Filíocht do Samhain, Là na Marbh / Irish poems, verses for Samhain + All Souls Day
Posted: October 31, 2012 Filed under: Cathal Ó Searcaigh, English, Irish, Rody Gorman | Tags: Samhain and All Souls Day poems Comments Off on Filíocht do Samhain, Là na Marbh / Irish poems, verses for Samhain + All Souls Day
Cathal Ó Searcaigh
“Samhain 1994”
.
Anocht agus mé ag meabhrú go mór fá mo chroí
Gan de sholas ag lasadh an tí ach fannsholas gríosaí
Smaointím airsean a dtug mé gean dó fadó agus gnaoi.
A Dhia, dá mba fharraige an dorchadas a bhí eadrainn
Dhéanfainn long den leabaidh seo anois agus threabhfainn
Tonnta tréana na cumhaí anonn go cé a chléibhe…
Tá sé ar shiúl is cha philleann sé chugam go brách
Ach mar a bhuanaíonn an t-éan san ubh, an crann sa dearcán;
Go lá a bhrátha, mairfidh i m’anamsa, gin dá ghrá.
. . .
Cathal Ó Searcaigh
(born 1956, Gort an Choirce, County Donegal, Ireland)
“November* 1994”
Editor’s note: the word Samhain is, in contemporary Irish,
also synonymous with the word for November.
.
Tonight as I search the depths of my heart,
in the dark of the house and the last ember-light,
I’m thinking of one I loved long ago.
.
And if the darkness between us became like the sea,
I’d make a boat of this bed, plunge its bow
through the waves that barge the heart’s quay.
.
Although he is gone and won’t ever be back,
I’ll guard in my soul the last spark of his love,
like the bird in the egg and the tree in the nut.
.
Translation from Irish: Nigel McLoughlin
.
. . .
Rody Gorman
“Mo Mharana”
.
D’fhág mé an suíochán
Ina gcaitheadh is a gcognaíodh sé féin
Gan bhogadh tamall fada,
Mar a bhfuair sé bás
Thall i gcois an tinteáin.
.
Shuigh mé go ndearna mé mo mharana
Sa deireadh. Cheap mé dán
Agus fuair mé réidh leis.
. . .
Rody Gorman (born 1960, Dublin, Ireland)
“Contemplation”
.
I avoided the chair
in which he’d spent and chewed away,
and didn’t move for a long time,
he’d died
over there by the fireplace.
.
In the end, I sat
in contemplation. I composed a poem
and had done with it.
.
Translation from Irish: Michael S. Begnal
.
“Samhain 1994” and “Mo Mharana” © Cathal Ó Searcaigh, Rody Gorman
. . .
“All Hallow’s”
(Irish-American poem – Author unknown)
.
The voices of the dead…
Are you with me, grandfather?
Do you hear me, spirits of the past?
Is the night hurrying because of you?
.
The answers are not in unhoped for words
but the images of night:
the cloak, the stillborn wind ripping brown leaves,
rain on the sidewalk, clay earth
becoming mud, mute stars,
the tree sighing as it dies,
the ending of the day, the halo of dawn,
the night-touch, the wolves’ howl,
the heart, the soul, of the dark.
.
Because we know, we know you well.
The voices of the dead carry my heart,
whispering, wind-voiced.
What do they know but Time?
Timelessness is not theirs;
they surpass it, as they surpass the images of night.
My time is coming.
I must leave, as we all must, as the dead have,
wandering in their cities of different light,
strange and still, touching each other
as they pass, tenderly,
with the fingertips, as they pass,
walking home.
. . .
Irish lyric tenor John McCormack (1884-1945) was one of the earliest singing voices to be put on “phonograph record”. Pianist and composer Charles Marshall (1857-1927) wrote the music and words for the following sentimental popular song, “I Hear You Calling Me”, which was recorded by both men (John’s voice, Charles at the piano) in 1908. The song’s tender theme is entirely appropriate for All Souls Day.
.
“I Hear You Calling Me”
.
I hear you calling me –
You called me when the moon had veiled her light,
before I went from you into the night…
I came,
do you remember?
back to you
for one last kiss
beneath the kind star’s light.
.
I hear you calling me –
And oh, the ringing gladness of your voice,
that warmth that made my longing heart rejoice.
You spoke,
do you remember?
and my heart
still hears
the distant music of your voice.
.
I hear you calling me –
Though years have stretched their weary length between
and on your grave the mossy grass is green.
I stand –
do you behold me listening here?
.
Hearing your voice through all the years between
– I hear you calling me…
. . .
Thomas Moore (born Dublin, 1779, died 1852)
Editor’s note: Moore was a great collector of Irish Traditional poems and songs,
told or sung to him by people who were illiterate. Some of these verses he ‘tweaked’, making them rather more sophisticated than the folk originals – but the presence of Death remains, as in the earlier anonymous oral versions.
.
“Oh, ye Dead!”
(Irish Traditional)
.
Oh, ye Dead! oh, ye Dead! whom we know by the light you give
From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like men who live,
Why leave you thus your graves,
In far off fields and waves,
Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed,
To haunt this spot where all
Those eyes that wept your fall,
And the hearts that wail’d you, like your own, lie dead?
