3 Temmuz 2022 Pazar

Poem / Bill Knott

Poem

Far final peaks, burn off this sleep,
use it as fuel in your endless creation of the pure face!

Bill Knott ~ (1940-2014, USA)

(The Naomi Poems, Book One: Corpse and Beans)


Astrid Veronika Allan

17 Haiku / Jorge Luis Borges

La vieja mano
sigue trazando versos
para el olvido.

Jorge Luis Borges ~ (17 Haiku)





My aging hand
writing down verses
for oblivion.

Jorge Luis Borges ~ (17 Haiku)

Translated by Jon Tarnoc





La vecchia mano
ancora scrive versi
per l’oblio.

Jorge Luis Borges ~ (17 Haiku)

Traduzione di Domenico Porzio

(da “La cifra”, “Lo Specchio” Mondadori, 1982)





Yaşlı el
dizeler çiziktirip duruyor
unutmak için.

Jorge Luis Borges ~ (17 Haiku)

[Borges's hand]. Jorge Luis Borges visiting the
National Gallery, Palermo, 1984, by Ferdinando Scianna

29 Haziran 2022 Çarşamba

No vive ya nadie en la casa... / César Vallejo

[No vive ya nadie en la casa...]

—No vive ya nadie en la casa —me dices—; todos se han ido. La sala, el dormitorio, el patio, yacen despoblados. Nadie ya queda, pues que todos han partido.

Y yo te digo: Cuando alguien se va, alguien queda. El punto por donde pasó un hombre, ya no está solo. Únicamente está solo, de soledad humana, el lugar por donde ningún hombre ha pasado. Las casas nuevas están más muertas que las viejas, por que sus muros son de piedra o de acero, pero no de hombres. Una casa viene al mundo, no cuando la acaban de edificar, sino cuando empiezan a habitarla. Una casa vive únicamente de hombres, como una tumba. De aquí esa irresistible semejanza que hay entre una casa y una tumba. Sólo que la casa se nutre de la vida del hombre, mientras que la tumba se nutre de la muerte del hombre. Por eso la primera está de pie, mientras que la segunda está tendida.

Todos han partido de la casa, en realidad, pero todos se han quedado en verdad. Y no es el recuerdo de ellos lo que queda, sino ellos mismos. Y no es tampoco que ellos queden en la casa, sino que continúan por la casa. Las funciones y los actos se van de la casa en tren o en avión o a caballo, a pie o arrastrándose. Lo que continúa en la casa es el órgano, el agente en gerundio y en circulo. Los pasos se han ido, los besos, los perdones, los crímenes. Lo que continúa en la casa es el pie, los labios, los ojos, el corazón. Las negaciones y las afirmaciones, el bien y el mal, se han dispersado. Lo que continua en la casa, es el sujeto del acto.

César Vallejo ~ Poemas en prosa (1923) (1924-1929)





[No one lives in the house anymore...]

- No one lives in the house anymore – you tell me -; all have gone. The living room, the bedroom, the patio, are deserted. No one remains any longer, since everyone has departed.

And I say to you: When someone leaves, someone remains. The point through which a man passed, is no longer empty. The only place that is empty, with human solitude, is that through which no man has passed. New houses are deader than old ones, for their walls are of stone or steel, but not of men. A house comes into the world, not when people finish building it, but when they begin to inhabit it. A house lives only off men, like a tomb. That is why there is an irresistible resemblance between a house and a tomb. Except that the house is nourished by the life of man, while the tomb is nourished by the death of man. That is why the first is standing, while the second is laid out.

Everyone has departed from the house, in reality, but all have remained in truth. And it is not their memory that remains, but they themselves. Nor is it that they remain in the house, but that they continue about the house. Functions and acts leave the house by train or by plane or on horseback, walking or crawling. What continues in the house is the organ, the agent in gerund and in circle. The steps have left, the kisses, the pardons, the crimes. What continues in the house are the foot, the lips, the eyes, the heart. Negations and affirmations, good and evil, have dispersed. What continues in the house, is the subject of the act.

César Vallejo

Translated by Clayton Eshleman

(The Complete Poetry, César Vallejo, A Bilingual Edition, University of California Press, 2007.)





[Nobody lives in the house anymore...] "second translation"

—NOBODY LIVES IN the house anymore— you tell me—; everyone has left. The living room, the bedroom, the courtyard, remain unpopulated. Nobody remains, since everybody has departed.

—And I tell you: Whenever someone leaves, somebody stays. The spot by which a man has passed, is not empty any longer. It is solely alone, from human solitude, the place by which no man has passed. New houses are deader than old ones, because their walls are made of stone or steel, but not of men. A house comes to the world, not when people have just built it, but when they start to inhabit it. A house lives only by its men, as in a coffin. It’s just that the house is nourished by the life of man, while the coffin is nourished by the death of man. That’s why the former one is standing, while the latter is outstretched.

