Pasar el horizonte envejecido
Y mirar en el fondo de los sueños
La estrella que palpita
Eras tan hermosa
que no pudiste hablar
Yo me alejé
pero llevo en la mano
Aquel cielo nativo
Con un sol gastado
Esta tarde
en un café
he bebido
Un licor tembloroso
Como un pescado rojo
Y otra vez en el vaso escondido
Ese sueño filial
Eras tan hermosa
que no pudiste hablar
En tu pecho agonizaba
Eran verdes tus ojos
pero yo me alejaba
Eras tan hermosa
que aprendí a cantar
– Vicente Huidobro, Ecuatorial (1918)
It was a lousy day – I had been feeling better, but my body is good at recognizing when I have a day off, and it immediately got sick again. Bleaugh.
What I'm listening to right now.
Joywave, "Somebody New."
Lyrics.
With my eyes on the prize Not a thing to my name With my head in the clouds And my body don't waste
Don't wanna ever wake up Don't wanna ever wake up, I don't Don't wanna ever wake up Next to somebody new Don't wanna ever wake up Don't wanna ever wake up, I don't Don't wanna ever wake up Next to somebody new
With my eyes to the south And my brain up in space Flip my nervous hips around I'm a step out a sync
Don't wanna ever wake up Don't wanna ever wake up, I don't Don't wanna ever wake up Next to somebody new Don't wanna ever wake up Don't wanna ever wake up, I don't Don't wanna ever wake up Next to somebody new
Don't wanna ever wake up Don't wanna ever wake up, I don't Don't wanna ever wake up Next to somebody new Don't wanna ever wake up Don't wanna ever wake up, I don't Don't wanna ever wake up Next to somebody new Don't wanna ever wake up Don't wanna ever wake up, I don't Next to somebody new
Si mi voz muriera en tierra llevadla al nivel del mar y dejadla en la ribera.
Llevadla al nivel del mar y nombradla capitana de un blanco bajel de guerra.
¡Oh mi voz condecorada con la insignia marinera: sobre el corazón un ancla y sobre el ancla una estrella y sobre la estrella el viento y sobre el viento la vela! – Rafael Alberti (poeta español, 1902-1999)
Violin clutched tightly, I wait. The bus roars up, clattering Like a broken dinosaur In bad movies. The stinging Fumes stab at my lungs Piercing the sweet spring air.
Climbing the steps make Mountains seem easy. Paper wrappers flap on rubber Treads. The waiting fare box Grins like a Gothic gargoyle.
Then they yell at me. I try to give an old Lady my seat. She has pain Behind the brown in her eyes. Bundles and bags spilling from Skinny arms, pulling her dress Askew. She yells at me too.
When I go to the back To slide on the long seat The way we used to, Grandfather, The bus driver stops, Tramps back, grim, gray Face behind the glasses.
The whole bus begins shouting At me. The noise settles Like crows, around my head, Pecking my bones with sharp, Shiny, cruel beaks. He throws me off the bus. I was lost and had no fare.
Why didn't you tell me, Grandfather, that people Are different if their skin Is like night, like coffee With cream, like topaz? Everyone's the same underneath, Aren't they, Grandfather? Their blood is red.
This poem was written by my mother. She is remembering being a child in Little Rock, Arkansas, in 1952. I thought it was relevant given the occasion, this week, of remembering the 50th anniversary of the events in Selma, Alabama. I was listening to Obama's speech on NPR.
I had a bad day at work. I don't like being a disciplinarian, but I like even less having other teachers get angry at me for failing to be the kind of disciplinarian they think I should be.
Tenho em mim como uma bruma Que nada é nem contém A saudade de coisa nenhuma, O desejo de qualquer bem.
Sou envolvido por ela Como por um nevoeiro E vejo luzir a última estrela Por cima da ponta do meu cinzeiro
Fumei a vida. Que incerto Tudo quanto vi ou li! E todo o mundo é um grande livro aberto Que em ignorada língua me sorri. – Fernando Pessoa (Portuguese poet, 1888-1935)
I have in me like a haze Which holds and which is nothing A nostalgia for nothing at all, The desire for something vague.
I’m wrapped by it As by a fog, and I see The final star shining Above the stub in my ashtray.
I smoked my life. How uncertain All I saw or read! All The world is a great open book That smiles at me in an unknown tongue. – Translation by Richard Zenith
Llega el invierno. Espléndido dictado me dan las lentas hojas vestidas de silencio y amarillo.
