|
|
Saturday, August 17th, 2013
My father's language
is my mother tongue
and the tongues of those around me
are not my own
nor their teeth
my mouth it moves
and forms the words
the moving pen has left behind
nor all your Piety and Wit
too late to say
posted morning of August 17th, 2013: 3 responses
➳ More posts about Poetry
|  |
|
Another Zupcic story, another Osner translation: "Tescuco, Italy" is printed in the Fall 2013 issue of Metamorphoses, the journal of the five colleges faculty seminar on literary translation.
posted morning of August 17th, 2013: Respond
➳ More posts about Slavko Zupcic
|  |
Thursday, August 15th, 2013
by Jeremy Osner
The optimal discipline consists
in self-awareness, self-negation
in a parody of cleanliness.
The optimal discipline consists
in self indulgence, self-correction
in a parody of obediance
obeisance,
and the optimal level of discipline
the one we seek
but never quite attain
a balance
calm condolence
over situations we never asked for
were taxed for
avoided all semblance of discipline
in meditation
like a form of recreation
resurrection
and ultimate truth.
AND IT'S NOW! so
why not do it? With a
howl you pounce
into the fiction before you
teeming fiction where you're jostled
cheek by jowl they crowd you
louder now they're grumbling
and muffling you with their scowls
now you're struggling to escape
to leave this sea of narrative
to lift your glance
to glance away
and break your concentration
and not worry about the implicit snub
to your host the author.
posted evening of August 15th, 2013: Respond
➳ More posts about Writing Projects
|  |
Tuesday, August 13th, 2013
A house at Mount Irazú
by Eduardo Valverde
tr. Jeremy Osner
These little stars, stars setting in the rivers and the streams,
working their way loose from our fingers and our wallets, stars flowing out like water;
and there will be no one to pay the check
nor to tally the coins.
His ashtray has a leak in it,
it's a little cardboard cup with water in it from a bottle.
You can picture the scorching agony of the fire -a little scream-
that split its fibers.
Green is the green, and leaden all the gray.
The girls are playing, they're laughing, out on the deck;
the women are waiting - just a few more minutes-
for them to come back in without a scratch, as big as life.
We were not sleeping.
I know it because I could hear them out the window
fumbling, impatient
those shapes in the dark. Maybe that's how cows dream,
but us, no.
Us, we weren't sleeping.
So many times, I could swear
he just snubbed us;
indifferent to the whisky
and to the electric skillet,
to the mint tea and the conversation.
Cold reigned
like the silence that volcanoes impose.
And the stairs,
stairs shy and ominous in the night,
downstairs to the morning -- sleeping still,
she's ready to arise.
Don't freak,
in this house
no-one yet has died.
posted evening of August 13th, 2013: 1 response
➳ More posts about Translation
|  |
Saturday, August 10th, 2013
Looking through Mirar al agua to see what will catch my interest... I'm startled and intrigued by this story, which starts out fast-paced dialog and keeps being that with no narration for 12 pages!
posted morning of August 10th, 2013: Respond
➳ More posts about Mirar al agua
| |
Friday, August 9th, 2013
posted evening of August 9th, 2013: 1 response
➳ More posts about Pretty Pictures
| |
Wednesday, August 7th, 2013
por Félix Fojas
tr. Jeremy Osner
Sintiéndome una mezcla entre curiosidad
y aburrimiento entro en el paisaje
encantante de ese maestro francés
del siglo diez y nueve que muestra
un parque en alguna parte
en el campo con los hombres
que lucen bigotes dalinianos
y chisteros mientras las damas
de pecho abultado que llevan
corsés debajo de sus vestidos
elegantes, que agarran paragüas
y cestas de picnic mientras
se pasean deliberadamente
esta mañana de domingo, linda
mañana. Son de ojos grandes
estupefactos
por la intrusión súbita
y sorprendente de un tipo siglo viente
 como yo, fuera de lugar,
voy pésimo vestido,
sudadera azul y vaquero
a juego. Indignados
se unen en una multitud
y me desalojan
groseramente
del encuadre ancho
me empujan al presente
donde me encuentro
transportado al Museo
del Prado en Madrid en que figura
entre otras una obra
por Hieronymus Bosch
que poblan caracteres grotescos
del renacimiento que me hacen seña
a entrar en una orgÃa salvaje. Estoy
abrumado! Sostengo mi aliento
precioso, como protesto sacudo la cabeza
y me nego a participar en esa pesadilla
surrealista, en esa choque cultural
peor por lejos que lo que soporte
mi condición postmoderna
de desvelo y sensibilidad.
