Some thoughts on translating poetry by Luis Zalamea (dad)

TRANSLATING POETRY

Some of our readers are curious to know if there any secrets about translating poetry. On this subject I am pleased to defer to Paul Schmidt in the introduction to his brilliant versions in English of Rimbaud’s poems in French:

“I was to master  his poetry, to grasp his thought – whose record his poems were, that I knew – make it mine, to write his poems myself, as myself, in my own voice, in my own language. “Je’est un autre,” he writes. “I is somebody else,” indeed, in all his poems. So this is my Rimbaud, though I’m not Rimbaud, and he is not me. We are both somebody else.”

For my part, I’d just like to add that to interpret poetry – a more relevant verb than to translate- it helps being a poet.

Luis Zalamea, Feb. 17, 2011

En español:

Algunos lectores han expresado la curiosidad de saber si traducir poesía tiene alguna fórmula secreta. Sobre este tema me complace ceder la palabra a Paul Schmidt en la introducción a sus  admirables versiones en inglés de los poemas de Rimbaud en francés.

“Me propuse dominar su poesía, penetrar el  pensamiento que había labrado sus poemas, y hacerlos míos, es decir, escribir sus poemas yo mismo y y en calidad de yo mismo, en mi propia voz, en mi propio idioma. “Je’est un autre,” él escribe. Porque en efecto, “Yo soy alguien distinto” en cada uno sus poemas.  De modo que éste es mi Rimbaud, aunque yo no sea Rimbaud y él no sea yo. Somos ambos alguien distinto”.

Por mi cuenta agrego que para interpretar poesía – un verbo  más certero que traducir – conviene ser poeta.

Luis Zalamea, Feb. 17, 2011

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Corre! (Dad’s Spanish version of Run! – I like this poem even more in Spanish!)

La noche está impregnada
del peso de demasiada vida,
de demasiado ruido,
de dolor desmedido:
los veo reflejados
en el rostro de mi padre,
escarlata en  luz vespertina
tras de su paseo puntualdiario
a la hora del ocaso.
Nos sentamos separados
por un metro de espacio
para conversar
sólo con miradas
y crudas señales
usando las manos,
ya que él dice que lo poco
que oye está deformado
por “ecos metálicos”.

El calor arrecia
¿O será que estoy acalorada?
El lleva puesto el mismo
suéter azul que hace años
luce de uniforme,
emblema limpio de sangre
de todas sus batallas.

Me sonríe
desde el viejo sillón
en medio de muelles cojines
donde acomoda
sus miembros doloridos,
y sus labios esbozan
la sonrisa presumida
de mostrar sus dientes intactos.
Levanto enhiesto el pulgar
en señal de aprobación
y él asiente con esa risita
que ambos sabemos
que no es la verdad
y está lejos de serlo…
Alcanzo a oír goteando
un grifo en el baño:
¿Acaso él olvidó cerrarlo?
Secreto compartido
desde hace ya tiempo,
quizás para que siga
entonando un salmo
de revancha
durante más y más años
ese salmo humilde
pero contundente,
de quienes \se burlan
descaradamente
de fatuos que abrazan
la pretensión ridícula
de que la existencia
hay que vivirla
cueste lo que cueste.
El  pugna por captar
mis palabras mesuradas,
mis bromas, mis mentiras.
Sé que conoce bien
que también ara mí
hay cosas peores cosas
que la muerte:
no poder recorrer
de nuevo la senda
trazada en otro tiempo,
ya sea por casualidad,
nuestras equivocaciones,
o simplemente Karma.
El aspira profundo
bocanadas de aire nocturno
ansiando absorber
en el corazón
un hilito  sedoso
de luna
para embriagarse
de noctívagos cantos
al compás del zumzum
de las chicharras
en su aleteo sin fin
y que se aglutina
hasta aglutinarse
con el aire espeso
que se evapora al alba
para dar comienzo
a otro día,
un día más
colmado
de esperas y miedos ,
un día cautivo
entre los ruidos de la nada,
la vastedad del espacio
y el fulgor de la luz
absoluta y finita
en que todo color
se purifica en blanco.
Allí sigo yo de testigo,
sin brindarle consuelo,
salvo  reconocer
cuán irremediablemente
absurdo es el espejo
al que nos aferramos
como si fuese de oro
clavado en pleno
ojo de nuestro sentido.
Entonces le susurro
en sus oídos sordos
lo más fuerte que puedo:
¡Corre, corre, corre,
para salvar tu vida!