Soy un libro de nieve, una espaciosa mano, una pradera, un círculo que espera, pertenezco a la tierra y a su invierno.
Creció el rumor del mundo en el follaje, ardió después el trigo constelado por flores rojas como quemaduras, luego llegó el otoño a establecer la escritura del vino: todo pasó, fue cielo pasajero la copa del estío, y se apagó la nube navegante.
Yo esperé en el balcón tan enlutado, como ayer con las yedras de mi infancia, que la tierra extendiera sus alas en mi amor deshabitado.
Yo supe que la rosa caería y el hueso del durazno transitorio volvería a dormir y a germinar: y me embriagué con la copa del aire hasta que todo el mar se hizo nocturno y el arrebol se convirtió en ceniza.
La tierra vive ahora tranquilizando su interrogatorio, extendida la piel de su silencio.
Yo vuelvo a ser ahora el taciturno que llegó de lejos envuelto en lluvia fría y en campanas: debo a la muerte pura de la tierra la voluntad de mis germinaciones. – Pablo Neruda (poeta chileno, 1904-1973)
Soy este que va a mi lado sin yo verlo; que, a veces, voy a ver, y que, a veces, olvido. El que calla, sereno, cuando hablo, el que perdona, dulce, cuando odio, el que pasea por donde no estoy, el que quedará en pié cuando yo muera. – Juan Ramón Jiménez (poeta español, 1881-1958)
Berkeley did not foresee such misty weather, Nor centuries of light Intend so dim a day. Swaddled together In separateness, the trees Persist or not beyond the gray-white Palings of the air. Gone Are whatever wings bothered the lighted leaves When leaves there were. Are all The sparrows fallen? I can hardly hear My memory of those bees Who only lately mesmerized the lawn. Now, something, blaze! A fear Swaddles me now that Hylas' tree will fall Where no eye lights and grieves, Will fall to nothing and without a sound. I sway and lean above the vanished ground. – Richard Wilbur (American poet, b 1921)
Incidentally, "Hylas' tree" in this poem is a reference to Three Dialogues between Hylas and Philonous, a book written by the philosopher George Berkeley in 1713. I wonder if the "chronic condition" of the title is in fact existence, itself. It does seem be a bit chronic.
I'm not sure these three things belong together. But here they are, together in this blog.
THE DESOLATE FIELD
Vast and grey, the sky is a simulacrum to all but him whose days are vast and grey, and– In the tall, dried grasses a goat stirs with nozzle searching the ground. –my head is in the air but who am I . . ? And amazed my heart leaps at the thought of love vast and grey yearning silently over me. – William Carlos Williams (American poet, 1883-1963)
What I'm listening to right now.
[UPDATE 20180328: video embed replaced due to link-rot]
(intro) yayayao yo quien 'ta a 'y black lion crew pa' mi barrio dale
(verso1) im from the city where the sun burn like fiya fiya we dont were white t's, blue jeans, and some nikes is wifebeater,blue shores,and chancletas everyday donde hablamos al derecho y al rebes y si ala fiesta a nosotros nadie nos invito como sea entramos y si te descuidas a tu gial te agaramos por q en panama nosotros no perriamos nosotros arrochamos hasta la 4 de la manana gozando no hay mesquindad por la vesindad soy caliente pero q eso no se me culpe a mmi yo lo tengo en las venas lo tengo de erenia atrevido desde q naci gial si tu quieres demencia ven pa' 'onde de mi ven pa' 'onde de mi
(Brige) pongan sus banderas en el aire si usted estan orgullosos de ser de de donde son de ded donde son let's go
(coro)
this is fo' my barrio this is fo' my ghetto aquellos q nunca se conforman si no llegan de primero
this is fo' my people this is fo' my ghetto aquellos q nunca dejan a su gente por el suelo (repeat)
Verso2 My curfew is tight So Ill get straight to it Damn right im with dis ghetto And barrio power movement Cause dis ghetto war Is big Guerra En mi barrio cosinando Heroina Traficando en la esquina cocaina y mariguana And I bet yaw aint know They filmed titanic en Tijuana Dis is for los paleteros Dis is foe los paleteros Im gonna reflect Connect with those that stay true I got a full list but ill just name a few Im in influence by brown bares Che Guevara cesar chavez pancho villas They protected our stolen tierras They zapatitistas so rebellious Is 2005 and we so intelligent Check out the new stilo homes No more white t is white guayaveras U know
(coro)
this is fo' my barrio this is fo' my ghetto aquellos q nunca se conforman si no llegan de primero
this is fo' my people this is fo' my ghetto aquellos q nunca dejan a su gente por el suelo (repeat)
(brige2) (rich) Dis ones for u Him or her Ghetto children that live in dirt That don’t study cause they need to work (dun) Esto es pa ti ella y el Si tas orgulloso Put ur flag in the air repeat
(verse 3)
Where my ghetto people at// Hustleing trynna live well// On the paper chase trynna get mail but see jails// Hustleing to make sells// On the block slanging females// Making that loot on some type of retail// Where some niggaz might eat shells with no pasta// Some living like mobsters some living proper// Some using the choppers// and even doctors come from where I come from// the ghetto!!! The place where I call my home// Lay my throne and my day goes on// To acknowledge you I lace this song// You watch me grow moving to better places// Understandably but never erased me for other faces// A friend to me I made some enemies and bounced back// Cuz I know it was jeolousy trynna put me off track// I move and come back to your path// Cuz without my ghetto I wouldn’t be glad// And heres my reason to brag// hey!!!