.
It is true, it is true, we are shadows cold and wan;
And the fair and the brave whom we loved on earth are gone;
But still thus even in death,
So sweet the living breath
Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wander’d o’er,
That ere, condemn’d, we go
To freeze ‘mid *Hecla’s snow,
We would taste it a while, and think we live once more!
.
* Hecla refers to Mount Hecla, the active volcano in Iceland (not Ireland). Stories grew up around reports – possibly by mediaeval sailors – of the mystical strangeness of Hecla.
. . .
“The Unquiet Grave”
(Traditional – Ireland, Scotland, England)
.
The wind doth blow today, my Love,
A few small drops of rain
I never had but one true Love
In cold clay she is laid.
.
I’ll do as much for my true Love
As any young man may
I’ll sit and mourn all on her grave
A twelve-month and a day.
.
The twelve-month and the day being gone
A voice spoke from the deep:
Who is it sits all on my grave
And will not let me sleep?
.
”Tis I, ’tis I, thine own true Love
Who sits upon your grave
For I crave one kiss from your sweet lips
And that is all I seek.
.
You crave one kiss from my clay cold lips
But my breath is earthly strong,
Had you one kiss from my clay cold lips
Your time would not be long.
.
My time be long, my time be short,
Tomorrow or today,
May God in Heaven have all my soul
– But I’ll kiss your lips of clay!
.
See down in yonder garden green,
Love, where we used to walk
The sweetest flower that ever grew
Is withered to the stalk.
The stalk is withered dry, my Love,
And will our hearts decay
So make yourself content, my Love,
Till death calls you away…
“Quick! we have but a second!”
(Irish Traditional)
.
Quick! we have but a second,
Fill round the cup while you may;
For Time – the churl – hath beckon’d,
And we must away, away!
Grasp the pleasure that’s flying,
For oh, not Orpheus’ strain
Could keep sweet hours from dying,
Or charm them to life again.
.
Then, quick! we have but a second,
Fill round the cup while you may.
For Time – the churl – hath beckon’d,
And we must away, away!
.
See the glass, how it flushes,
Like some young (maiden’s) lip,
And half meets thine, and blushes
That thou shouldst delay to sip.
Shame, oh shame unto thee,
If ever thou see’st that day,
When a cup or lip shall woo thee,
And turn untouch’d away!
.
Then, quick! we have but a second,
Fill round, fill round while you may,
For Time – the churl – hath beckon’d,
And we must away, away!
Tallando calabazas en Toronto: Samhain y Hallowe’en 2012
Posted: October 31, 2012 Filed under: IMAGES | Tags: Tallando calabazas en Toronto Comments Off on Tallando calabazas en Toronto: Samhain y Hallowe’en 2012“I seek freedom in the indefinable”: Five Poems by Lelawattee Manoo-Rahming
Posted: October 27, 2012 Filed under: English, Lelawattee Manoo-Rahming | Tags: Poets from Trinidad and Tobago Comments Off on “I seek freedom in the indefinable”: Five Poems by Lelawattee Manoo-RahmingLelawattee Manoo-Rahming
(born 1960, Trinidad and Tobago)
The Om
.
My Tanty used to sing/pray
evening ragas to the Earth Goddess
morning oblations to the Sun God
.
Now my Aunty prays
that I find salvation in the cross
in the church that has freed her
from indenture, from coolieness
.
Yet I seek freedom
in the indefinable
the OM
the puja breath that expands
my rib cage
with blessed pitchpine smoke
into an oval
large as the cosmic egg
.
The sea breath
OM
That echoes
In the conch shell
Blowing across the Caroni
Infinite like green plains
Of sugarcane
Or a milky river veiling
The face of the goddess
. . .
The Broken Key
.
1
Half left in the keyhole
Bright bronze blocking
Locking the door
.
Only a tiny drill
Can turn into powder
The hardened one
Reopen the door
Allow a human being
To become the way
For grace to come through
.
2
Half broken off
Round with jagged edge
As if the full moon
Had been gnawed by some
Celestial beast
Gnawed like the ropes
That bind us together
One tug away from
SNAP
CRACK
The sound of a key breaking
In the keyhole of our door
How can we reopen the door?
How can we ever let grace
Come through again?
. . .
Fusion
.
A quartet of ospreys calls
Kee-uk kee-uk cheep cheep
Kee-uk kee-uk cheep cheep
Riding on air currents
Beneath a periwinkle sky
Decibelled by steelpan carols
.
A sailboat chips along
Over cobalt blue near the horizon
As David Rudder’s voice solos
From the CD-player
.
A soulful Go Tell It on The Mountain
.
A white and orange tabby saunters
Along the boardwalk
Sasses Meow
Without stopping to marvel
At the ingenuity
Of Zanda and Hadeed’s
Playful panjazz fusion
.
The Mighty Shadow melodies
Greetings in a lover’s kaiso
While at the foot of the dune
Sixty feet down
The sea swashes in threes
A soft wetsandsmooth
Rake and Scrape response
Submerged voices of ghost Tainos
. . .