Corre,
dá rienda suelta
a tu corazón
como aquellos monarcas
que surcaron el mar hacia
un lugar olvidado en México,
las aves que emigran al sur,
los delfines a caza de atunes,
y los bobos que creen en quimeras,
¡Corre!
Y deja que los vientos del sur
te lleven a cuestas por encima
de la Corriente del Golfo
hasta sentir el embate
de feroces vientos gélidos
en medio de nubes
voladoras que trituran
del Artico sus nevadas cimas
para asombro de los precavidos.
¡Corre!
Invade a carcajadas
las moles macizas de hielo,
corre muy alto
sobre el horizonte
hasta las cúpulas de oro
de los templos de Himalaya,
y allí,
en el más leve
de todos los aires,
coronado por una sonrisa,
te espera el propio Buda.
Libérate de una vez
y para siempre.

Vuelvo a hacer
a mi padre la señal
de aprobación
con el pulgar enhiesto.
Ahora no sonríe:
asiente con la cabeza,
tal vez para que yo sepa
que esta vez sí me ha oído.

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RUN! (Tough poem to write – but worth it..dad’s Spanish version to follow soon)

The night is wet with
the heaviness of too much life,
of too much noise,
of much too much pain :
I can see it in the face
of my father,
flushed
in the night light –
still slightly ruddy
from the late afternoon walk.
We sit
not 2 feet
from each other
and  talk
only
with our eyes,
or crude hand gestures,
as what little he hears
is distorted by “a metallic sound.”

I am warm,
more like uncomfortably hot,
but he wears the same
blue sweater from years ago –
like the proud uniform
of the bloodless.
He smiles from his chair
adorned with stacks of pillows
to coddle his ailing limbs:
a proud smile
that announces he still
has all his own teeth.
I give him the thumbs up,
and he nods – but we both
know it’s not true –
far from it…

I can hear the drip of the bathroom
sink,
like the chorus of time
it announces the same
shared secret – that yes,
he’s once again
left the sink running –
singing a song of revenge:
free flowing
at all expense –
like the years spent –
laughing
openly
at the ridiculous pretense:
life is worth living at any price.

He struggles to hear
my measured words –
my pleasantries,
my lies –
I know he knows,
and I
that there are things
worse than death.
That there is no way
to skirt the path
long drawn by luck –
choices,
or blatant karma.
He draws a deep
night air breath,
as if to pull the silky
taper of a moon beam
to his heart –
as if to drink the night song
vibrant with the drumming
wings of cicadas-
as if to meld into the thick
and heavy night air
which by morning
will have vaporized
to just another day…..
just another long day
of waiting
and fearing
the sounds of nothing,
the vastness of open space
the brightness of absolute
and finite light
where colors fade to
pure white
and I sit witness,
offering little solace,
but simply
recognizing
the complete and utter
absurdity of this
mirror we hold
as tight as gold
to our mind’s eye –

I want to whisper in his
deaf ear:
as loudly as my throat
will howl –
“Run – run- run
for your life –
Run and free your heart –
like the monarchs swarming
over the ocean to some
God forsaken town in Mexico,
like the warblers migrating south –
like the dolphins chasing tuna,
and countless idiots chasing
their dreams –
run and let the southern winds
lift you past the Gulf stream
into the cold blasts of angry
Arctic winds –
into the clouds that bash
and blast frigid snow
on the unsuspecting –
laugh yourself into frozen
mountains –
high,
past the horizon,
to the golden roofs
of Himalayan temples,
and there in thinnest of airs
under the smile of Buddha
himself –
be free
once and for all.

I give him the thumbs up
again,
but this time
he doesn’t smile,
just nods,
as if he has heard me…..

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A few passing thoughts…..

I have been posting poems on this blog as steadily as possible.  Some are older poems, and some more recent.  You may notice a wide range in length of these poems, and in subject…but they are all heart felt musings and a part of my growth as a person and poet.  Spring has suddenly arrived here in north west Florida, and it makes me long for the mountains of Montana – the cool brisk air and the time I have there to truly write.  I will continue to post poems from my Montana wanderings for the next few days.  I also hope to have some more recent poems written in the last few months up on the blog soon – and some of my dad’s own poetry in Spanish.  Please keep checking for new posts, enjoying and giving us some feedback.