(Brige) pongan sus banderas en el aire si usted estan orgullosos de ser de de donde son de ded donde son let's go
(coro)
this is fo' my barrio this is fo' my ghetto aquellos q nunca se conforman si no llegan de primero
this is fo' my people this is fo' my ghetto aquellos q nunca dejan a su gente por el suelo (repeat)
(outro) hahaha to' ta' hablao mi barrio bad buay el imigrante y uzil en el booth con migo no hagas papel de maton ooooohh te metemo un garnato aguaebo
We listened to a fairly long passage about the history of air transport, focusing on the role of Pan Am in the pre-WWII era. My middle school student Brian wrote a summary that begins:
The sky was limited. Pan Am is the first flight bring the passengers into a reality.
As a summary of the passage, it's utter nonsense and incoherent. As poetry, I admit I rather like it.
Tell yourself as it gets cold and gray falls from the air that you will go on walking, hearing the same tune no matter where you find yourself— inside the dome of dark or under the cracking white of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow. Tonight as it gets cold tell yourself what you know which is nothing but the tune your bones play as you keep going. And you will be able for once to lie down under the small fire of winter stars. And if it happens that you cannot go on or turn back and you find yourself where you will be at the end, tell yourself in that final flowing of cold through your limbs that you love what you are.
– Mark Strand (American poet, 1934-2014)
Mark Strand died last week. I was not familiar with his poetry. But having heard of his death, I went poking around and found one I liked.
I ran across this poem, in translation, by accident, while searching for something else. But I was deeply impressed by it. It may become a favorite.
A Pebble
On the path before my house
every day I meet a pebble
that once was kicked by my passing toe.
At first we just casually
brushed past each other, morning and night,
but gradually the stone began to address me
and furtively reach out a hand,
so that we grew close, like friends.
And now each morning the stone,
blooming inwardly with flowers of Grace,
gives me its blessing,
and even late at night
it waits watchfully to greet me.
Sometimes, flying as on angels’ wings
it visits me in my room
and explains to me the Mystery of Meeting,
reveals the immortal nature of Relationship.
So now, whenever I meet the stone,
I am so uncivilized and insecure
that I can only feel ashamed.
– Ku Sang (Korean poet, 1919-2004)
– Translated by Brother Anthony of Taizé
It took some creative googling and some time with a dictionary doing some ad hoc reverse-translation (reverse engineering poetry?) to find the original text, but I’m confident that this is it.
조약돌
집 앞 행길에서
그 어느 날 발부에 채운
조약돌 하나와 나날이 만난다
처음에 우리는 그저 심드렁하게
아침 저녁 서로 스쳐 지냈지만
둘은 차츰 나에게 말도 걸어오고
슬그머니 손도 내밀어
친구처럼 익숙해갔다
그리고 아침이면 돌은
안으로부터 은총의 꽃을 피워
나를 축복해주고
늦은 밤에도 졸지 않고
나의 安寧을 기다려 준다
떄로는 천사처럼 훌훌 날아서
내 방엘 찾아 들어와
만남의 신비를 타이르기도 하고
사귐의 불멸을 일깨워도 준다
나는 이제 그 돌을 만날 때마다
未開하고 불안스런 나의 現存이
부끄러울 뿐이다
– 구상 (시인 1919-2004)
I played around with understanding the translation in a few places, without really making an exhaustive study of it. I was impressed by the fact that one line in particular represents all kinds of Korean grammatical bugbears in one helping: “내 방엘 찾아 들어와” has doubled-up case particles (can a noun have two cases at once? yes, it can in Korean) and a three-member serial verb, yet it was surprisingly not that hard to figure out.