posted evening of August 7th, 2013: Respond
| |
Tuesday, August 6th, 2013
not an Airplane.
posted evening of August 6th, 2013: Respond
➳ More posts about Music
|  |
Monday, August 5th, 2013
One more Bogotano poem -- this is the final image in the book, from Aurelio Arturo's poem "Dream City" (previously untranslated -- in her note, Anne McLean thanks Lillian Nećakov for help translating it. I wonder if Anne or Lillian wrote this post at WordReference?*) Searching for the full text of the poem brought me to the pdf of GuÃa Literaria de Bogotá, which seems like a useful resource to have at hand; the website is Museo Fuera de Lugar which itself looks pretty interesting.
Ciudad de sueño 
Yo os contaré que un dÃa vi arder entre la noche
una loca ciudad soberbia y populosa,
yo, sin mover los párpados, la miré desplomarse,
caer, cual bajo un casco un pétalo de rosa.
Muros que yo formé con mi sangre hecha esfuerzo,
puertas al sol doradas que elevé a mis espaldas,
ciudad de mil mujeres de ojos dorados, brazos
lentos y bocas rojas que en su silencio cantan.
Asà como en la sombra desciende una cabeza
al fondo de una idea, rápida como piedra,
aquella ciudad loca, oh rúas de mi júbilo,
se hundÃa en silencios duros y en soledades negras.
ArdÃa como un muslo entre selvas de incendio,
y caÃan las cúpulas y caÃan los muros
sobre las voces queridas tal como sobre espejos
amplios...¡diez mil chillidos de resplandores puros!
Y eran como mis mismos cabellos esas llamas,
rojas panteras sueltas en la joven ciudad,
y ardÃan desplomándose los muros de mi sueño...
¡Tal como se desploma gritando una ciudad!
 * Or hm, no, it appears that message was posted by the translator of Falling into Turkish! Düşen Şeylerin Gürültüsü is in Everest Yayınları's Dünya Edebiyatı Dizisi series and is translated by Süleyman Doğru.
posted evening of August 5th, 2013: Respond
➳ More posts about The Sound of Things Falling
| |
Sunday, August 4th, 2013
Speaking of Antonio, and thinking as always about identification with the narrator, I just want to note that Antonio's description, at the beginning of chapter 2, of his stay in the hospital reminds me very strongly of my own extended stay as a child after an auto accident -- the circumstances obviously quite different but the feeling of being kept in the bed not fully understanding what's going on around you is instantly recognizable.
I don't remember, however, the three days of surgery: they have disappeared completely, obliterated by the intermittent anesthesia. I don't remember the hallucinations, but I do remember that I had them; I don't remember having fallen out of bed due to the abrupt movements that one of them provoked, and, although I don't remember that they tied me down in the bed to prevent that from happening again, I do remember quite well the violent claustrophobia, the terrible awareness of my vulnerablility.
 (Incidentally: Is Antonio 42 or so at the time of writing? is a question I find intriguing.)
↻...done
posted afternoon of August 4th, 2013: Respond
➳ More posts about Juan Gabriel Vásquez
| Previous posts
Archives  | |
|
Drop me a line! or, sign my Guestbook.
•
Check out Ellen's writing at Patch.com.
| |
