Humming & hawing

A poem

memyselfandenglish — Sun, 17 Jan 2010 17:41:28 +0000

I like rivers

walking on -not always

round- stones

the red-hot cold

life seeking a little of your blood

the stream

erasing and pushing your steps

things that remind me

I’m alive

and how easily that can stop.

I like finding signs that not everything

rotten.

Saving quotes

memyselfandenglish — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 21:15:37 +0000

Yesterday I threw an old diary from 2006 (the kind you use to note down appointments and to-do lists, not the kind where you bitch about your best friend or pine away for a classmate who doesn’t even notice you) into the recycling bin, in a mild effort to declutter my habitat a little. The only thing worth keeping were a couple of quotations from books I was reading at that time, so I decided to use one of the million blank notebooks I have (my name is Laura and I am a stationary fetichist) to write down special passages in nice handwriting -well, at least not as bad as it can get in my case.

So these are the first three chosen ones:

They were stuck down to their neck in a cake of which they would never have anything but the crumbs.

Georges Perec, Les choses
[a perfect metaphor for the consumer society]

All of you have by your side a spirits that shows you at night the way you should follow during the day, but most times you don’t listen to us and then it happens; you live a life that does not correspond to you… and then it happens; you die a death that does not belong to you.

Luis Durán, Cabalgando por las colinas de arena

[this one is from a Spanish graphic novel set in the Far West. The character speaking is the hero's Spirit Guide]

rain good for the trees and the grass and the air… good for things that live alone.

Charles Bukowski, from the poem prayer in bad weather

[it's been raining a lot recently]

A poem you won’t probably find anywhere else

memyselfandenglish — Thu, 21 May 2009 23:39:38 +0000

This is my own very personal tribute to Benedetti: my favourite poem (the one about the city garden I told you on the previous post) translated into English by yours truly. I’ll post it here together with the original so that you can compare. I’ll sincerely appreciate comments since I have no idea of what this can look like to a native speaker of English (or to a non-Spanish speaker, for that matter). Please notice that this is poetry and that some sentences might seem a little awkward or not make sense immediately (it’s the same in the original). I don’t know how to arrange this in two colummns so the original is below my translation. Maybe you’ll find it easier to compare if you open the Spanish version on a separate window clicking here.

Left from the oak (Mario Benedetti, translated by Laura Marcos)

I wonder if this has ever happened to you

but the Botanic Garden is a sleeping park

where one can feel like a tree o like a fellow human

as long as a prerequisite is met:

that the city exists peacefully far away.

The secret is to lean let’s say on a trunk

and hear through the air that admits dead noises

how the streetcars gallop in Millan y Reyes.

I wonder if this has ever happened to you

but the Botanic Garden has always

been prone to daydreaming

to have insects climbing up one’s legs

and melancholy running down one’s arms

until one closes both fists and grabs it.

After all, the secret is to look up

and see how clouds fight for the tree tops

and see how the nests fight for the birds.

I wonder if this has ever happened to you

oh, but couples who flee for the garden

whether they get out of taxis or climb down the clouds

usually speak about important things

and stare fanatically into each other’s eyes

as if love was a short tunnel

and they could see themselves inside that love.

Those two for instance, left from the oak,

(I could also call it an almond tree or an araucaria

thanks to my gaps on Pan and Linneo)

are talking and its seems that words

are moved to pity and stay there to look at them

since not even their echoes get here.

I wonder if this has ever happened to you

but it’s so beautiful to imagine what they’re saying

specially if he bites a little branch

and she leaves one of her shoes on the grass

specially if he has sad bones

and she wants to smile, but she can’t.

I reckon the boy is saying

what is sometimes said at the Botanic Garden

The autumn came yesterday

the autumn sun

and I felt happy

as I felt long ago

you’re looking so beautiful

I love you

in my dream

in the night

horns can be heard

and the wind blowing on the sea

and however that

is still silence

look at me that way

I love you.