Beneath the Trees
.
These round roots encircle me
Like tubes
In a hospital bed but here there is no
Antiseptic scent
No sterile handwashing
.
Here the earth smells like wet moss
And when I bite into these roots
They taste of peppery pine
And green fruit: sugar apple maybe
.
Beneath these trees
I need no clothes to feel clothed
These gnarled roots with their humus
Coating warm my nakedness
In a cocoon soft like corn silk
.
The phloem and xylem passages
That carry messages
Between the sun and these roots
Water and feed my muscles
Giving them a turgidity
Like the fullness of youth
.
These roots do not just encase me
They cradle me
Like a mother’s arms
.
My heartbeat echoes
Through these roots
This earth
And I know
I have become
an incarnation
of Sita
Returning to her mother
Bhumi Devi: the great Earth Mother
Beneath these trees
. . .
Alphabet of Memory
.
I took with me seeds
Tiny dots of bhandhania
Flat, almost round disks of pimento pepper
And oval, plump legumes of seim
That I planted
With varying degrees of success
Wanting to feel at home
Where I have traveled to
.
Then I found
In a cobwebby closet
The alphabet of memory
I had brought with me
Some letters sharp as a tropical noonday
Others hazy
As a smoky dry season dusk
.
Letters which I shuffled
And then played a game of scrabble
Until I had used them all up
To create words
Then poems
To make me feel at home
. . .
Poet’s glossary:
Coolieness: East Indian Indentured Labourers who were brought to the West Indies, and their descendents are sometimes called ‘coolie’, as an insult. In my poem, ‘Coolieness’ refers to the East Indian culture that still exists in Trinidad and Tobago.
.
Puja (Bhojpuri Hindi): A personal, familial, or public Hindu prayer service or worship.
.
Caroni: A river in Trinidad and Tobago. The river plains, called the Caroni Plains were once used for sugar cane farming.
.
David Rudder: A calypsonian from Trinidad and Tobago.
.
Zanda: Clive Alexander, aka Zanda, or Clive Zanda Alexander, is a jazz pianist from Trinidad and Tobago.
.
Hadeed: Annise Hadeed is a steel pan soloist and composer from Trinidad and Tobago.
.
The Mighty Shadow: A calypsonian from Trinidad and Tobago.
.
Kaiso (Trinidad and Tobago Creole): Calypso
.
phloem and xylem: The primary components of the vascular tissues in plants, which transport the fluid and nutrients throughout the plant.
.
Sita: (Sanskrit: meaning “furrow”) is the wife of Lord Rama and one of the principal figures of the Ramayana, the epic Hindu scripture. As the devoted wife of Lord Rama, Sita is regarded as the most esteemed exemplar of womanly elegance and wifely virtue in Hinduism.
.
Bhandhania: The Hindi name for the herb, used in cooking, otherwise known as wild coriander or culantro.
.
Seim: The Hindi name for the Hyacinth bean, the green pods of which are used as a vegetable.
. . . . .
Lelawattee Manoo-Rahming is an engineer, poet and fiction writer. She won the David Hough Literary Prize (2001) and the Canute A. Brodhurst Prize (2009) from The Caribbean Writer Literary Journal; and the Commonwealth Broadcasting Association 2001 Short Story Competition. She is the author of two poetry collections: Curry Flavour, published by Peepal Tree Press (2000) and Immortelle and Bhandaaraa Poems, published by Proverse Hong Kong (2011).
.
Zócalo Poets wishes to thank guest-editor Andre Bagoo
for introducing us to the poetry of Lelawattee Manoo-Rahming.
Cicatrizes da Vida: poemas brasileiros em inglês / Scars of Life: Brazilian poems in English
Posted: October 27, 2012 Filed under: English, Portuguese, Valdeck Almeida de Jesus, ZP Translator: Alexander Best | Tags: Poemas brasileiros em inglês Comments Off on Cicatrizes da Vida: poemas brasileiros em inglês / Scars of Life: Brazilian poems in EnglishValdeck Almeida de Jesus
“Aqui e agora”
.
Aqui e agora
Eu sou,
Sou tudo:
O mundo, o sol, o mar
O mar distante
O sol presente
O mundo invisível.
Sou nada:
O mar, o sol, o mundo
O mundo real
O sol no infinito
O mar da melancolia
Melancolia e saudade
Daquilo que não vivi.
. . .
“Here and Now”
.
Here and now
I am – I am
Everything:
The world, the sun and sea
– the distant sea,
The sun this very moment,
The invisible world.
.
I am nothing:
The sea, the sun, the world,
The real world,
The sun in its infinity,
And a sea of melancholy –
Melancholy and longing, yearning
– for that which I did not live.
. . .
“Cicatrizes”
.
A vida é uma sucessão,
Successão de cicatrizes…
Cicatrizes do amor
Cicatrizes da alegria
Cicatrizes da dor
Cicatrizes da euphoria.
Não quero viver
Sem cicatrizes
– alegres os tristes,
Quase felizes
Meus dias terão
Várias cicatrizes.
