walt Whitman.
Me celebro a mí mismo, y canto a mí mismo,
y lo que yo asuma habrás de asumir,
pues cada átomo de mí, tan bien a ti te pertenece.
Desempleo mi alma e invito a mi alma,
Me acuesto y vago a mi aire observando una lanza de hierba veraniega.
Mi lengua, cada átomo en mi sangre, se formó de este suelo, de esta tierra,
nacidos aquí de padres nacidos aquí de padres que igual, y sus padres igual.
Yo, ahora de treinta y siete años de edad y perfecta salud comienzo,
a esperar que así sea hasta la muerte.
Credos y escuelas en receso,
retirándose un poco satisfechas de su ser, sin olvidarse,
yo albergo al bien y al mal, y me permito hablar a cualquier riesgo,
naturaleza inédita de energía original."
--Walt Whitman.
Walt Whitman and Himself.
The one, the great, the poet... William Ospina. Yes, himself, with it´s majestic fame and huge recognition throughout the globe... and so on
He decided to dedicate poems to bigger artists. One of those was Walt Whitman.
And him, the Walt, the Whitman, the essayist and journalist... and so on. He wrote a long and amazing poem to himself.
There is a difference between them, I mean between Walt Whitman and himself.
As you might have an operative brain at your disposal and a philosophic training by now, it is for you to define such distance, or reject it, or... and so on.
This will brake with the usual lenght of the poems among this blog; these will be long.
Actually, one will be in Spanish, as it was written in English, and I will only translate it partially, as I am not being paid for such an effort.
He decided to dedicate poems to bigger artists. One of those was Walt Whitman.
And him, the Walt, the Whitman, the essayist and journalist... and so on. He wrote a long and amazing poem to himself.
There is a difference between them, I mean between Walt Whitman and himself.
As you might have an operative brain at your disposal and a philosophic training by now, it is for you to define such distance, or reject it, or... and so on.
This will brake with the usual lenght of the poems among this blog; these will be long.
Actually, one will be in Spanish, as it was written in English, and I will only translate it partially, as I am not being paid for such an effort.
martes, 9 de julio de 2013
Of what is untranslatable.
It is a job, a profession with a diploma, a well paid job. Translating shouldn´t be taken lightly. There are fundamental things involved, like the name of artists, their success, their readers opinion and their satisfaction. Everything. You can´t be too serious about it.
And as one of those things that must be taken seriously, if you´re willing to dabble with it, you better, from the very beginning, set the boundaries of possibility.
Much is lost in the translation process. Music. Rhythm. Meaning. Rime. Structure. Lost, that is to say altered, transformed and changed in many ways.
And, as you can conclude, it should not, and will never be, a simple substitution, a code replaced by other, mechanically. What takes place is a deep dialogue between two large cultural bodies.
Language has a practical level, in which basic comunicative needs are fulfilled. Yet, it is not everything. Literature is greater and vaster than that. It requires for native speakers to make interpretation efforts, go beyond what´s daily known and constructed for the sake of practicality.
In such terms, and overcoming these obstacles, the translation activity develops.
Not every expression is translatable: they demand the original spelling or pronunciation in order to be interpreted.
What´s more, complexity is far from allowing this to be a right-wrong field; there will always be a plural arrangement of right courses of action. Some favoring phonetics, others meaning, some others would favor possible wordplays or paradoxes.
And some, despite the time and effort invested, could harm every aspect.
That is why any advise or correction is welcome.
So is any donation....
And as one of those things that must be taken seriously, if you´re willing to dabble with it, you better, from the very beginning, set the boundaries of possibility.
Much is lost in the translation process. Music. Rhythm. Meaning. Rime. Structure. Lost, that is to say altered, transformed and changed in many ways.
And, as you can conclude, it should not, and will never be, a simple substitution, a code replaced by other, mechanically. What takes place is a deep dialogue between two large cultural bodies.
Language has a practical level, in which basic comunicative needs are fulfilled. Yet, it is not everything. Literature is greater and vaster than that. It requires for native speakers to make interpretation efforts, go beyond what´s daily known and constructed for the sake of practicality.
In such terms, and overcoming these obstacles, the translation activity develops.
Not every expression is translatable: they demand the original spelling or pronunciation in order to be interpreted.
What´s more, complexity is far from allowing this to be a right-wrong field; there will always be a plural arrangement of right courses of action. Some favoring phonetics, others meaning, some others would favor possible wordplays or paradoxes.
And some, despite the time and effort invested, could harm every aspect.