I work hard

I do additions

files

I argue with jerks

I get distracted and blaspheme

give me your hand

now

you know

I love you

I sometimes think of God

well, not really often

I wouldn’t want to steal his time

and he’s so far away

you’re here beside me

right now I’m sad

I’m sad and I love you

the hours will surely pass

the street like a river

those helpful trees

the sky

my friends

and how lucky I am

I love you

long ago I was a child

long ago and who cares

chance was as simple

as it is getting into your eyes

let me in

I love you

thank goodness I love you.

I wonder if this has ever happened to you

put it might happen that suddenly one notices

that it is actually something more devastating

one of those loves of tantalus and chance

that God can’t admit out of jealousy.

Notice that he’s tenderly accusing

and she’s leaning on the bark

notice that he’s pointing at memories

and she’s mysteriously getting mournful.

I reckon the boy is saying

what is sometimes said at the Botanic Garden

you said it

our love

has always been a dead child

only from time to time it looked

as if he was going to live

as if he was going to defeat us

but we were both so strong

that we took from him his blood

his future

his heaven [Note: heaven or sky?]

a dead child

just that

wonderful and damned

maybe he could a smile

such as yours

sweet and deep

maybe he could have a sad soul

such as mine

nothing much

maybe he could learn with time

to spread himself

to use the world

but the children that come that way

loved to death

scared to death

have such a big heart

that destroy themselves without knowing

you said it

your love

has always been a dead child

what a harsh shadowless truth

what an easy truth and what a pity

I imagined it as a child

and it was just a dead child

what is left to us now

the only thing that’s left is

to measure the faith and to remember

what we could have been

for him

that could not be ours

what else

perhaps when

a twenty third of april and a chasm come

wherever you are

take him some flowers

and I will go with you as well.

I wonder if this has ever happened to you

but the Botanic Garden is a sleeping park

that only wakes up with rain.

Now the last cloud has resolved to stay

and is getting us wet as happy beggars.

The secret lies in running with caution

so as not to kill any beetle

and not to tread on the fungi which take the opportunity

to swim desperately.

Without any caution I turn round and those two

stay left from the tree

eternal and hiding in the rain

telling each other who knows what silences.

I wonder if this has ever happened to you

but when the rain falls on the Garden

only the ghosts stay.

You can leave.

I’m staying.

A la izquierda del roble

No sé si alguna vez les ha pasado a ustedes
pero el Jardín Botánico es un parque dormido
en el que uno puede sentirse árbol o prójimo
siempre y cuando se cumpla un requisito previo.
Que la ciudad exista tranquilamente lejos.

El secreto es apoyarse digamos en un tronco
y oír a través del aire que admite ruidos muertos
cómo en Millán y Reyes galopan los tranvías.

No sé si alguna vez les ha pasado a ustedes
pero el Jardín Botánico siempre ha tenido
una agradable propensión a los sueños
a que los insectos suban por las piernas
y la melancolía baje por los brazos
hasta que uno cierra los puños y la atrapa.

Después de todo el secreto es mirar hacia arriba
y ver cómo las nubes se disputan las copas
y ver cómo los nidos se disputan los pájaros.

No sé si alguna vez les ha pasado a ustedes
ah pero las parejas que huyen al Botánico
ya desciendan de un taxi o bajen de una nube
hablan por lo común de temas importantes
y se miran fan ticamente a los ojos
como si el amor fuera un brevísimo túnel
y ellos se contemplaran por dentro de ese amor.

Aquellos dos por ejemplo a la izquierda del roble
(también podría llamarlo almendro o araucaria
gracias a mis lagunas sobre Pan y Linneo)
hablan y por lo visto las palabras
se quedan conmovidas a mirarlos
ya que a mí no me llegan ni siquiera los ecos.

No sé si alguna vez les ha pasado a ustedes
pero es lindísimo imaginar qué dicen
sobre todo si él muerde una ramita
y ella deja un zapato sobre el césped
sobre todo si él tiene los huesos tristes
y ella quiere sonreír pero no puede.