 

In peace and light,

Pilar and Luis – the “duo”

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Equinoccio de Otono (Spanish version of Fall Equinox by Luis Zalamea)

Allí está
una vez  más
el lobo gris
encaramado
en la loma.
apenas asoma
el sol
en la serranía
detrás de Quake Lake
y siento en la nuca
el rocío de tus
lances nocturnos,
de salvia dulce
fragante,
y volteando
la cabeza
y los ojos cerrados
atisbo un olmo temblón,
y en sus ramaa
escucho los latidos
de tu enorme corazón:
estruendo
de aguas profundas
y caudalosos torrentes
que arrastran
un surtido
de tus presas predilectas:
el antílope rayado,
el ciervo de rabo blanco,
y el más bravío
de todos tus supervivientes –
la liebre timorata
aferrándose al eco
de su propio,
leve aliento.

Con el sol a mis espaldas,
me asombra
cómo su mirada
refulgente
y descarada
quema
mis sienes
con llamas
hasta herrar allí
de la muerte
su marca más colorada
-La petit morte –
Y en silencio el cauda
se detiene en su espiral
hacia la nada,
naciendo,
cayendo,
para nacer nuevamente,
para nacer de nuevo…

Una ráfaga del norte
arrastra nubecillas alargadas
y parece descorrer
una cósmica cortina
para envolver el camino,
el banquillo
e incluso el sol,
ese sol aun indeciso.
en una masa grisásea
hecha de nada.
En un instante,
ya se ha escondido….

Esta noche,
en pleno equinoccio
de otoño,
con la luz opaca
y la sombra brillante
de una luna que anuncia
la llegada del tiempo
de las cosechas,
todo a mi derredor
es intangible.
inasible
y libre,
ilímite
y abierto
como el oro de tus ojos.
llegada la hora
de saborear la plenitud
de tu deseo.

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Fall Equinox – this is a poem from a series I wrote this summer in Montana – more to follow

Here he is
again –
the gray wolf
at the top of the hill.
As the sun breaks over
the ridge
behind Quake Lake,
I feel the dew from
his night wanderings
against the nape of my neck:
it smells of sweet sage
and aspen,
I turn
eyes closed
to hear the racing
of his huge heart
like the crashing
of  deep
torrential  waters,
bearing the names
of all his best kill:
the painted antelope,
the swift whitetail,
and bravest of the last
to stand –
the timid hare,
holding tight to
the echo of
thin breath…

My back to the sun,
now
his gaze
golden
brazen
burns
a flame
on my brow –
I  glow
with the crimson
mark of death :
La petit morte –
the silence in the torrent
the pause
in the breath –
the spiral toward nowhere,
the fall,
the birth
and re birth….

A  gust from the north
brings with it
a long sheath of a cloud:
it unravels
like a huge curtain
wrapping the road,
the bench,
and
the still timid sun
in slick grayness –
in nothingness.
In an instant
he is gone.

Tonight,
on this fall equinox:
this most balanced
of days:
when light is dark
and dark is light,
under this harvest
and richest of moons,
It all becomes one:
intangible
and
limitless,
boundless
open
and
free
as the gold in those eyes –
it is then,
I taste his desire.

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On Turning 60 – have a birthday coming soon – latest poem –

Looking out over the green
gray
winter waves
I see a long progression
of years:
like the sea foam,
they disperse
into the huge scope
of churning waters,
expansive
and all inclusive:
melding into
the vast horizon
where they fall,
counted,
wasted,
graced
a full 60….

Long ago,
a young poet
ended a verse with:
“I have wasted my life.”
At the time,
I thought it was dark
and clever.
But,
I have relished
my life,
seeing how others
would not,
could not.
Like the  royal palm
leaning
in this winter
sea wind ,
its brittle fronds
rustling,
I stand
face to the water
and sing
to the gift of life:
all the grit
and grace
pulled
year by year
from my heart
falls
into the space
between thought
and realization;
it tiptoes
cleverly
around my so called
conscious mind:
which dry
like the fronds,
has no color –
hollow:
an empty shell
of regrets
misgivings
judgments….
but in its
very center
lies the feel
of spring
and
hope.

No,
I tell myself
out loud,
I have not wasted my life.
I have gray
in my once raven
black
to prove it,
and what’s more
I wear it like an emblem
proud –
this  mundane badge
of struggle
and desire
to feel the best
and worse
this  awkward passage
has to offer:
all the messy muck
of life,
the brightest
darkest –
every variation
of shade
in the gleam
of the blinding
burning
vibrant
radiance
we are gifted….

I whisper out loud
as if the sea
might carry
my words
way past this day,
this place
this century
this realm
this now
this very moment :
“I have not wasted my life,
but
soon
it will
have wasted me.”

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