That is why any advise or correction is welcome.
So is any donation....
You hurt me.
"Mildly, unbearably, you hurt me.
Take my head. Cut my neck.
There is nothing left of me after this love.
Under the rubbles of my soul, look for me,
listen to me.
In some place, my surviving voice, is calling,
asking for your amazement, your enlighted silence.
Going across walls, atmospheres, ages,
your face (your face that seems like being true)
comes from death, from before
the first day I awoke to this world.
¡What a clear face, what a softness
of abstracted light,
what a drawing of honey over water leafs!
I love your eyes, I love, I love your eyes,
I´m like the child of your eyes,
like a drop of your eyes I am.
Lift me. From your feet lift me, pick me,
from the ground, from the shadow you step on,
from the corner of your bedroom you don´t see in dreams.
Lift me. Cause I have fallen in your hands,
and wanna live, live, live."
-Jaime Sabines
Take my head. Cut my neck.
There is nothing left of me after this love.
Under the rubbles of my soul, look for me,
listen to me.
In some place, my surviving voice, is calling,
asking for your amazement, your enlighted silence.
Going across walls, atmospheres, ages,
your face (your face that seems like being true)
comes from death, from before
the first day I awoke to this world.
¡What a clear face, what a softness
of abstracted light,
what a drawing of honey over water leafs!
I love your eyes, I love, I love your eyes,
I´m like the child of your eyes,
like a drop of your eyes I am.
Lift me. From your feet lift me, pick me,
from the ground, from the shadow you step on,
from the corner of your bedroom you don´t see in dreams.
Lift me. Cause I have fallen in your hands,
and wanna live, live, live."
-Jaime Sabines
lunes, 8 de julio de 2013
Orchestra director
"Why does that forgotten book return when life was about to need it?
Why do we always find real love when looking for it through paths of deceit?
Why does the Cesar resurge, fiercer? Why is Aspasia´s daughter once again Aspasia?
Why are there things and moments lost through days that seem to give, all the sudden, a sense to everything?
Why do temples flourish out of their own ruins?
Why does the nose of the sphinx return while dreaming?
Why is the most fleeting of joys able to efface herds of insomnia?
Why do only some things of time stretch into memories?
Why does death return where there has been death?
Why is beauty the last flower of horror?
Why is horror the last flower of beauty?
These things unsettle me.
Why does our destiny resemble us so much?
Why does the one who has love find love?
Why does the one who has fright find fright?
Why does the nocturne sleep redeem us from the day?
Why are there always knocks at Macbeth's door?
Why does the jester disappear when Lear gets mad?
Why are the hawthorns so scared?
Why are the herons so calm?
Why is water gentle and concentrical?
Why is everyone complete after so many deaths?
Why is Troy intact on memory?
Why do we hate the barbarian, yet we are the barbarian?
Why isn´t the snail despaired by his own rate?
These things unsettle me.
Why so many casual meetings?
And why is it so hard to find what's seeked?
Why, after so many industrial millenia, are the grass, the wind, the water perfect again?
Why is nothing ever sunk definitely?
Why do golden galleons shine again?
Why this same love, dead long ago?
Why is what's most precious lost?
Why is what's most precious saved?
Why does the shadow always strike where it is most painful?
Why are there still a handful of living things, small compared to Babilon´s ankles, intimating with them, joining their shout to the golden rumour of the dead?
Mortals, this is my answer:
because life is not a road or a stair,
because life isn´t redemption or justice,
because history does not ascend to plenitude, nor is looking
for the truth or the eternal,
because there is a perfection on abandonment,
and there is a perfection on the effort,
because the salamander is not less important than Shakespeare,
because life is music."
William Ospina, ¿Con quién habla Virginia caminando hacia el agua? (Who is Virginia talking to while walking towards water?)
Why do we always find real love when looking for it through paths of deceit?
Why does the Cesar resurge, fiercer? Why is Aspasia´s daughter once again Aspasia?
Why are there things and moments lost through days that seem to give, all the sudden, a sense to everything?
Why do temples flourish out of their own ruins?
Why does the nose of the sphinx return while dreaming?
Why is the most fleeting of joys able to efface herds of insomnia?
Why do only some things of time stretch into memories?
Why does death return where there has been death?
Why is beauty the last flower of horror?
Why is horror the last flower of beauty?
These things unsettle me.
Why does our destiny resemble us so much?
Why does the one who has love find love?
Why does the one who has fright find fright?
Why does the nocturne sleep redeem us from the day?