Para mí que el muchacho está diciendo
lo que se dice a veces en el Jardín Botánico

   ayer llegó el otoño
   el sol de otoño
   y me sentí feliz
   como hace mucho
   qué linda estás
   te quiero
   en mi sueño
   de noche
   se escuchan las bocinas
   el viento sobre el mar
   y sin embargo aquello
   también es el silencio
   mírame así
   te quiero
   yo trabajo con ganas
   hago números
   fichas
   discuto con cretinos
   me distraigo y blasfemo
   dame tu mano
   ahora
   ya lo sabés
   te quiero
   pienso a veces en Dios
   bueno no tantas veces
   no me gusta robar
   su tiempo
   y además está lejos
   vos estás a mi lado
   ahora mismo estoy triste
   estoy triste y te quiero
   ya pasarán las horas
   la calle como un río
   los árboles que ayudan
   el cielo
   los amigos
   y qué suerte
   te quiero
   hace mucho era niño
   hace mucho y qué importa
   el azar era simple
   como entrar en tus ojos
   dejame entrar
   te quiero
   menos mal que te quiero.

No sé si alguna vez les ha pasado a ustedes
pero puedo ocurrir que de pronto uno advierta
que en realidad se trata de algo más desolado
uno de esos amores de tántalo y azar
que Dios no admite porque tiene celos.

Fíjense que él acusa con ternura
y ella se apoya contra la corteza
fíjense que él va tildando recuerdos
y ella se consterna misteriosamente.

Para mí que el muchacho está diciendo
lo que se dice a veces en el Jardín Botánico

   vos lo dijiste
   nuestro amor
   fue desde siempre un niño muerto
   sólo de a ratos parecía
   que iba a vivir
   que iba a vencernos
   pero los dos fuimos tan fuertes
   que lo dejamos sin su sangre
   sin su futuro
   sin su cielo
   un niño muerto
   sólo eso
   maravilloso y condenado
   quizá tuviera una sonrisa
   como la tuya
   dulce y honda
   quizá tuviera un alma triste
   como mi alma
   poca cosa
   quizá aprendiera con el tiempo
   a desplegarse
   a usar el mundo
   pero los niños que así vienen
   muertos de amor
   muertos de miedo
   tienen tan grande el corazón
   que se destruyen sin saberlo
   vos lo dijiste
   nuestro amor
   fue desde siempre un niño muerto
   y qué verdad dura y sin sombra
   qué verdad fácil y qué pena
   yo imaginaba que era un niño
   y era tan sólo un niño muerto
   ahora qué queda
   sólo queda
   medir la fe y que recordemos
   lo que pudimos haber sido
   para él
   que no pudo ser nuestro
   qué más
   acaso cuando llegue
   un veintitrés de abril y abismo
   vos donde estés
   llevale flores
   que yo también iré contigo.

No sé si alguna vez les ha pasado a ustedes
pero el Jardín Botánico es un parque dormido
que sólo despierta con la lluvia.

Ahora la última nube a resuelto quedarse
y nos está mojando como alegres mendigos.

El secreto está en correr con precauciones
a fin de no matar ningún escarabajo
y no pisar los hongos que aprovechan
para nadar desesperadamente.

Sin prevenciones me doy vuelta y siguen
aquellos dos a la izquierda del roble
eternos y escondidos en la lluvia
diciéndose quién sabe qué silencios.

No sé si alguna vez les ha pasado a ustedes
pero cuando la lluvia cae sobre el Botánico
aquí se quedan sólo los fantasmas.

Ustedes pueden irse.
Yo me quedo.

Death of an old poet- in the memory of Mario Benedetti

memyselfandenglish — Mon, 18 May 2009 20:07:23 +0000

Mario Benedetti died eight hours before in Uruguay than in Spain and I learned the news when I woke up today, which made me kind of sad for the rest of the day. I discovered him at 18, and he was the first poet I’d ever read outside Literature class, the one that taught me that poetry didn’t need to feed on strange words or extraordinary events: he could send shivers down your spine by simply talking about a city garden. Also, his love poems made me think “well, that’s exactly what I want in a relationship”: in them, men and women are equals fighting together but not each other, fighting to make each other happy against their own human frailties. In fact, Tactic and strategy was the touchstone to decide whether I could go back with my boyfriend after our ehmmm, let’s not ramble please…

On the other hand, Benedetti was also important to me because he’s the poet of compromise. He was a very simple man (like the prototypical office worker of his poems) who got involved in political persecution in Uruguay during the unfortunate years of Latin American dictatorships sponsored by the USA (I’m talking about the 70s and 80s, in case some readers might wonder) and had to go through exile and the bitter certainty of what was happening to his folks. In any case, he never abandoned either the human lefts (as opposed to the human rights, which got all the lip-service) or his sense of humour (as you can see above and below).