. . .
“Scars”
.
Life is a kind of succession…
– a succession of scars –
Love’s scars,
Scars of happiness,
Of grief, of euphoria.
I don’t wish to live
Without those scars
– scars joyful, scars sad,
Almost happy, my days…
And they’ll have numerous scars.
. . .
“Vida”
.
Viver en tento,
Morrer não quero,
Sorrir desejo,
Mas não consigo;
Me ver em ti,
Procuro sempre;
Amar com garra
E com segurança,
Estou tentando
Desde sempre.
Se não consigo
Ser mais autêntico,
É porque sou humano
E por tal, falho.
. . .
“Life”
.
To live with care,
And not want to die,
I wish to smile,
But maybe not with you…
.
To see myself in you
– always I seek that –
And to love with gusto, with sureness
(I’ve been trying to do that since forever!)
.
But if not with you…
Well, to be more real,
And it’s all because I’m human and,
For that reason,
Flawed.
.
“Aqui e agora”, “Cicatrizes”, “Vida”: © Valdeck Almeida de Jesus
. . .
Valdeck Almeida de Jesus é jornalista, escritor e poeta. Nasceu em 1966 em Jequié, Bahia, Brasil.
A journalist, writer and poet, Valdeck Almeida de Jesus was born in 1966.
He hails from Jequié, Bahia State, Brazil.
.
Tradução de português para inglês / Translations from Portuguese into English:
Alexander Best
Frida + Diego: poems, pictures / pinturas, poemas
Posted: October 20, 2012 Filed under: Eduardo Urueta, English, Frida + Diego: poems + pictures / pinturas + poemas, Hellen Chinchilla, José Pablo Sibaja Campos, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best Comments Off on Frida + Diego: poems, pictures / pinturas, poemasToday in Toronto, at the Art Gallery of Ontario, a first-time-ever exhibition in Canada opens: “Frida and Diego: Passion, Politics and Painting”. Combining the divergent artworks of México’s famous bohemian ‘power couple” of the twentieth century, Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera – an odd yet charismatic pair of artists/soul-mates.
.
Diego Rivera (1886-1957) put México on the map internationally for his enormous public murals depicting Mexican history with a distinct Marxist perspective – and by placing Indigenous people front-and-centre in his work. Arguably, fellow muralists José Orozco and David Siqueiros were superior artists but Rivera’s vast energy and robust national/historical vision place him at the forefront. Though in his smaller painted canvases (some of which may be seen at the A.G.O. show) Rivera is wildly uneven as to technique and intellectual perspective – he can be cloying and mediocre – still, he is an exceptional figure for his vitality alone.
A maverick originality defines Frida Kahlo (1907-1954). In her short gutsy life she altered people’s perception of what it meant to be a woman painter. Though her small-size – and they are almost always small – canvases lack painterly finesse , nonetheless they are deeply affecting for their self-absorbed even disturbingly raw subject matter/point of view. Here was something new in a female painter – and Kahlo has been embraced by Surrealists, Feminists, champions of “Mestizaje”, Disabled and Chronic-Pain Activists, Body Self-Modifiers, and dedicated Non-Conformists. All have found what they needed in the work and life of this complex artist and woman – one who continues to fascinate a new generation now discovering her.
.
We present three poems in translation from Spanish by young poets who have meditated upon the “meaning of” Diego and of Frida…
. . .
Hoy en Toronto, el 20 de octubre, se inaugurará en La Galería de Arte de Ontario una exposición centrada en obras de los artistas Frida Kahlo y Diego Rivera – y titulada: Frida y Diego: Pasión, Política y Pintura. Es la primera vez que están en Canadá las pinturas de estos “compañeros” lo más famosos del arte mexicano del siglo XX.
Y para celebrar este hecho – las reflexiones de tres poetas…
. . .
Eduardo Urueta (pseudonym)
“Poem for Diego Rivera” (December 2011)
.
México:
The wet-nurse that breastfed you,
Who gave you your icy tone in love,
And who drew you, with his plump hands, as
Black women, soldiers on fire, Communists, kids;
México misses you –
this place is a fountain of the dismal…
.
So pronounced is your brow – like your temper.
So easygoing – so bearable – these mummy-like buildings.
The México of your tree-of-awareness is – like you – dead.
They’ve got skeletons – ‘at par’ now.
We are grey dust – smog – save for
Guanajuato which keeps on with its brightly-coloured houses in the hills and its
Streets smelling of oil paints – almost kissing us.
.
The buckets which by you got filled in two days
And by the third became big round chests or trunks-ful,
Were:
1. a nude portrait of (audacious poetess) Guadalupe Amor
2. a transvestite you never wanted and who ‘rouged’ you with his bearded cheeks,
And
3. your dead son by your first wife, Angelina Beloff.
.
So much matrimony to satisfy your hefty body,
So much travel to make ‘bug out’ those toad-eyes of yours,
So many kilometres of walls
To fill this country UP with History.
.
You are in debt.
You await – you hope for – a novice urbanization.