내 [nae = my]
방 [bang = room]
-엘 [el = locative particle -에 + accusative particle -ㄹ]
차 [cha = ‘look for’ verb stem]
-어 [eo = verb ending which I have always thought of as the ‘finite’ (conjugated) verb ending but which Martin mysteriously calls ‘infinitive’ and which I have no idea what it “officially” is called]
들 [deul = ‘go in; enter’ verb stem]
-어 [eo = ‘finite’ (conjugated) verb ending again]
와 = [wa = irregularly conjugated ‘come’]
So all together: “my room-IN-OBJ looks-for enters comes,” translated above “it visits me in my room.” [daily log: walking, 5 km]
Today was a Bob Dylan and Radiohead day. Whatever that means.
What I'm listening to right now.
Radiohead, "Paranoid Android." I was really astounded to realize that this song is 17 years old. Jeez. I'm really old – only a short while ago, I bought this CD (heheh, he said "CD," heheh) when it was relatively new. Anyway, Radiohead remains awesome. And the androids remain… paranoid.
Lyrics.
Please could you stop the noise, I'm trying to get some rest From all the unborn chicken voices in my head What's that…? (I may be paranoid, but not an android) What's that…? (I may be paranoid, but not an android)
When I am king, you will be first against the wall With your opinion which is of no consequence at all What's that…? (I may be paranoid, but no android) What's that…? (I may be paranoid, but no android)
Ambition makes you look pretty ugly Kicking and squealing gucci little piggy You don't remember You don't remember Why don't you remember my name? Off with his head, man Off with his head, man Why don't you remember my name? I guess he does….
Rain down, rain down Come on rain down on me From a great height From a great height… height… Rain down, rain down Come on rain down on me From a great height From a great height… height… Rain down, rain down Come on rain down on me
That's it, sir You're leaving The crackle of pigskin The dust and the screaming The yuppies networking The panic, the vomit The panic, the vomit God loves his children, God loves his children, yeah!
Walking to work the other day, the colors on the trees seemed striking. The photo failed to really capture it.
What I'm listening to right now.
Bob Dylan, "Idiot Wind."
[Update 2018-03-13: video link replaced due to link-rot on previous link]
Fall is Bob Dylan season, since the 1980s.
Lyrics.
Someone’s got it in for me, they’re planting stories in the press Whoever it is I wish they’d cut it out but when they will I can only guess They say I shot a man named Gray and took his wife to Italy She inherited a million bucks and when she died it came to me I can’t help it if I’m lucky
People see me all the time and they just can’t remember how to act Their minds are filled with big ideas, images and distorted facts Even you, yesterday you had to ask me where it was at I couldn’t believe after all these years, you didn’t know me better than that Sweet lady
Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your mouth Blowing down the backroads headin’ south Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your teeth You’re an idiot, babe It’s a wonder that you still know how to breathe
I ran into the fortune-teller, who said beware of lightning that might strike I haven’t known peace and quiet for so long I can’t remember what it’s like There’s a lone soldier on the cross, smoke pourin’ out of a boxcar door You didn’t know it, you didn’t think it could be done, in the final end he won the wars After losin’ every battle
I woke up on the roadside, daydreamin’ ’bout the way things sometimes are Visions of your chestnut mare shoot through my head and are makin’ me see stars You hurt the ones that I love best and cover up the truth with lies One day you’ll be in the ditch, flies buzzin’ around your eyes Blood on your saddle
Idiot wind, blowing through the flowers on your tomb Blowing through the curtains in your room Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your teeth You’re an idiot, babe It’s a wonder that you still know how to breathe
It was gravity which pulled us down and destiny which broke us apart You tamed the lion in my cage but it just wasn’t enough to change my heart Now everything’s a little upside down, as a matter of fact the wheels have stopped What’s good is bad, what’s bad is good, you’ll find out when you reach the top You’re on the bottom
I noticed at the ceremony, your corrupt ways had finally made you blind I can’t remember your face anymore, your mouth has changed, your eyes don’t look into mine The priest wore black on the seventh day and sat stone-faced while the building burned I waited for you on the running boards, near the cypress trees, while the springtime turned Slowly into Autumn