Why are there always knocks at Macbeth's door?
Why does the jester disappear when Lear gets mad?
Why are the hawthorns so scared?
Why are the herons so calm?
Why is water gentle and concentrical?
Why is everyone complete after so many deaths?
Why is Troy intact on memory?
Why do we hate the barbarian, yet we are the barbarian?
Why isn´t the snail despaired by his own rate?
These things unsettle me.
Why so many casual meetings?
And why is it so hard to find what's seeked?
Why, after so many industrial millenia, are the grass, the wind, the water perfect again?
Why is nothing ever sunk definitely?
Why do golden galleons shine again?
Why this same love, dead long ago?
Why is what's most precious lost?
Why is what's most precious saved?
Why does the shadow always strike where it is most painful?
Why are there still a handful of living things, small compared to Babilon´s ankles, intimating with them, joining their shout to the golden rumour of the dead?
Mortals, this is my answer:
because life is not a road or a stair,
because life isn´t redemption or justice,
because history does not ascend to plenitude, nor is looking
for the truth or the eternal,
because there is a perfection on abandonment,
and there is a perfection on the effort,
because the salamander is not less important than Shakespeare,
because life is music."
William Ospina, ¿Con quién habla Virginia caminando hacia el agua? (Who is Virginia talking to while walking towards water?)
They are Powerful
"Don´t say you are thristy, or they will bring you a glass of your own blood.
Don´t say you are hungry, or they will bring a tray with your own cut fingers.
Don´t say you are sleepy, or they will stitch your eyelids with thread.
Don´t say you love someone, or they will bring his putrid heart.
Don´t say you love the world, or they will increase the fires.
Don´t say you are looking for God, or they will fill your mouth with embers.
Don´t say that how beautiful is the dew that sweetly coats the fields,
for in every celestial drop they will inoculate pestilence."
-William Ospina, ¿Con quién habla Virginia caminando hacia el agua? (Who is Virginia talking to while walking towards water?)
Don´t say you are hungry, or they will bring a tray with your own cut fingers.
Don´t say you are sleepy, or they will stitch your eyelids with thread.
Don´t say you love someone, or they will bring his putrid heart.
Don´t say you love the world, or they will increase the fires.
Don´t say you are looking for God, or they will fill your mouth with embers.
Don´t say that how beautiful is the dew that sweetly coats the fields,
for in every celestial drop they will inoculate pestilence."
-William Ospina, ¿Con quién habla Virginia caminando hacia el agua? (Who is Virginia talking to while walking towards water?)
domingo, 7 de julio de 2013
On epigrams and Haikus
Some poems here are quite brief, to say the least.
It is most correct enought to see brief poems as divided in two groups: Epigrams and Haikus. The first is a poem that consists in a short and ingenious statement, so you shall look at it as a very clever and handy condensed idea.
e.g:
Here lies my wife: here let her lie!
Now she´s at rest-and so am I
-- John Dryden
A Haiku is a poetic structure that comes from traditonal Japanese culture; it is usually two ideas joined by a color giving connector, which might be other sentence, and usually on a natural theme
e.g:
"Every leaf
of ten long autums
in an instant"
-William Ospina
It is most correct enought to see brief poems as divided in two groups: Epigrams and Haikus. The first is a poem that consists in a short and ingenious statement, so you shall look at it as a very clever and handy condensed idea.
e.g:
Here lies my wife: here let her lie!
Now she´s at rest-and so am I
-- John Dryden
A Haiku is a poetic structure that comes from traditonal Japanese culture; it is usually two ideas joined by a color giving connector, which might be other sentence, and usually on a natural theme
e.g:
"Every leaf
of ten long autums
in an instant"
-William Ospina
My father. A long conversation.
"Some times
I see in my hands the hands
of my father and my voice
is his.
a dark fear
strokes me.
Perhaps at night
I dream his dreams
and the cold anger
and memories of non seen places
are him, repeating
I´m him, returning
still face of my father
under the skin
over the bones of my face."
-Jose Manuel Arango
"A long conversation.
Each night I talk to my father
after his death
we have become friends"
-José Manuel Arango.
sábado, 6 de julio de 2013
Somnambulist
"I talk to you and my words
smash at the border of your dream,
interweave with it,
they get transfered.
You give me your hand
and I don´t get your hand in my dream,
for there wont penetrate your hand
which turns into other to be mine.
Someone says something on his dream
and some other hears it from its own.
Someone delivers something to some other,
And that other recieves a different thing.