You have to hope – always – that the
Wall of memory (painted by you)
Bears the weight of – can hold up – the sky for you.
People will continue to love
The “Bellas Artes” fresco,
and that staircase mural decorated by your hands
– until the thing collapses and falls down…
. . .
Eduardo Urueta (Seudónimo)
“Poema para Diego Rivera” (diciembre 2011)
.
México:
la nodriza que te amamantó,
quien te dio tu gélido acento de amor,
y quien te dibujó, en las manos llenas,
mujeres morenas, soldados en combustión, comunistas, niños;
te extraña
– es una fuente sombría.
.
Tan pronunciada tu frente, como tu genio
Tan llevadera la momia de los edificios.
El México de tu árbol-conciencia,
como tú, está muerto.
Se hicieron a la par esqueletos.
Somos polvo gris,
excepto Guanajuato que sigue con casas de color en sus cerros
y sus calles huelen a aceite de pintura, a besos.
.
Los cubos que en ti cupieron dos días
y al tercero se volvieron un baúl redondo,
fueron
Un retrato desnudo de Guadalupe Amor,
Un hombre travesti que nunca quisiste y que ruborizaste de rosa
sus mejillas de hombre barbón,
y tu hijo muerto de Angelina Beloff.
.
Tanto matrimonio para llenar tu cuerpo gordo
tanto viaje
para llenar tus ojos de sapo
tanto kilómetro de muros
para llenar de historia al país
.
En deuda estás.
Te espera el blanco de la novicia urbanización
Te ha de esperar, siempre
el muro de la memoria
te ha de sufrir el cielo
por sujetarte el peso.
Te seguirá amando Bellas Artes
su escalera adornada de tus manos
hasta que se derrumbe…
José Pablo Sibaja Campos
“To Frida”
.
Today, when inexorable Time has shown us
How many calendars have gone up in smoke;
Now that the leaves have begun to fall from the trees;
Only just today when the sky seems to be transforming itself into a violent sea;
I – pausing before your face and its glance – have got to say:
Frida Camarada Kahlo,
That which you painted at one time or another as if wanting to speak to me;
The same fixed glance with which you have turned yourself into a nereid, a sea-nymph,
from that murky sea many people wanted to conquer but which few have achieved.
.
To be sure, Frida, there are those who look for you under the shade of some Rivera painting;
Others, naïve ones, find you within the shuttered corridors of a dream
– Poor them! – sad…blind.
They don’t notice that you live in your paintings, your paintings live in you.
Come, Frida, rise up and walk, as if you were the biblical Lazarus.
Show yourself again and let us once more call you:
Woman, Artist, Revolutionary.
. . .
José Pablo Sibaja Campos
“A Frida”
.
Hoy que el inexorable tiempo nos ha enseñado
Cuantos calendarios ha quemado ya.
Ahora que las hojas han empezado a caer de los árboles,
Justo hoy que el cielo parece convertirse en un mar violento,
Tengo que decirlo, me detuve ante tu mirada
Frida Camarada Kahlo
Esa que pintaste una y otra vez como queriendo hablarme,
La misma mirada con la que te has convertido en la nereida
Del turbio mar que muchos quisieron conquistar
Pero que pocos han logrado.
.
Es cierto Frida algunos te buscan balo la sombra de un tal Rivera,
Otros ingenuos,
Te hallan en los postigos pasillos del sueño
Pobre de ellos, tristes…ciegos.
No se dan cuenta que vives en tu obra y tu obra en ti.
Ven Frida levántate y anda, cual si fueras el Lázaro bíblico
Muéstrate de nuevo y déjanos llamarte una vez más;
Mujer, Artista, Revolucionaria.
. . .
Hellen Chinchilla
“Between transgression and normalcy”
.
Why?
Why do you have to be along that line where there are no lines – no horizons?
Why are you not the same as all the others?
Why must you be seen as transgressive and not as normal?
Where is that fine line that keeps you apart?
Apart to be what you must be!
Forced by life, by decision, and by pain to be in that line off to one side,
where the others, even though they wanted not to be there,
are leaving behind the boundaries of the hetero…
Oh, you knew how to love…
You – different Woman,
Woman-transgressor,
Normal Woman – and then some.
Woman.
Hellen Chinchilla
“Entre la transgresión y la normalidad”
.
¿Por qué?
¿Por qué debes estar en la línea dónde no hay líneas?
¿Por qué no eres de las mismas?
¿Por qué tienes que ser vista como transgresora y no como normal?
¿Dónde está esa delgada línea que te mantiene al margen,
Al margen de ser lo que debes ser?
Obligada por vida, decisión y dolor a estar en la línea de al lado
En donde las otras, aunque quieran no pueden estar
Dejando atrás la frontera de lo hetero…
– Supiste amar…
Mujer diferente,
Mujer transgresora,
Mujer normal – o una más…
Mujer.
. . . . .
Traducciones del español al inglés / Translations from Spanish into English: Alexander Best
“A Frida” y “Entre la transgresión y la normalidad” y “Poema para Diego Rivera”
© José Pablo Sibaja Campos, Hellen Chinchilla, Eduardo Urueta
. . . . .