Idiot wind, blowing like a circle around my skull From the Grand Coulee Dam to the Capitol Idiot wind, blowing every time you move your teeth You’re an idiot, babe It’s a wonder that you still know how to breathe
I can’t feel you anymore, I can’t even touch the books you’ve read Every time I crawl past your door, I been wishin’ I was somebody else instead Down the highway, down the tracks, down the road to ecstasy I followed you beneath the stars, hounded by your memory And all your ragin’ glory
I been double-crossed now for the very last time and now I’m finally free I kissed goodbye the howling beast on the borderline which separated you from me You’ll never know the hurt I suffered nor the pain I rise above And I’ll never know the same about you, your holiness or your kind of love And it makes me feel so sorry
Idiot wind, blowing through the buttons of our coats Blowing through the letters that we wrote Idiot wind, blowing through the dust upon our shelves We’re idiots, babe It’s a wonder we can even feed ourselves
Moonmoth and grasshopper that flee our page And still wing on, untarnished of the name We pinion to your bodies to assuage Our envy of your freedom—we must maim
Because we are usurpers, and chagrined— And take the wing and scar it in the hand. Names we have, even, to clap on the wind; But we must die, as you, to understand.
I dreamed that all men dropped their names, and sang As only they can praise, who build their days With fin and hoof, with wing and sweetened fang Struck free and holy in one Name always.
THIS WORLD IS FULL OF BEAUTY.
THERE lives a Voice within me, a guest-angel of my
heart,
And its bird-like warbles win me, till the tears
a-tremble start;
Up evermore it springeth, like some magic melody,
And evermore it singeth this sweet song of songs
to me—
“This world is full of beauty, as other worlds
above.
And, if we did our duty, it might be as full of
love.”
Morn’s budding, bright, melodious hour comes
sweetly as of yore;
Night’s starry tendernesses dower with glory
evermore:
But there be million hearts accursed, where no
glad sunbursts shine,
And there be million souls athirst for Life’s
immortal wine.
This world is full of beauty, as other worlds
above;
And, if we did our duty, it might be as full of
love.
If faith, and hope, and kindness passed, as coin,
‘twixt heart and heart,
Up through the eye’s tear-blindness, how the
sudden soul should start!
The dreary, dim, and desolate, would wear a sunny
bloom,
And Love should spring from buried Hate, like
flowers from Winter’s tomb.
This world is full of beauty, as other worlds
above;
And, if we did our duty, it might be as full of
love.
Were truth our uttered language, Spirits might
talk with men,
And God-illumined earth should see the Golden
Age again;
The burthened heart should soar in mirth like
Morn’s young prophet-lark,
And Misery’s last tear wept on earth quench Hell’s
last cunning spark!
This world is full of beauty, as other worlds
above;
And, if we did our duty, it might be as full of
love.
We hear the cry for bread with plenty smiling all
around;
Hill and valley in their bounty blush for Man
with fruitage crowned.
What a merry world it might be, opulent for all,
and aye,
With its lands that ask for labour, and its wealth
that wastes away!
This world is full of beauty, as other worlds
above;
And, if we did our duty, it might be as full of
love.
The leaf-tongues of the forest, and the flower-lips
of the sod—
The happy Birds that hymn their raptures in the
ear of God—
The summer wind that bringeth music over land
and sea,
Have each a voice that singeth this sweet song of
songs to me—
“This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above;
And, if we did our duty, it might be as full of love.”
– Gerald Massey (English poet and political activist, 1828-1907) [daily log: walking, 5.5 km]
That morning under a pale hood of sky I heard the unambiguous scrape of spackling against the side of our wickered, penitential house.
The day mirled and clabbered in the thick, stony light, and the rooks’ feathered narling astounded the salt waves, the plush coast.
I lugged a bucket past the forked coercion of a tree, up toward the pious and nictitating preeminence of a school, hunkered there in its gully of learning.
Only later, by the galvanized washstand, while gaunt, phosphorescent heifers swam beyond the windows, did the whorled and sparky gib of the indefinite wobble me into knowledge.