If you told me your secret
I wouldn´t understand it.
I move the palm of my hand in front of your eyes
and you don´t recognize me."
-José Manuel Arango.
smash at the border of your dream,
interweave with it,
they get transfered.
You give me your hand
and I don´t get your hand in my dream,
for there wont penetrate your hand
which turns into other to be mine.
Someone says something on his dream
and some other hears it from its own.
Someone delivers something to some other,
And that other recieves a different thing.
If you told me your secret
I wouldn´t understand it.
I move the palm of my hand in front of your eyes
and you don´t recognize me."
-José Manuel Arango.
Jose Manuel Arango
The main job and purpose of this blog is to make unknown artists known. If they are worth it, of course. Based on whose judgement? Ours? Certainly. It is not our goal to teach literary theory or somehow match people's taste. Yet, having admitted how vague is our quality standard, you can trust us strongly.
As you already know, every field of art has it´s mechanisms to choose who is or will never be known by many readers. That´s the just way the system (in a non communist sense) keeps us from asking what it is not so willing to give, for many reasons; a powerful one is the sales that may come from publishing non famous material.
And this is where critics take part: they, through massive media, will let you know how good and sublime is this new book of Christmas recipies, for instance. Or, but this is rare by it's own nature, will make use of their fame and credibility as writers or critics, and guide us mortals towards the glittering and wonderful, though dreary, new manual on fishing basics.
It seems that such system had no time for Jose Manuel Arango, as they spend most of time cleaning the slime that comes out of their mouths when writing lies.
But this blog has plenty of time: we have no economic interest. Until, like Wikipedia, we start asking for funds in exchange of showing the real name of your own country. That´s why I never use Wikipedia as an info source: to proof that the rest of three thousand million humans can survive without giving a petty penny to greedy institutions.
Jose Manuel Arango is a great poet.
As you already know, every field of art has it´s mechanisms to choose who is or will never be known by many readers. That´s the just way the system (in a non communist sense) keeps us from asking what it is not so willing to give, for many reasons; a powerful one is the sales that may come from publishing non famous material.
And this is where critics take part: they, through massive media, will let you know how good and sublime is this new book of Christmas recipies, for instance. Or, but this is rare by it's own nature, will make use of their fame and credibility as writers or critics, and guide us mortals towards the glittering and wonderful, though dreary, new manual on fishing basics.
It seems that such system had no time for Jose Manuel Arango, as they spend most of time cleaning the slime that comes out of their mouths when writing lies.
But this blog has plenty of time: we have no economic interest. Until, like Wikipedia, we start asking for funds in exchange of showing the real name of your own country. That´s why I never use Wikipedia as an info source: to proof that the rest of three thousand million humans can survive without giving a petty penny to greedy institutions.
Jose Manuel Arango is a great poet.
viernes, 5 de julio de 2013
23rd International Poetry Festival
Every year, but you didn´t know, or you did and forgot it, a remote city called Medellín is the stage for the most important poetry event in the world. A short memory world, as you can see. So short and incipient that it has no space or time for poetry, that time demanding and useless genre of literature that once our grandparents adored.
Such version is contradicted by facts that jump into plain sight. Most of the public is indeed in their twenties. And paid, and will pay, the non despicable tribute of visiting a place of the city that the rest of the year is a sleeping concrete whale. Pride on us, young people. The new neurons of this world, our duty is to remember and don´t ignore what we shouldn´t turn our backs to.
Tradition, they´ll say, conservative custom, and so on. But as we can´t and wont forget to think and feel, there shall be a place for poetry among us. It is a pretty laidy. It is an oracle, a shelter for human deep boundaries, problems, passions, fears and tears (of joy or fatefulness).
And it´ll be my pleasure to translate what is to be translated to you, who, perhaps for the first time, feel far away of the center of world important events. No, television chains are not invited. Neither are movie stars or rock stars. Lots of hipsters, you could forsee-- yes, we have them too, they are everywhere--.
Cheers, my mainstream reader.
http://www.festivaldepoesiademedellin.org/
Such version is contradicted by facts that jump into plain sight. Most of the public is indeed in their twenties. And paid, and will pay, the non despicable tribute of visiting a place of the city that the rest of the year is a sleeping concrete whale. Pride on us, young people. The new neurons of this world, our duty is to remember and don´t ignore what we shouldn´t turn our backs to.
Tradition, they´ll say, conservative custom, and so on. But as we can´t and wont forget to think and feel, there shall be a place for poetry among us. It is a pretty laidy. It is an oracle, a shelter for human deep boundaries, problems, passions, fears and tears (of joy or fatefulness).