Thank you Mario Orlando Hamlet Hardy Brenno (yes, he had five Christian names!) for 88 years of integrity and nearly as many of heartwarming poetry.

Here are two poems I got from the Internet. Hope you enjoy them.

TACTIC AND STRATEGY

My tactic is
Looking at you,
Learning how you are,
Loving you as you are,
My tactic is
Talking to you
And listening to you
To build with words
An indestructible bridge
My tactic is
Remaining in your memories
I don’t know how
Nor with which pretext
But remaining with you.
My tactic is
Being frank,
And knowing that you are frank,
And not selling each other
Simulations
So that between us
There is no curtain
Nor abyss.

My strategy is,
However,
Deeper and
Easier,
My strategy is
That one of these days
I don’t know how
Nor with which pretext
You finally
Need me.

DON’T SAVE YOURSELF

Don’t remain immobile
At the edge of the road
Don’t freeze the joy
Don’t love with reluctance
Don’t save yourself now
or ever
Don’t save yourself
Don’t fill with calm
Don’t reserve in the world
Only a secure place
Don’t let your eyelids fall
Heavily as judgments
Don’t speak without lips
Don’t sleep without sleepiness
Don’t imagine yourself without blood
Don’t judge yourself without time.
But if
in spite of everything
You can’t help it,
And you freeze the joy,
And you love with reluctance,
And you save yourself now,
And you fill with calm
And you reserve in the world
Only a calm place,
And you let fall your eyelids
Heavily as judgments,
And you speak without lips,
And you sleep without sleepiness,
And you imagine yourself without blood,
And you judge yourself without time,
And you remain immobile
At the edge of the road,
And you save yourself,
Then…
Don’t stay with me.

Poetry for you

memyselfandenglish — Mon, 04 May 2009 22:23:39 +0000

Today I conducted a poetry reading in my local library (let’s say it’s part of my job). There were six people in the public, including one of the authors’ wife and a little girl whose mother had such an interest as listening to poems in the late afternoon. The rest of the attendants were friends of mine, who came on my request so that it wouldn’t be so awkward for the poets to read for an empty room. After it finished, the librarian said: ‘well, not bad, more or less as usual’ . That’s the literary reality. I had hoped for some more people but after that I cheered up a little.

The most cruel of ironies is that I’m not really into poetry (I’m trying to get the knack of it) and one year ago I would probably not have attended the reading myself (unless one of my friends asked me to).

Some translated samples of today’s poems:

You passed by on the bus, your forehead

against the window. The saffron sky,

boiling over the roofs, mirrored in the glass and you

were again a little girl coming home

after playing all day long in the waste ground

with your lashes in a mess and your face smeared in sunset.

Héctor Pérez Iglesias

This city you live in is invented,

and at the same time proof of the lost world.

Shadows make the light make sense ,

essence is nothing without negation.

Miguel Allende

The last one is part of a sonnet, therefore it rhymes in the original. I find it impossible to translate any of Allende’s poems into English, at least not without a great effort; they are so deeply rooted in the local context (in spite of its universal outlook: it is not a contradiction). By the way, the original language is this.

Apiculturalist (a 7-word microstory)

memyselfandenglish — Mon, 27 Apr 2009 17:03:27 +0000

Neither wax nor honey: he wanted stings.

___________________

The shorter the better. Today I found a publishing house that organises a flash fiction contest of 6 -word microstories. There is no prize, but the best ones will be printed (or so they say). It’s been enough to keep me entertained for a while. Curiously, I haven’t been able to translate this microstory in six words, even though Spanish is usually far more prone to verbosity than English and thus less suitable for haiku and one-liners.
If you want to try (en español, por favor) : http://www.navonaed.com/navona/Principal/Participar.asp

Antipathy (a 30-word microstory)

memyselfandenglish — Sun, 26 Apr 2009 22:11:21 +0000

He walked out of his home with the morning light on his face. His joy lasted until it dawned on him that the sun was also shining for his enemies.