Then, I heard the ghost-clink of milk bottle on the rough threshold and understood the meadow-bells that trembled over a nimbus of ragwort— the whole afternoon lambent, corrugated, puddle-mad.
Vencida está la página Y el poema es como si cayera un ruiseñor Y la página tiene olor a ruiseñor, A húmedo ruiseñor. Húmedo como el desierto Donde cantan sin cesar los ruiseñores. – Leopoldo Panero (poeta español, b 1948, de su libro entitulado Sombra)
I might as well do another test of this posting-via-email problem. This is the trashcan nearest my desk at work. I just recently happened to notice that it features profoundly fractured English. It is so truly horrible that it becomes a kind of poetry.
The rain day is a beautiful.
Rain water is feeled kindly.
The umbrella is
unfolded toward sky.
If it is stopped,
rainbow will raise out of cloud.
it's unlikely that a decent poem is in me tonight and I understand that this is strictly my problem and of no interest to you that I sit here listening to a man playing a piano on the radio and it's bad piano, both the playing and the composition and again, this is of no interest to you as one of my cats, a beautiful white with strange markings, sleeps in the bathroom.
I have no idea what would be of interest to you but I doubt that you would be of interest to me, so don't get superior. in fact, come to think of it, you can kiss my ass.
I continue to listen to the piano. this will not be a memorable night in my life or yours.
let us celebrate the stupidity of our endurance.
– Charles Bukowski (German-American poet, 1920-1994)
383 Fabricaremos un toldo, como lo hacen tantos otros, con unos cueros de potro, que sea sala y sea cocina. ¡Tal vez no falte una china que se apiade de nosotros!
384 Allá no hay que trabajar, vive uno como un señor; de cuando en cuando un malón, y si de él sale con vida, lo pasa echao panza arriba mirando dar güelta el sol
- Éstas son dos estrofas del poema muy largo "El Gaucho Martín Fierro" del poeta argentino José Hernández (1834-1886), que consta el poema que en cierto término ha definido a la nación y la cultura gauchescas. Es un castellano algo difícil de entender, porque incluye muchas representaciones fonéticas de la pronunciación rústico del gaucho platense. Hace mucho que me ocupo de la temática gauchesca, pero en algún momento fue algo que me atraía mucho, hasta que fue uno de varios posibles temas para mi tesis del doctorado, aunque no él que al fin seleccioné. Recientemente busqué y encontré los textos del poema gratis en línea, y he decidido descargarlo y leerlo de nuevo.
There is a poem I ran across some time ago, called Changiparangga (찬기파랑가), which I liked but I didn't want to post it simply in translation – which is the form I encountered. I wanted to post the original.
But… the poem is 1300 years old. It was written by a Korean, but in Classical Chinese – as poems in that era were typically written. I know absolutely nothing about Classical Chinese, and I am not conversant in the discourses of Korean philology, either. So representing an "original" of this poem is a fraught proposition at best. Nevertheless, the text below seems to be the "original" (원문) in circulation. The "transcriptions" provided on Korean websites already are too opaque for me to make heads or tails of – they use obsolete Korean "jamo" characters to represent the Chinese sounds, and these aren't even unicode, but are instead gifs (picture files) that are being posted. I don't feel comfortable borrowing those when I don't even understand them. So there is no hangul transcription for this, and I couldn't find anything that looked like an "authoritative" modern Koreanization of the poem (which would be in the vein of a modernization of something like Beowulf in English literature).
The fascination of what's difficult Has dried the sap out of my veins, and rent Spontaneous joy and natural content Out of my heart. There's something ails our colt That must, as if it had not holy blood Nor on Olympus leaped from cloud to cloud, Shiver under the lash, strain, sweat and jolt As though it dragged road metal. My curse on plays That have to be set up in fifty ways, On the day's war with every knave and dolt, Theatre business, management of men. I swear before the dawn comes round again I'll find the stable and pull out the bolt.
Este es el poema en el que existe un hombre sentado, un hombre que está vestido de gris, que viaja a visitar a otro hombre que ni siquiera conoce, a un hombre que también ha tomado el tranvía y viaja a su encuentro y que va pensando lo mismo que el otro hombre de gris.
Este es el poema donde existen dos hombres sentados, los dos han amado, los dos han sufrido, los dos han tomado el tranvía, se ignoran, no saben que ambos viajan al encuentro de un hombre vestido de gris.