—Everybody has left the house, in reality, but everybody has remained in truth. And it is not the memory of them which remains, but they themselves. And it is neither that they remain inside the house, but that they continue around the house. Functions and acts leave the house by train or plane or on horseback, by foot or crawling. What continues in the house is the organ, the agent in gerund and in circle. The footsteps have departed, the kisses, the apologies, the crimes. What continues in the house is the foot, the lips, the eyes, the heart. Negations and affirmations, good and evil, have dispersed.

—What stays in the house, is the subject of the act.

César Vallejo

Translated by César Eduardo and Jumpa Sánchez





[Nessuno vive più nella casa...]

«Nessuno vive più nella casa, mi dici; tutti se ne sono andati.
La sala, la camera, il patio, giacciono spopolati.
Non resta nessuno, perché tutti sono partiti.
E io ti dico:
Quando qualcuno se ne va, qualcuno resta.
Il punto da cui è passato un uomo non è più solo.
Non è solo, di solitudine umana,
che il luogo dove nessun uomo è passato.

Le case nuove sono più morte delle antiche,
perché i loro muri sono fatti di pietra o di acciaio, ma non di uomini.

[...] Tutti sono partiti dalla casa,
n realtà,
ma in verità sono tutti restati.»

César Vallejo






[Artık kimse yaşamıyor evde...]

―Artık kimse yaşamıyor evde ―diyorsun bana―; herkes gitti. Salon, yatak odası, hol, insansız yatıyorlar. Artık kimse kalmadı, çünkü herkes bırakıp gitti.

Ben sana: Birisi gittiği zaman birisi kalır, diyorum. Bir insanın geçtiği nokta artık yalnız değildir. İnsansız olan tek nokta, henüz hiç bir insanın geçmediği yerdir. Yeni evler eskilerden daha ölüdür. Çünkü taştandır duvarları ya da fayanstan, ama insandan değil. Bir ev yapımı bittiğinde gelmez dünyaya, içinde birileri yaşamaya başlayınca katılır hayata. Evler de tıpkı mezarlar gibi sadece insanlarla yaşarlar. Bir evle bir mezar arasındaki katlanılmaz benzerlik bundandır. Ancak ev insan yaşamından beslenirken, mezar insan ölümünden beslenir. Bu yüzden ikincisi uzanmışken, birincisi ayaktadır.

Gerçekte herkes evden ayrıldı, ama aslında herkes evde kaldı. Kalan onların anıları değil elbet; kendileri. Ve pek tabii ki evde kalmıyorlar artık, ama evde süregidiyorlar. İşler ve eylemler evden giderler; trenle, uçakla, atla, yürüyerek ya da sürünerek. Evde süregiden şey, eylemi işleyen organdır; failin döngüsel eylemlilik halidir. Adımlar gitti, öpüşler, özürler, suçlar. Evde süregiden ayaktır, dudaklar, gözler, yürek. Olumlamalar ve olumsuzlamalar, iyi ve kötü çekip gittiler. Evde kalan şey eylemin öznesidir.

César Vallejo

İspanyolcadan çeviren Bülent Kale


Photo by Astrid Veronika Allan

26 Haziran 2022 Pazar

17 Haiku / Jorge Luis Borges

En el desierto
acontece la aurora.
Alguien lo sabe.

Jorge Luis Borges ~ (17 Haiku)





In the desert
dawn arrives.
Somebody knows it.

Jorge Luis Borges ~ (17 Haiku)

Translated by Jon Tarnoc





Sopra il deserto
sta avvenendo l'aurora.
Qualcuno lo sa. 

Jorge Luis Borges ~ (17 Haiku)

Traduzione di Domenico Porzio

(da “La cifra”, “Lo Specchio” Mondadori, 1982)





Çölde
şafak söküyor.
Biri biliyor bunu.

Dunes, Shoshone, California, 1934, by Brett Weston

25 Haziran 2022 Cumartesi

La materia no pesa. / Pedro Salinas

La voz a ti debida

[45] (Versos 1585 a 1629)

La materia no pesa.
Ni tu cuerpo ni el mío,
juntos, se sienten nunca
servidumbre, sí alas.
Los besos que me das
son siempre redenciones:
tú besas hacia arriba,
librando algo de mí,
que aún estaba sujeto
en los fondos oscuros.
Lo salvas, lo miramos
para ver cómo asciende,
volando, por tu impulso,
hacia su paraíso
donde ya nos espera.
No, tu carne no oprime
ni la tierra que pisas
ni mi cuerpo que estrechas.
Cuando me abrazas, siento
que tuve contra el pecho
un palpitar sin tacto,
cerquísima, de estrella,
que viene de otra vida.
El mundo material
nace cuando te marchas.
Y siento sobre el alma
esa opresión enorme
de sombras que dejaste,
de palabras, sin labios,
escritas en papeles.
Devuelto ya a la ley
del metal, de la roca,
de la carne. Tu forma
corporal,
tu dulce peso rosa,
es lo que me volvía
el mundo más ingrávido.
Pero lo insoportable,
lo que me está agobiando,
llamándome a la tierra,
sin ti que me defiendas,
es la distancia, es
el hueco de tu cuerpo.
Si, tú nunca, tú nunca:
tu memoria, es materia.