Based on a true story (a 541-word microstory)

memyselfandenglish — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 21:19:37 +0000

I could notice that he was taking glimpses of me. His companions at table listened to him with awe and laughed. They even seemed to be in synch; they did it almost every twelve seconds. It was easy to see that he was so annoyed by the situation as a protagonist as I was as an unintended spectator, and he peeped towards me and I tried to hide behind a neutral smile, staring at the book I was reading, seeking to divert his attention from my blushing face.

Three more peers suddenly burned my cheek as these words sounded:

“Excuse me, are you a local?”

“Eeer… yes”

“Would you mind sitting here with us for a sec?”

“No…”

He offered me a seat by his side. I took my coat and handbag as clumsily as usual and I sat there, trying to place my stuff carefully and not completely succeeding in the effort. He called over the waiter.

“What would you like?”

I can’t remember what I said, but I must have said something since the waiter left for the bar discreetly.

“I guess you’ll find this strange but, you know, I thought it would be a good idea to ask a local for a decent place to have a drink. You know, some place less similar to a operating room

I knew. But I didn’t find unpleasant that coffee shop and its white furniture, in fact I had chosen it to spend two quiet hours before it was time to go, an unfamiliar place where I didn’t have to hide from the chitchat of acquaintances in order to enjoy public solitude.

“Just before I go on, do you have time? Are we disturbing you?” he asked.

“Well, I’m going to the film festival premiere. I don’t have anything to do until then”.

“Sure”, he said, flashing a smile at me, “I’m also due there at that time. OK then?”

His change into the singular brought about a change of attitude towards his companions. He told them to go pay for the drinks and that “they already knew”. This sudden privacy quite surprised me but I thought it reasonable enough to think that I was safe with him.

“Shall we go?”

We stepped out of the coffee shop and started to walk. The place was near the neighbourhood were my gran used to live, and as we were approaching the park, out of a strange impulse, I said:

“Look, I used to play in this park as a little girl”

“Really? How sweet!”

“There used to be a terribly high iron slide, or so it appeared to me; a threat by modern standards. But rather than slide down I liked the overlook.

“So you liked heights?”

“Yep, and look, this is all the height I got” I replied leaning my head back to look into his eyes, ten inches above my sightline. He laughed, and then I so his eyes approaching, and his smile, and the little hairs in this three-day beard until I could anticipate his lips brushing mine, the kiss only prevented by the shout I couldn’t hold:

“No, Brad, please! Think about Angelina and the six kids!”

That’s me, I can’t help being prudish even in my dreams.

________________________________

Posting my stories translated was not part of my original plan for this blog but after reading Bernardo Moraes’ I got curious about what it would be like and how they would look. I’m not really a writer, just an amateur, and I enjoy translating literary texts from English but I had never attempted at translating any into English. I didn’t find it as hard as I expected. It crossed my mind that maybe it’s because English has grown to influence my native tongue discourse. The truth is that I read a lot in English, probably more than in any other language I know. AM I BEING BRAINWASHED BY THE LANGUAGE OF THE EMPIRE?

I hope you enjoyed my microstory and please don’t hold back from commenting either on the literary aspects or the language mistakes you may (in all probability) find.

Hello world!

memyselfandenglish — Sun, 19 Apr 2009 14:33:23 +0000

Hello world… and what else? Hummmmm. Welcome? I’m glad you chose to have a look at this blog among the thousands of them that there are? Well, yes, of course, all the usual things. I don’t intend to make an appearance like Gaby from Desperate Housewives. My only intention is to have this blog as a stimulus to write in English, something that otherwise I would seldom need to do (at least in an informal register) as I am a non-native speaker born, bred and living in a non anglophone country.

My plan is to write a weekly post on any topic I might find interesting (current affairs, books or films, most probably), but I could also take advantage of the fact that none in my close circle speaks English or knows about this blog to rant about my friends or boyfriend… Well, I’ll try not to do this.

An there I go, 152 words. Enough for this week!