Este es el poema donde existen tres hombres sentados, tres hombres que hablan de un hombre que habrá de venir, un hombre que vestido de gris estará esperando el tranvía sentado en un banco no muy lejos de aquí.
Este es el poema en que cuatro hombres sentados se miran, pero ninguno se atreve a pronunciar la palabra, la misma palabra que está ardiendo en sus labios desde el instante preciso en que cada uno de ellos se decidiera a venir.
Esperan, aguardan a un hombre que aún no ha tomado el tranvía, un hombre que está abriendo el armario y saca su traje y se ve en el espejo vestido de gris.
– Juan Carlos Mestre (poeta español, b 1957)
Translation, by the author
THE MAN IN GREY
This is the poem in which a man is sitting, a man who is dressed in grey, who is travelling to meet another man he doesn't even know, a man who's also taken the tram and is heading to this meeting and who's thinking the same thoughts as the other man in grey.
This is the poem in which there are two men sitting, both of them have loved, both have suffered, both have taken the tram, they do not know each other, nor do they know that both of them are heading towards a meeting with a man dressed in grey.
This is the poem in which there are three men sitting, three men who ate all speaking of a man who is to come, a man who, dressed in grey, will be waiting for their tram, sitting on a bench not very far from here.
This is the poem in which there are four men sitting and looking at one another, but none of them dares say the word, the same word that's been burning on each of their lips from the very moment each one of them decided to come.
They are waiting; they are waiting for a man who has not yet taken the tram, a man who is opening his closet and taking out his suit and looking in the mirror at a man dressed in grey.
The steam wheels ride the iron, fast as if flying; Travelling and halting, they follow their own mind, not even slightly faltering. Having mastered the theory, what kind of person realized this method? Bubbling the tea’s one leaf has created a divine machine. – Kim Deukryeon (金得鍊, 김득련, Korean poet 1852-1930)
I found this poem online at a website about translating Korean poetry written in classical Chinese (which was the main way to write poetry in Korea until the 20th century). The author of the poem above apparently traveled around the world in 1895-96, and upon his return published poems about his experience.
Joan Baez, "Love Is Just a Four Letter Word." The song was written by Bob Dylan, but it's Baez's version that everyone knows.
Lyrics.
Seems like only yesterday I left my mind behind Down in the Gypsy Café With a friend of a friend of mine She sat with a baby heavy on her knee Yet spoke of life most free from slavery With eyes that showed no trace of misery A phrase in connection first that she averred That love is just a four-letter word
Outside a rambling store-front window Cats meowed to the break of day Me, I kept my mouth shut, To you I had no words to say My experience was limited and underfed You were talking while I hid To the one who was the father of your kid You probably didn't think I did, but I heard You say that love is just a four-letter word
I said goodbye unnoticed Pushed forward into my own games Drifting in and out of lifetimes Unmentionable by name After searching for my double, looking for Complete evaporation to the core Though I tried and failed at finding any door I must have thought that there was nothing more absurd Than that love is just a four-letter word
Though I never knew just what you meant When you were speaking to your man I could only think in terms of me And now I understand After waking enough times to think I see The Holy Kiss that's supposed to last eternity Blow up in smoke, its destiny Falls on strangers, travels free Yes, I know now, traps are only set by me And I do not really need to be assured That love is just a four-letter word
Strange it is to be beside you, many years the tables turned You'd probably not believe me if told you all I've learned And it is very very weird, indeed To hear words like "forever" plead though ships run through my mind I cannot cheat it's like looking in a teacher's face complete I can say nothing to you but repeat what I heard That love is just a four-letter word.
Whether what we sense of this world is the what of this world only, or the what of which of several possible worlds –which what?–something of what we sense may be true, may be the world, what it is, what we sense. For the rest, a truce is possible, the tolerance of travelers, eating foreign foods, trying words that twist the tongue, to feel that time and place, not thinking that this is the real world.
Conceded, that all the clocks tell local time; conceded, that "here" is anywhere we bound and fill a space; conceded, we make a world: is something caught there, contained there, something real, something which we can sense? Once in a city blocked and filled, I saw the light lie in the deep chasm of a street, palpable and blue, as though it had drifted in from say, the sea, a purity of space.