Retratos de Frida Kahlo: dibujos hechos por unos adolescentes y niños en Toronto, Canadá, otoño de 2012:
Lupicínio Rodrigues: “Volta” / “Come back to me”
Posted: October 13, 2012 Filed under: English, Lupicínio Rodrigues, Portuguese, Translator's Whimsy: Song Lyrics / Extravagancia del traductor: Letras de canciones traducidas por Alexander Best, ZP Translator: Alexander Best Comments Off on Lupicínio Rodrigues: “Volta” / “Come back to me”
“Volta”
(Letras/música: Lupicínio Rodrigues, compositor brasileiro, 1914-1974:
canção cantada por Gal Costa, 1973)
.
Quantas noites não durmo
A rolar-me na cama
A sentir tantas coisas
Que a gente não pode explicar – quando ama.
.
O calor das cobertas
Não me aquece direito
Não há nada no mundo
Que possa afastar esse frio do meu peito.
.
Volta,
Vem viver outra vez ao meu lado
Não consigo dormir sem teu braço
Pois meu corpo está acostumado.
.
Volta,
Vem viver outra vez ao meu lado
Não consigo dormir sem teu braço
Porque meu coração está acostumado…
. . .
“Come back”
(words and music by Lupicínio Rodrigues, Brazilian composer, 1914-1974:
as sung by Brazilian singer Gal Costa, 1973)
.
How often I can’t sleep!
– tossing and turning in bed –
Feeling so many things
That people – who are in love – cannot explain.
.
The heat of the blankets
Doesn’t warm me well
And there’s no-one in this world
Can keep this chill from my breast.
.
Return to me,
Come live again at my side
I can’t keep sleeping without your arms around me
– well, my body’s grown used to you!
.
Come back,
And live once more by my side
I can’t go on sleeping without your embrace
– and my heart’s accustomed to you now…
.
Translation/interpretation from the Portuguese: Alexander Best
Dois poemas / dois fotos para o Dia das Crianças – Agradecimentos a Lourdes Neves Cúrcio / Vera Gonçalves
Posted: October 12, 2012 Filed under: Portuguese | Tags: Poemas para o Dia das Crianças Comments Off on Dois poemas / dois fotos para o Dia das Crianças – Agradecimentos a Lourdes Neves Cúrcio / Vera GonçalvesLourdes Neves Cúrcio
“Ser Criança”
.
Ser criança é se entreter
Entre brinquedos e sonhos
É se alegrar, é viver
É expressar a candura
Respirar felicidade
Transmitir docilidade
Encantamento e ternura
.
Criança que tem alma pura
E tamanha espontaneidade
No agir e no falar,
Que sabe ter sinceridade
Que cativa com o sorriso
E traz a inocência no olhar
.
Saber viver é sentir
A alegria de ser criança
É deixar o coração
Se encher de felicidade
E transbordar esperança
.
Feliz é aquele que sabe
Interpretar o olhar
E o sorriso da criança,
Quem com ela é paciente
Quem valoriza o seu mundo
E a preserva do mal,
Fazendo com que ela possa
Vivenciar sua infância
Desfrutar de seu espaço
E ser simplesmente criança.
Lourdes Neves Cúrcio
“Súplica”
.
Proteja sempre, Senhor,
Todas as nossas crianças
Que elas sejam resguardadas
Dos atos de atrocidade,
São anjos, são indefesas,
Não devem ser hostilizadas.
Temos visto, ultimamente,
Seus sonhos interrompidos
Com frieza e crueldade,
Temos visto suas vidas
Ceifadas com precocidade.
Crianças são mimosas flores
Alegrando e ornamentando
Para a vida desabrochando,
Precisam ser bem cultivadas
Preservadas da violência
E não brutalmente arrancadas
Do jardim da existência.
Proteja sempre, Senhor,
As crianças do mundo inteiro
Queremos vê-las sorrindo
Brincando e acalentando
Seus sonhos mais verdadeiros.
Que a criança desfrute
Da infância em plenitude
Que possa viver e crescer
Cercada de muito amor
Sem dentro de si conviver
Com o estigma da dor.
. . .
“Ser Criança” & “Súplica”
© Lourdes Neves Cúrcio (Brasil)
Canção/Oração a Nossa Senhora Aparecida – Dia da Padroeira do Brasil, 12 de outubro 2012
Posted: October 12, 2012 Filed under: Portuguese | Tags: Oração a Nossa Senhora Aparecida Comments Off on Canção/Oração a Nossa Senhora Aparecida – Dia da Padroeira do Brasil, 12 de outubro 2012“Nossa Senhora Aparecida”
(Canção da dupla sertaneja Rick e Renner)
.
Ô Senhora Aparecida, Rainha da Minha Fé,
A força de quem é forte, escudo de quem não é,
Poe a sua mão sagrada sobre a cabeça da ente,
Consolo dos oprimidos, proteçao dos inocentes,
Nos livre da ignorancia que nesse mundo existe,
Miséria, violencia e fome,
Nossa verdade mais triste.