And it´ll be my pleasure to translate what is to be translated to you, who, perhaps for the first time, feel far away of the center of world important events. No, television chains are not invited. Neither are movie stars or rock stars. Lots of hipsters, you could forsee-- yes, we have them too, they are everywhere--.
Cheers, my mainstream reader.
http://www.festivaldepoesiademedellin.org/
Rings of ash
"They are my voices chanting
for those don´t chant,
the grayly gagged on the dawn,
those who dress like bleak birds in the rain.
There is, on waiting,
a rumour of lilac breaking.
An there is, when day comes,
a division of the sun in little black suns.
And when it is night, always,
a tribe of maimed words
look for shelter in my throat
for those don´t chant
the baleful, the owners of silence."
-Alejandra Pizarnik
for those don´t chant,
the grayly gagged on the dawn,
those who dress like bleak birds in the rain.
There is, on waiting,
a rumour of lilac breaking.
An there is, when day comes,
a division of the sun in little black suns.
And when it is night, always,
a tribe of maimed words
look for shelter in my throat
for those don´t chant
the baleful, the owners of silence."
-Alejandra Pizarnik
jueves, 4 de julio de 2013
The awakening
"Sir
the cage has turned a bird
and it has flown
and my heart is crazy
because it howls to death
and smiles behind the wind
to my deliriums.
What shall I do with fear
What shall I do with fear
The light dances over my smile no longer
nor the seasons burn doves in my ideas
My hands have got naked
and have traveled where death
teaches to live to the deceased.
Sir
the air punishes me
There are monsters behind air
which drink my blood.
It is disaster
It is the hour of not hollow hollow
It is the instant of putting lock to lips
of hearing the doomed scream
comtemplate each one of my names
hanging into nothing.
Sir
I am twenty years old.
Also my eyes are twenty years old
but they say nothing, though.
Sir
I have consummated my life in an instant
The last innocence has blown up
Right now is never or ever
or simply was.
¿How could I not commit suicide front of a mirror
and disappear to reappear in the sea
where a huge ship awaits me
with its great lights shinning?
¿How could I not pull out my veins
and make with them a stair
to escape into the other side of night?
Beginning has given birth to end
Everything will stay the same
the outworn smiles
the interested interest
the questions from stone to stone
the gestures that mimic love
everything will stay the same.
But my arms insist on embracing the world
for they haven´t been taught
that it is too late.
Sir
Throw the coffins of my blood.
I remember my childhood
when I was an old woman
The flowers died over my hands
because savage dance of joy
destroyed their hearts.
I remember the black sunny mornings
when I was a child
that is to say yesterday
that is to say centuries ago.
Sir
the cage has turned a bird
and has devoured my hopes
Sir
the cage has turned a bird
what shall I do with fear"
-Alejandra Pizarnik, Las aventuras perdidas (The lost adventures), 1958.
the cage has turned a bird
and it has flown
and my heart is crazy
because it howls to death
and smiles behind the wind
to my deliriums.
What shall I do with fear
What shall I do with fear
The light dances over my smile no longer
nor the seasons burn doves in my ideas
My hands have got naked
and have traveled where death
teaches to live to the deceased.
Sir
the air punishes me
There are monsters behind air
which drink my blood.
It is disaster
It is the hour of not hollow hollow
It is the instant of putting lock to lips
of hearing the doomed scream
comtemplate each one of my names
hanging into nothing.
Sir
I am twenty years old.
Also my eyes are twenty years old
but they say nothing, though.
Sir
I have consummated my life in an instant
The last innocence has blown up
Right now is never or ever
or simply was.
¿How could I not commit suicide front of a mirror
and disappear to reappear in the sea
where a huge ship awaits me
with its great lights shinning?
¿How could I not pull out my veins
and make with them a stair
to escape into the other side of night?
Beginning has given birth to end
Everything will stay the same
the outworn smiles
the interested interest
the questions from stone to stone
the gestures that mimic love
everything will stay the same.
But my arms insist on embracing the world
for they haven´t been taught
that it is too late.
Sir
Throw the coffins of my blood.
I remember my childhood
when I was an old woman
The flowers died over my hands
because savage dance of joy
destroyed their hearts.
I remember the black sunny mornings
when I was a child
that is to say yesterday
that is to say centuries ago.
Sir
the cage has turned a bird
and has devoured my hopes
Sir
the cage has turned a bird
what shall I do with fear"
-Alejandra Pizarnik, Las aventuras perdidas (The lost adventures), 1958.