I dreamed my genesis in sweat of sleep, breaking Through the rotating shell, strong As motor muscle on the drill, driving Through vision and the girdered nerve.
From limbs that had the measure of the worm, shuffled Off from the creasing flesh, filed Through all the irons in the grass, metal Of suns in the man-melting night.
Heir to the scalding veins that hold love's drop, costly A creature in my bones I Rounded my globe of heritage, journey In bottom gear through night-geared man.
I dreamed my genesis and died again, shrapnel Rammed in the marching heart, hole In the stitched wound and clotted wind, muzzled Death on the mouth that ate the gas.
Sharp in my second death I marked the hills, harvest Of hemlock and the blades, rust My blood upon the tempered dead, forcing My second struggling from the grass.
And power was contagious in my birth, second Rise of the skeleton and Rerobing of the naked ghost. Manhood Spat up from the resuffered pain.
I dreamed my genesis in sweat of death, fallen Twice in the feeding sea, grown Stale of Adam's brine until, vision Of new man strength, I seek the sun.
sonámbulo siniestro y solitario a través de una larga noche sin consuelo van y vienen y van los sucesos las olas los peces de tu alma
quién te dará su alivio atormentada senectud en vilo? quién adónde eres tú mismo?
llorabas al nacer sentiste el frío del espacio invisible el tiempo de los lémures los terrestres soportes imaginarios dones de tristeza de combate de ardor de muerte en suma
pero te irás un día en un momento y qué? qué has hecho? vivir y eso qué es?
qué pretendes ser en el universo y pico del instante profundo y sin memoria?
todo pasa y esto calma volveremos quizá quién sabe si hasta luego quién sabe si hasta dónde
son las cenizas horas de tu llanto al nacer pero al partir sonríe quedamente en la penumbra querida criatura despreciable y pequeña
podía haber sido tenías que haber sido quizá abrazo para siempre jamás en el olvido hasta otra aurora
I try hard not to get boring or repetitive in these daily blog posts, but sometimes I just don't have the time or energy to put something of appropriate diversity. So here's another song – though quite different from yesterday's.
What I'm listening to right now.
Kacey Musgraves, "Merry-Go-Round." I love when some song I don't remember buying or downloading rolls around on my mp3 shuffle and it's like hearing it for the first time, except that at some point I must have chosen it because otherwise it wouldn't end up on my mp3 player on my phone.
This song surprised me. It's just a sort of desolate but well-crafted country song, with simple melodic hooks and clever rhyming. These days, however, I tend to listen to songs while imagining trying to explain them to my students in one of my CC classes, as I often end up having to do with the various bits of American pop that roll along on the "CC" curriculum. In that light, this song qualifies as: too complicated, thematically too adult, and too culturally alien. I could imagine teaching a graduate seminar on American culture to Koreans, using lines from this song as lecture titles on the syllabus.
Lyrics.
If you ain't got two kids by 21, You're probably gonna die alone. Least that's what tradition told you. And it don't matter if you don't believe, Come Sunday morning, you best be there in the front row like you're supposed to.
Same hurt in every heart. Same trailer, different park.
Mama's hooked on Mary Kay. Brother's hooked on Mary Jane. Daddy's hooked on Mary two doors down. Mary, Mary quite contrary. We get bored, so, we get married Just like dust, we settle in this town. On this broken merry go 'round and 'round and 'round we go Where it stops nobody knows and it ain't slowin' down. This merry go 'round.
We think the first time's good enough. So, we hold on to high school love. Sayin' we won't end up like our parents. Tiny little boxes in a row. Ain't what you want, it's what you know. Just happy in the shoes you're wearin'. Same checks we're always cashin' to buy a little more distraction.
'Cause mama's hooked on Mary Kay. Brother's hooked on Mary Jane. Daddy's hooked on Mary two doors down. Mary, Mary, quite contrary. We get bored, so, we get married. Just like dust, we settle in this town. On this broken merry go 'round and 'round and 'round we go Where it stops nobody knows and it ain't slowin' down. This merry go 'round.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary. We're so bored until we're buried. Just like dust, we settle in this town. On this broken merry go 'round. Merry go 'round.
Jack and Jill went up the hill. Jack burned out on booze and pills. And Mary had a little lamb. Mary just don't give a damn no more.
Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun? Or fester like a sore— And then run? Does it stink like rotten meat? Or crust and sugar over— like a syrupy sweet?
