Alicia Maveroff: “A Visitor” and “Via Titanio: Ciao”
Posted: August 31, 2015 Filed under: Alicia Claudia González Maveroff, English, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best Comments Off on Alicia Maveroff: “A Visitor” and “Via Titanio: Ciao”
A Visitor
.
There are times when Fantasy comes to mind,
she climbs up into and all throughout my head – and won’t let go;
I can’t think like I used to…
.
So this is when she arrives – for me –
and there and then – full of letters, words –
in an instant, are: my thoughts.
.
She dovetails with me, meanwhile,
and quickly I get it all down…
.
Today
Imagination came to me,
I’m noting this,
I write, and as soon as I say it,
that which before was unknown
is now hurried forth: my friend has inspired me,
and, even though it’s weird, I know I have to just go with it!
Because she’s told me so many things I never knew…
.
And there’s more arrives: she’s with me for a while,
looks at me, salutes me, talks to me and, later,
all of a sudden, quick as can be,
she takes off – fast – towards the next day.
. . .
Visita
.
A veces, llega a mí la fantasía,
se trepa en mi cabeza y no me deja,
pensar como solía…
Entonces es cuando llega hasta mi ella,
y llena de letras y palabras,
en un instante mi pensamiento.
Ellas se conbinan mientras,
yo rápido lo escribo…
Hoy llega hasta mi la fantasía,
anoto, escribo y pronto lo que dice,
lo que antes no sabía,
me apuro, es mi amiga que me inspira,
y aunque es raro, yo se que debo hacerlo.
Porque ella a mí me cuenta
muchas cosas que yo desconocía…
Más llega, está conmigo un rato,
me mira, me saluda, me habla y luego,
de repente, rauda, en un momento,
me abandona y se va, veloz, hasta otro día…
.
05/02/2012
. . .
Via Titanio, Monte Sacro, Roma…
Titan Street, Holy Mount, Rome…
From an old building,
on a third-floor wall,
beneath a window
of this house situated at number 2A,
somebody some time ago wrote:
Ciao…
somebody who’s no longer here because I imagine he’s left.
.
Neither sun nor rain’s been able to
erase the odd farewell that
one still can see on this yellowed wall.
Where did he go?
To whom did he bid adieu?
Who wrote it that day, who never thought I’d be
reading his letters, finding them, noticing them?
Neither did I imagine I’d descend one by one
these well-worn steps on a stairway in the Via Titanio,
and so come across his message.
Why did he make his goodbye in this manner?
Did he know he wouldn’t be the only one to leave?
Did he think about all of us who one day must say
Adiós?
. . .
Vía Titanio, Monte Sacro, Roma…
Desde un viejo edificio,
en la pared del tercer piso,
bajo una ventana
de esa casa ubicada en el numero 2a,
Alguien hace tiempo escribió
“Ciao“..
Alguien, que ya no está, porque presumo que ha partido
Ni el sol ni la lluvia han podido
borrar la extraña despedida, que
aún se lee en la pared amarilla.
¿Cuándo se fue?
¿De quién se despedía?
¿Quién lo escribió ese día, jamás pensó en que yo lo leería,
que encontraría sus letras y en ellas repararía?
Tampoco imagino que yo descendería uno a uno los gastados escalones
de la escalinata de la Vía Titanio y encontraría su mensaje.
¿Por qué se despidió de esa manera?
¿Sabía que no será el único en partir?
¿Pensó que todos algún día tendremos que decir adiós?
.
05/04/2014
. . . . .
Ghalib, Iqbal, Hafiz: new translations from Persian by A.Z. Foreman
Posted: August 24, 2015 Filed under: English, Farsi / Persian Comments Off on Ghalib, Iqbal, Hafiz: new translations from Persian by A.Z. Foreman
A.Z. Foreman continues his exploration of world literature with these new (June 2015) translations from Persian…
The poet Mīrzā Asadullāh Khān Ghālib was born in Agra in 1796, and spent his life in Delhi, attached to Bahādur Shāh II, the last of the Mughal emperors. He is today more famous for his Urdu poetry, though he himself was much prouder of his Persian compositions. Much ink has been spilled regarding the relative merit of his Urdu and his Persian work. I am not qualified to pass judgement on the matter, and can only say that those Urdu poems of his which I have managed to make my way through seem considerably different in temperament from his Persian work.
This particular poem has languished, beloved and half-understood, in my queue for years. Today I finally, and quite suddenly, feel I have a handle on it enough to translate it with at least some semblance of artistic fidelity.
. . .
Mirza Ghalib (1796-1869)
I Daresay I Dare Not Say
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
.
I dare not say my heart is hers though she stole it from me.
I cannot call her tyrant though I see her cruelty.
Hers is the battleground where men bear neither blade nor bow
Hers is the banquet-hall with neither wine nor revelry.
Your courage will not help you here, the lightning flame bolts fast.
Die as the moth. No living salamander can you be.
We journey in love’s heat and seek not water nor the shade
So do not speak of Kausar’s running stream nor Tuba’s tree.
Life’s tribulation ends, so why complain of tyranny?
You suffer, and it is God’s will. Let pain that will be, be.
The word held secret in my breast cannot be preached. I’ll speak it
Not from the pulpit but from high upon the gallows-tree.
O strange it feels to deal with one so singularly mad.
For Ghalib’s love is not Islam, nor infidelity.
. . .