Alejandra Pizarnik
Yes, sure, you are one of those... men, or women or whatever, that can walk soundly and confidently. You speak loud when situation requires it, yes, you do, and feel pretty well while doing it. Somehow you have managed to dodge great and sinister existential human issues. I bet people around you sees it, envy it, no doubt.
But no matter how you got to that... point of spectacular and shinning, selfconfident stage of spiritual achievement: I promise... no, I swear, in the name of everything that was and will be, that you will not simply read unpunished the poems of Alejandra Pizarnik. Human tissue is... weak, vulnerable to her words, if you have the courage to go into them, understanding by the way.
This could sound like a threat; it is not, it is a fact, a convinced statement.
"Dare to come inside, if you are brave enough". Such sentence should precede her books. But it doesn´t.
But no matter how you got to that... point of spectacular and shinning, selfconfident stage of spiritual achievement: I promise... no, I swear, in the name of everything that was and will be, that you will not simply read unpunished the poems of Alejandra Pizarnik. Human tissue is... weak, vulnerable to her words, if you have the courage to go into them, understanding by the way.
This could sound like a threat; it is not, it is a fact, a convinced statement.
"Dare to come inside, if you are brave enough". Such sentence should precede her books. But it doesn´t.
miércoles, 3 de julio de 2013
After all -but after all-
"After all -but after all-
it is only about the bed
it's about flesh,
about naked bodies,
lamps for death in this world.
Beheaded glory, survivor
of time, who´s deaf-mute,
the petty pay of those who die together.
To the misery of pleasure, infinitude,
you doomed the quest, to the injust
failure you have chained thirst,
you nailed your heart to a wall.
It is about my body which I bless,
the one I fight to,
which shall give me everything,
in a thick silence,
and which kills and dies often.
Solitude, mark me with your naked foot,
squeeze my heart like grapes,
and fill my mouth with it´s matured liqueurs."
-Jaime Sabines.
it is only about the bed
it's about flesh,
about naked bodies,
lamps for death in this world.
Beheaded glory, survivor
of time, who´s deaf-mute,
the petty pay of those who die together.
To the misery of pleasure, infinitude,
you doomed the quest, to the injust
failure you have chained thirst,
you nailed your heart to a wall.
It is about my body which I bless,
the one I fight to,
which shall give me everything,
in a thick silence,
and which kills and dies often.
Solitude, mark me with your naked foot,
squeeze my heart like grapes,
and fill my mouth with it´s matured liqueurs."
-Jaime Sabines.
Jaime Sabines
Jaime, jaime. That name is not too far away from the expression "I love", in french. -J´aime-. This is one of those things, those facts or coincidences, that make human condition so suitable for poetry. Thousands of years before physics, poets knew well our world was a realm of possibility. And that some precise look at those possibilities, or some particular sets or arrangements of them, as a result of time and chances, give birth to what we know as beauty.
It is magic, and magic only (the most spectacular of it), the responsible for brevity to be the right vehicle for deepness. Jaime could be enough to describe this poet´s work and life. It is not mere luck. One sees it when reading those pieces of flesh and blood that he somehow managed to pour in pages, in words and silence.
Furthermore, one understands, but this you see when being deep inside his mysterious sea of rhythm, that such flesh and blood come from the heart. To achieve immortality you don't have to own a complete body. It is dead weight, hinders and stumbles over steep ways and mountains. You need nothing but your heart to live perpetually. And this heart has been spilling from eyes to eyes, ever since he published poems, until it got to you, now.
Take it, for it was yours from your very beginning.
It will tell you more about yourself than it would a lover.
martes, 2 de julio de 2013
Poetic profession.
"That no one gets fooled:
poetry does not lead to redemption.
To go back, perhaps, to the dreaming dualism,
to put in writing what we have lost,
or tying knots on bones now broken.
We will never be again the clay we used to
neither forseeing of time or memory are useful,
That no one gets fooled,
poetry is just the profession of being lonely."
-Juan Carlos Bayona, Soledad llena de humo (Smoke filled solitude)
poetry does not lead to redemption.
To go back, perhaps, to the dreaming dualism,
to put in writing what we have lost,
or tying knots on bones now broken.
We will never be again the clay we used to
neither forseeing of time or memory are useful,
That no one gets fooled,
poetry is just the profession of being lonely."
-Juan Carlos Bayona, Soledad llena de humo (Smoke filled solitude)
Apocryphal gospel fragments, part 2.