.
Ô Senhora Aparecida, Nossa Senhora Aparecida
És a Luz do Meu Caminho, Direçao da Minha Vida.
.
Ô Senhora Aparecida, olha pra nossas crianças,
Nosso fruto inocente precisa de esperança,
Precisar crescer na vida em graça e sabedoria
Porque sonho de menino é a cordar no outro dia,
Não existe amanhã se o hoje morre agora,
Estamos de coração em tuas mãos, Virgem Senhora.
.
Ô Senhora Aparecida, Nossa Senhora Aparecida
És a Luz do Meu Caminho, Direçao da Minha Vida.
.
Ô Senhora Aparecida não nos deixe perecer,
Somos um povo que sonha um povo que reza e crê,
Acenda a luz da esperança ao pobre que nada tem,
Mostre que a maior riqueza é viver fazendo o bem,
Não permita que o homem possa se afastar de Deus,
Cuide Mãe Aparecida os humildes Filhos Teus.
.
Ô Senhora Aparecida, Nossa Senhora Aparecida
És a Luz do Meu Caminho, Direçao da Minha Vida.
.
Ô Senhora Aparecida que esta tão perto do pai,
Me responda por favor pra onde esse mundo vai,
Mostre a magica da vida e a força do perdao
O que devemos fazer pra ganhar a salvação,
por que eu não sei rezar foi que fiz essa canção,
Ô Mãe, aceite esse meu canto como Minha Oração.
.
Ô Senhora Aparecida, Nossa Senhora Aparecida
És a Luz do Meu Caminho, Direçao da Minha Vida.
Ô Senhora Aparecida…..
Poems for a Canadian Thanksgiving: October 2012
Posted: October 7, 2012 Filed under: Anishinaabemowin / Ojibwe, English | Tags: Poems for Thanksgiving Comments Off on Poems for a Canadian Thanksgiving: October 2012
Eric Gansworth
Cross / PolliNation
.
And look here, you three
sisters grow together
each providing things
the others lack: support,
food, protection, and each
time you pull away from one
another, risking everything
you tear apart your world,
our world. Each time you offer
the line up, we will add one
purple bead to your white strand
reminding you of the ways
you put us all in danger
with each small tug
how you pull in opposition you
jerk on the string of beads
like seed in the wind
leaning in unforeseen directions
moment, hour, day, week, in another
place you land
and for what, to start over
reforming yourselves as
us in endless variation,
dark color, light color,
diluting your heritage
we disappear for that moment
then strengthen, regenerate ourselves
and embrace.
. . .
Eric Gansworth is a member of the Onondaga Nation located in western New York State, USA.
His poem discourses upon the symbolic Three Sisters of Iroquois (Haudenosaunee) society:
Corn, Beans and Squash.
Editor’s note:
‘Sweet corn’ or ‘papoon’, of the grilled/steamed “corn on the cob” variety, is eaten with the hands and is messy and delicious. Other types of “maize” (the family name for all corn) are used for stews or porridges such as ‘pozole’ or ‘hominy grits’. To grow The Three Sisters a small hillock of earth is formed. Corn is planted at the ‘summit’, beans planted in a circle around the corn, and squash at the ‘foot’ of the earth-mound. The beans will give nitrogen to the soil, the corn stalks will provide poles for the beans to climb and spread upon, and the far-extending vines and wide leaves of the squash plants will shade the earth-mound that hosts them all, helping to retain adequate moisture in the soil. The Three Sisters are much-appreciated Native-American contributions to our contemporary diet – particularly at Thanksgiving.
. . . . .
“For the Fruits of All Creation”
.
For the fruits of all creation – thanks be to God
For the gifts to every nation – thanks be to God
For the ploughing, sowing, reaping, silent growth while we are sleeping,
future needs in earth’s safekeeping – thanks be to God.
.
In the just reward of labour – God’s will is done
In the help we give our neighbour – God’s will is done
In our worldwide task of caring for the hungry and despairing,
in the harvests we are sharing – God’s will is done.
.
For the harvests of the Spirit – thanks be to God
For the good we all inherit – thanks be to God
For the wonders that astound us, for the truths that still confound us,
Most of all, that Love has found us – thanks be to God.
. . .
“For the Fruits of All Creation” is Hymn #802 in The Book of Praise (1997),
sung out of by go-ers to Presbyterian Churches in Canada.
Music: Welsh traditional / Words: Fred Pratt Green
. . .
Ngizhemanidoom, sema ngiimiinagoo wiinamaayaanh nangwaa. Gagwejimin wiizhiwendamaan maanda miijim miinawa zhiwenmishinaang nangwaa. Miigwech ndinaanaanik gewe wesiinhak, okaanak, bineshiinhak, miinawa giigonhik, kinagwa gwayaa gaabigitnaamwat wiinwa bimaadiziwaan maanpii akiing niinwe wiimaadiziiyaang. Miigwech ge ndikaadami netawging miinawa maanwaang gaamiizhiyaang wiimiijiyaang wiizongziiyaang nangwaa.
Miigwech Ngizhemanidoom miigwech.