Pedro Salinas - La voz a ti debida (1933)





[45]

Matter has no weight. 
Neither your body nor mine 
joined ever feels 
serfdom. Wings yes. 
Kisses you give me 
are always redemptions: 
you kiss facing upward, 
freeing something in me 
that was still subject 
to dark bottoms.
You save it, we see it 
and see how it ascends 
flying, impelled by you 
into a paradise 
where now it waits for us. 
No, your flesh does not oppress 
the earth it steps on 
or my body you hold tight.
When you hug me I feel I held 
a star against my chest, 
throbbing, not touching, 
exceedingly close, with a star 
that comes from another life. 
The material world 
is born when you leave. 
And over my soul I feel 
that enormous oppression 
of shadows you left, 
of lipless words 
written on papers. 
Now returned to the law 
of metal, rock, 
flesh. Your corporal 
form, your soft rose weight 
is what turns me into 
a world of lightness.
But what I can't hold up, 
what pins me down, 
calling me to the earth 
without you to defend me, 
is the distance, is 
the hollow left by your body.

Yes. Never you, never you: 
your memory is matter.

Pedro Salinas

Translated by Willis Barnstone

(Love Poems by Pedro Salinas: My Voice Because of You and Letter Poems to Katherine)





[45] "second translation"

Matter has no weight. 
Neither your body nor mine, 
together, ever feel 
obligation, only wings. 
The kisses you give me 
always redeem me: 
you kiss skyward, 
freeing something in me 
which was being held down 
in the dark depths. 
You rescue it, we watch it 
to see how it rises, 
flying, by your impulse, 
toward the paradise 
where it waits for us now. 
No, your flesh doesn’t bruise 
either the earth you walk on 
or my body which you clasp. 
When you hold me, I sense 
that I have held against my chest 
the unfelt pulsations 
of a very near star, 
which comes from another life. 
The material world 
is born when you walk away. 
And I feel on my heart 
that enormous anguish 
of shadows which you discarded, 
anguish of words, without lips, 
written on papers. 
I am returned to the law 
of metal, of rock, 
of flesh. Your corporeal 
form, 
your sweet rosy weight 
is returned to me 
by this most weightless world. 
But the unbearable thing, 
the thing that overwhelms me, 
calling me to back to earth 
without you to protect me, 
is distance, is 
the emptyness where your body was. 
If, never you, never you: 
your memory, it is matter.

Pedro Salinas

Translated by Ruth Katz Crispin

(Memory in My Hands: The Love Poetry of Pedro Salinas)





[45]

La materia non pesa.
Il tuo corpo ed il mio,
uniti, non sentono mai
schiavitú, sentono ali.
I baci che tu mi dài
sono sempre redenzioni:
tu baci verso l'alto,
e qualcosa di me porti a luce,
costretto prima
nel fondo oscuro.
Lo salvi, lo guardiamo
per vedere come ascende,
e vola, per l'impulso che gli dài,
verso il suo paradiso
dove ci aspetta.
No, non opprime la tua carne
e neppure la terra che calpesti
né il mio corpo che stringi.

Sento, quando mi abbracci,
che ho tenuto contro il petto
un lieve palpitare,
vicinissimo, di stella,
che viene da un'altra vita.
Il mondo materiale
nasce quando tu parti.
E sull'anima sento
quest'oppressione enorme
di ombre che hai lasciato,
di parole, senza labbra,
scritte su fogli di carta.
Restituito alla legge
del metallo, della roccia,
della carne. La tua forma
corporea,
il tuo dolce peso rosa,
è ciò che mi rendeva
il mondo piú lieve.
Ma ciò che non sopporto
e che mi schiaccia,
chiamandomi alla terra,
senza te per difendermi,
è la distanza,
è il vuoto del tuo corpo.

Sí, tu mai, tu mai:
il tuo ricordo, è materia.

Pedro Salinas

Traduzione di Emma Scoles

(da “La voce a te dovuta”, Einaudi, Torino, 1979)


Patricia Velasquez, book "Acqua Pantelleria", 1992,
by Fabrizio Ferri