17. The one that kills for the sake of righteousness, or for a cause he considers right, has no guilt.
18. Men acts do not deserve fire or heavens.
19. You shall not hate your enemy. If you do, you will be in some way his slave. Your hate will never be more valuable that your peace.
20. If your right hand offends you, forgive it. Your are your soul and your body, and it is arduous, or imposible, to set the border between them.
21. You shall not exagerate the cult of truth for there´s no man that, at the end of the day, had not lied rightfully many times.
22. You shall not swear, for swearing is an emphasis.
23. Resist evil, but without fear or amazement. If someone hurts your right cheek, you might show him the other one, if it is not fear what moves you.
24. I don´t speak about vengeance or forgiveness, for oblivion is the only vengeance and the only forgiveness. Doing well to your enemy can be matter of righteousness and isn´t difficult; love him, task for angels, not men.
25. Do well to your enemies is the best way to please your vanity.
26. Don´t treasure gold in this life, for it is the father of leisure, which is father of sadness and tedium.
27. Think that other are rightful or will be, and if they aren´t it wont be your mistake.
26. Don´t treasure gold in this life, for it is the father of leisure, which is father of sadness and tedium.
27. Think that other are rightful or will be, and if they aren´t it wont be your mistake.
26. God is more generous than men, and will judge them with different measures.
27. Give the sacred to the dogs, throw pearls at the pigs; what matters is giving.
27. Give the sacred to the dogs, throw pearls at the pigs; what matters is giving.
28. Look for the joy of looking, not for the sake of finding.
29. The door is who chooses, not the man.
30. Do not judge the tree for its fruits or a man for his actions, they can be better or worse.
30. Do not judge the tree for its fruits or a man for his actions, they can be better or worse.
31. Nothing is built on rock, everything is built on sand, but our duty is to build on sand as if we were on rock.
32. Happy those who are brave, those who receive with equal mood defeat or clapping.
32. Happy those who are brave, those who receive with equal mood defeat or clapping.
33. Happy are the poor without resentment, and the rich with no arrogance.
34. Happy those who keep words from Virgil or Christ in memory, for these will bring light upon their days.
35. Happy are the loved and the lovers, and those who can dispense with love.
36. Happy those who are happy.
Apocryphal gospel fragments, part 1
3. Miserable are the poor in spirit, for down the earth they´ll be what they are over it.
4. Miserable are those who mourn, for they have already acquired the miserable habit of crying.
5. Blessed those who know that suffering is not a glory crown.
6. Being the last is not enough to ever be first.
7. Happy those who don´t insist on being right, for every one is or anyone is.
8. Happy those who forgive others and forgive themselves.
9. Blessed are the gentle, for they don´t condescend to discord.
10. Blessed those who aren´t hungry for righteousness, for they know our luck, adverse or merciful, is the product of chance, which is inscrutable.
11. Blessed are the merciful, for they joy is in the exercise of mercy, and not in hoping for rewards.
12. Blessed are ther pure in heart, for they see God.
13. Blessed are those who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for they care more about it than for their human destinies.
14. No one is the salt of the earth, no one, in some point of their lives, isn´t.
15. Let the light of a lamp turn on, if no human sees it, God will.
16. Every commandment can be broken, and the ones I have said and the ones the prophets said.
4. Miserable are those who mourn, for they have already acquired the miserable habit of crying.
5. Blessed those who know that suffering is not a glory crown.
6. Being the last is not enough to ever be first.
7. Happy those who don´t insist on being right, for every one is or anyone is.
8. Happy those who forgive others and forgive themselves.
9. Blessed are the gentle, for they don´t condescend to discord.
10. Blessed those who aren´t hungry for righteousness, for they know our luck, adverse or merciful, is the product of chance, which is inscrutable.
11. Blessed are the merciful, for they joy is in the exercise of mercy, and not in hoping for rewards.
12. Blessed are ther pure in heart, for they see God.
13. Blessed are those who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for they care more about it than for their human destinies.
14. No one is the salt of the earth, no one, in some point of their lives, isn´t.
15. Let the light of a lamp turn on, if no human sees it, God will.
16. Every commandment can be broken, and the ones I have said and the ones the prophets said.
lunes, 1 de julio de 2013
Jorge Luis Borges
When I first though about bringing Borges here, I had no idea of how well spread was his literature amongst english readers. Being as he is, a latinamerican, I presumed he wasn´t too famous worldwide. Some events and conversations have led me to believe otherwise and, luckily for me, this grants me permission to skip some comentaries before his debut in this blog.