.
An Every-Day Anishinaabe Prayer of Thanks,
translated from the Ojibwe language
( Anishinaabemowin or ᐊᓂᔑᓈᐯᒧᐎᓐ )
.
My Creator! Tobacco was given to me to help me pray today. I ask you in a good way to bless this food and to bless us today. We say thank you to all those animals, wild and domestic, the birds and the fish – everyone that gave up his or her life here upon the earth – so that we can live. We also say thank you for the vegetables and the fruits that you have given to us, so that we can have strength today.
Thank you, my Creator, thank you.
.
For the above Ojibwe-language Prayer we are grateful to:
Kenny Pheasant of The Little River Band of Ottawa Indians.
Poèmes de l’Angola et du Mozambique: Neto, Nogar, Rocha, Tavares et White
Posted: October 5, 2012 Filed under: Agostinho Neto, Eduardo White, French, Jofre Rocha, Paula Tavares, Rui Nogar | Tags: Poètes africains Comments Off on Poèmes de l’Angola et du Mozambique: Neto, Nogar, Rocha, Tavares et White
Agostinho Neto
(1922-1979, Angola)
.
Nuit
.
Je vis
dans les quartiers sombres du monde
sans lumière et sans vie.
.
Je marche dans les rues
à tâtons
appuyé sur mes rêves vagues
trébuchant sur l’esclavage
dans mon désir d’être.
.
Ce sont des quartiers d’esclaves
des mondes de misère
des quartiers sombres.
.
Où les volontés se sont diluées
et où les hommes se sont confondus
avec les choses.
.
Je marche en tâtonnant
dans les rues sans lumière
inconnues
encombrées de mystique et de terreur
bras dessus bras dessous avec les fantômes.
.
La nuit aussi est sombre.
.
Traduit du portugais par Jean-Michel Massa
. . . . .
Rui Nogar
(1935-1993, Mozambique)
.
Altruisme (au nom de Lavoisier)
.
Je veux mourir
en temps voulu
.
avec un cercueil de plomb
des larmes familiales
et un cadavre symétrique
.
mais un prêtre non mère
prends patience
le ciel que tu me destinais
sera le sol qui m’accueillera
.
et quand personne
ne fera attention
et que le plomb se fatiguera de la géométrie
et que tous me trouveront inutile
.
je retournerai à la terre en douceur
et de plein gré
de plein gré je vous le jure
.
Je rassasierai
des milliers de parasites
.
ceci pour qu’on ne dise pas
que je n’ai servi à rien.
.
Traduit du portugais par Marie-Claire Vromans
. . . . .
Jofre Rocha
(né en 1941, Angola)
.
Poème du Retour
.
Quand je rentrerai du pays de l’exil et du silence,
ne m’apportez pas de fleurs.
.
Apportez-moi plutôt toutes les rosées,
larmes d’aurores qui ont accompagné les drames.
Apportez-moi l’immense faim d’amour
et la plainte des sexes turgescents dans la nuit constellée.
Apportez-moi la longue nuit d’insomnie
des mères pleurant leurs bras vides d’enfants.
.
Quand je rentrerai du pays de l’exil et du silence,
non, ne m’apportez pas de fleurs…
.
Apportez-mois seulement, oh oui,
l’ultime désir des héros tombés à l’aube
une pierre sans ailes dans la main
et un filet de colère s’échappant de leurs yeux.
.
Traduit du portugais par Michel Laban
. . . . .
Paula Tavares
(neé en 1952, Angola)
.
“Les choses délicates se traitent avec soin.”
(Philosophie de Cabinda)
.
Tu m’as désossée…
.
Tu m’as désossée
soigneusement
m’inscrivant
dans ton univers
comme une blessure
une prothèse parfaite
maudite nécessaire
tu as détourné mes veines
pour qu’elles se vident
dans les tiennes
irrémédiablement
en toi un demi-poumon respire
l’autre, que je sache
existe à peine
.
Aujourd’hui je me suis levée tôt
j’ai enduit de “tacula” * et d’eau froide
mon corps enflammé
je ne battrai pas le beurre
je ne mettrai pas la ceinture
J’IRAI
vers le sud sauter l’enclos.
.
“tacula” * – poudre rouge utilisée comme cosmétique
.
Traduit du portugais par Michel Labon
. . . . .
Eduardo White
(né en 1963, Mozambique)
.
Nous sommes vieux.
Je suis vieux, émasculé.
Mais peut-être l’enthousiasme par lequel cet amour
a commencé
n’a-t-il maintenant plus d’importance,
pas plus peut-être que
l’office des corps,
le feu, l’eau, la vigueur;
et l’amour, mis en retraite
de tout cela,
vit maintenant de l’amitié
de ces deux vieux animaux
que nous sommes
si avertis.
.
Ce n’est pas de chanter qu’il vivra,
ni de se donner,
ni d’exister,
mais d’avoir fait
tout cela.
.
Traduit du portugais par Michel Laban
*
Poèmes d’une anthologie de l’éditeur Bernard Magnier
© les poètes eux-mêmes – ou leurs ayants droit