That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the
night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist
houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.
- from Walking Around by Pablo Neruda translated by Robert Bly - and here’s another translation by Mikey K.
..............dragged memories of drift and linger
.....swarm.......across.the.countertop..........
tiny ants......my.pressing.finger......
.........formica..................make...it..stop....
.


Salon.com
Comments
I read the original Neruda and I have always been amazed at how can some translators take a material, that is obviously awe-inspiring in its original form, and they are able to convey the same feelings the first one brings and create a piece that is not only a translation, but a reworking of the material, a work of art that stands on its own
I enjoyed the way your images are almost structural in their value, how they can make me see and *see* what you are writing. I hope this makes sense, I mean, I know what I am trying to say but I don't know if it *translates* as it should
because things get lost in translation, they always do, and then you find others you didn't expect, and are precious just the same
(in Spanish the h sound is always silent, which on a completely unrelated comment, my daughter (she who asserts she speaks bird) says her cousin is like the letter h, silent. i thought it was a funny thing to say, and weird, plenty weird)
now i'm off, to bang my head on my own new generation-Formica counter as my middle class Catholic school never offered Latin courses, and now i'm depressed :-)
no, not really, i'm waiting up to see if other poets post and comparing male medieval clothing so i can fix a paragraph that has been giving me grief. the bits i need translated into latin are being done by a friend of a friend
moist, somehow, brings certain mental images, that, eww
or coffee cake, yes, definitely coffee cake, let's keep this light
i'm closing shop for tonight. i was going to post a pic of the one rain-less sunset we've had in 3 weeks but i'm just too tired for that now
buenas noches
Comes from Middle English. Figures, since it only has one syllable, and doesn't translate. My French dictionary says "humide (et froid)". Still not enough. There's an emotional component to it that's missing.
Your POEM however is marvelous. And I got that the dots were the ants. You got tiny curmudgeon invaders tonights?
Rated.
And--please--make it not stop.