That could also make me think that there´s no reason for me to translate his work, which would be transgressing the purpose I gave this blog in first place, but: 1) I already have translated a few pieces. 2) Those pieces I have translated aren´t too well known. 3) This is my blog, so screw you.
A quick anecdote I have comed to know from the vast number of rumours behind big artists, regarding Borges:
There was a sort of rivalry between him and another writer called Ernesto Sabato; at least within their country, Argentina. Based in the controversy surrounding it, one of Sabato´s editors had the terrific idea of putting, in the title page of one of his new books: "Sabato vs. Borges". It was to increase sells, of course. As far as we know, Sabato approved, since such book was published that way.
We don´t know if that strategy worked, but when consulted about this by some journalist, Borges said, or so they said he said: "Curious, I would have never written Borges vs. Sabato".
It outlines pretty well the most intriguing virtues of Borges: being at once innocent and ironic, simple but mysterious, precise and ambiguous.
Cheers, my lucky reader.
That could also make me think that there´s no reason for me to translate his work, which would be transgressing the purpose I gave this blog in first place, but: 1) I already have translated a few pieces. 2) Those pieces I have translated aren´t too well known. 3) This is my blog, so screw you.
A quick anecdote I have comed to know from the vast number of rumours behind big artists, regarding Borges:
There was a sort of rivalry between him and another writer called Ernesto Sabato; at least within their country, Argentina. Based in the controversy surrounding it, one of Sabato´s editors had the terrific idea of putting, in the title page of one of his new books: "Sabato vs. Borges". It was to increase sells, of course. As far as we know, Sabato approved, since such book was published that way.
We don´t know if that strategy worked, but when consulted about this by some journalist, Borges said, or so they said he said: "Curious, I would have never written Borges vs. Sabato".
It outlines pretty well the most intriguing virtues of Borges: being at once innocent and ironic, simple but mysterious, precise and ambiguous.
Cheers, my lucky reader.
Israel-Loves-Iran
As if I needed a reason to do this, I will give some few words on this spectacular news I read, and will do it here because literature is nothing but a human expression of love. Or such reasons move me towards books and writing: pure love and joy in loving.
It is and will be usual for us to recieve this message from the set of beliefs and institutions that govern us today, particulary since May of 68: "This is your only matter: you are a taxi driver, a teacher, a student, an unemployed, a football player, a beggar; you can do nothing for world peace, that depends on politics or economics, and your influence over such things is arduous or impossible."
Guess what, sistem: I am not a communist or a terrorist or a delirious hippie, but my love counts and wont depende on your political interests. My love and hate, desire o apathy, are not and will never be, in a worth living lifestyle, up to you to decide. Yes, I am a mother, or a beggar, or beggar which is a mother, but will never surrender to hate someone-that I bearly know- for the sake of politics.
That´s the main message we should hold in mind when reading newspapers or watching CNN. And a man from Israel first had the courage to state it, soundly.
http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2012/08/31/israel-loves-iran-facebook-ronny-edry_n_1846168.html
"Not ready to die in your war" is the motto.
"Iranians, we will never bomb your country: we love you", the starting sentence.
If there´s some place in your head for things that shouln´t be forgotten: make a place for this campaing.
Here is something to cry about!!! A reason for tears to come out in joy and happiness!!!
It is and will be usual for us to recieve this message from the set of beliefs and institutions that govern us today, particulary since May of 68: "This is your only matter: you are a taxi driver, a teacher, a student, an unemployed, a football player, a beggar; you can do nothing for world peace, that depends on politics or economics, and your influence over such things is arduous or impossible."
Guess what, sistem: I am not a communist or a terrorist or a delirious hippie, but my love counts and wont depende on your political interests. My love and hate, desire o apathy, are not and will never be, in a worth living lifestyle, up to you to decide. Yes, I am a mother, or a beggar, or beggar which is a mother, but will never surrender to hate someone-that I bearly know- for the sake of politics.
That´s the main message we should hold in mind when reading newspapers or watching CNN. And a man from Israel first had the courage to state it, soundly.
http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/2012/08/31/israel-loves-iran-facebook-ronny-edry_n_1846168.html
"Not ready to die in your war" is the motto.
"Iranians, we will never bomb your country: we love you", the starting sentence.
If there´s some place in your head for things that shouln´t be forgotten: make a place for this campaing.
Here is something to cry about!!! A reason for tears to come out in joy and happiness!!!
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