The Original:
دل برد و حق آنست كه دلبر نتوان گفت بيداد توان ديد و ستمگر نتوان گفت
در رزمگهش ناچخ و خنجر نتوان برد در بزمگهش باده و ساغر نتوان گفت
از حوصله يارى مطلب صاعقه تيز است پروانه شو اين جا ز سمندر نتوان گفت
هنگامه سرآمد، چه زنى لاف تظلم؟ گر خود ستمى رفت، بمحشر نتوان گفت
در گرم روى سايه و سرچشمه نجوييم با ما سخن از طوبى و كوثر نتوان گفت
آن راز كه در سينه نهانست و نه وعظست بر دار توان گفت و بمنبر نتوان گفت.
كارى عجب افتاد بدين شيفته مارا
مؤمن نبود غالب و كافر نتوان گفت.
. . .
Romanization:
Dil burd o haq ānast ki dilbar natawān guft
Bēdād tawān dīd o sitamgar natawān guft
Dar razmgahaš nāčax o xanjar natawān burd
Dar bazmgahaš bāda o sāɣar natawān guft
Az hawsala yārī matalab sā’iqa tēzast
Parwāna šaw īnjā zi samandar natawān guft
Hangāma sarāmad či zanī lāf-i tazallum
Gar xwad sitamī raft ba mahšar natawān guft
Dar garm-i rūy-i sāyah o sarčašma najōyēm
Bā mā suxan az tūbā o kawsar natawān guft
Ān rāz ki dar sīna nahānast o na wa’zast
Bar dār tawān guft o ba minbar natawān guft
Kārē ajab uftād badīn šēfta mārā
Mu’min nabuwad ɣālib o kāfar natawān guft.
. . .
This singular poem by Muhammad Iqbal, the last of the Indo-Persian poets, written presumably in the early 1920s, is from the Payām-i Mašriq, a collection of Persian poems in which the poet addressed himself to the West, in response to Goethe’s West-Östlicher Divan. Though Iqbal loathed Hāfiz (as Plato loathed all poets) for being too distractingly beautiful, much of the final half of this poem is a skillful and interesting muˁāraḍa or contrafactum riffing off (and responding to) one of Hāfiz’ most famous ghazals.
. . .
Muhammad Iqbāl (1877-1938)
Song of the Hireling Worker
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
.
The worker, clad in cotton, toils to make
the silken robe the idle rich man wears.
Gems in my master’s ring are my brow’s sweat.
The rubies of his reins are my child’s tears.
The Church is fat from leeching on my blood.
My arm is the muscle of a kingdom’s heirs.
My tears bid deserts bloom as dawn wind blows
and my heart’s blood is glistening in the rose.
.
Come, for the harp of time is tense with song!
Pour a wine strong enough to melt the glass.
Let’s give new order to the tavern-masters
and burn the olden tavern down at last.
Avenge the flower on all who razed the garden,
and seek for rose and bud a better cast.
How long shall we be moths that fall for flame?
How long shall we forget ourselves in shame?
. . .
The Original:
نوای مزدور
محمد اقبال
ز مزد بندۂ کرپاس پوش محنت کش نصیب خواجۂ ناکردہ کار رخت حریر
ز خوی فشانی من لعل خاتم والی ز اشک کودک من گوہر ستام امیر
ز خون من چو زلو فربہی کلیسا را بزور بازوی من دست سلطنت ہمہ گیر
خرابہ رشک گلستان ز گریۂ سحرم
شباب لالہ و گل از طراوت جگرم
بیا کہ تازہ نوا می تراود از رگ ساز مئی کہ شیشہ گدازد بہ ساغر اندازیم
مغان و دیر مغان را نظام تازہ دہیم بنای میکدہ ہای کہن بر اندازیم
ز رہزنان چمن انتقام لالہ کشیم بہ بزم غنچہ و گل طرح دیگر اندازیم
بہ طوف شمع چو پروانہ زیستن تا کی؟
ز خویش اینہمہ بیگانہ زیستن تا کی؟
. . .
Romanization:
Zi muzd-i banda-i kirpāspōš-i mihnatkaš
Nasīb-i xwāja-i nākardakār raxt-i harīr
Zi xōy-i fašānī-i man la’l-i xātim-i wālī
Zi ašk-i kōdak-i man gawhar-i sitām-i amīr
Zi xūn-i man ču zalū farbihī Kalīsārā
Bizōr-i bāzō-i man dast-i saltanat hamagīr
Xarāba rašk-i gulistān zi girya-i saharam
Šabāb-i lāla o gul az tarāwat-i jigaram
Biyā ki tāza nawā mētarāwad az rag-i sāz
Maī ki šīša gudāzad ba sāɣar andāzēm
Muɣān o dēr-i muɣānrā nizām-i tāza dahēm
Banāy-i maykadahā-i kuhan bar andāzēm
Zi rahzanān-i čaman intiqām-i lāla kašēm
Ba bazm-i ɣunča o gul tarh-i dīgar andāzēm
Ba tawf-i šam’ ču parwāna zīstan tā kay?
Zi xwēš īnhama bēgāna zīstan tā kay?
. . .
Hāfiz (1325-1389, Shiraz, Persia [now Iran])
Ghazal 220: “Aspirations”
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
.
Although our preacher will not like
to hear such honesty,
He’ll never be a Muslim while
he’s such a pharisee.
Learn to get drunk, be a gentleman
not some dumb animal
That cannot drink a drop of wine
or be a man at all.
The essence must be unalloyed
to make His grace our own,
Or from our clay no pearls will come
nor coral come from stone.
The Almighty shall fulfill His will.
rejoice, my heart! No con
Or devilry can turn a demon
into a Solomon.
Mine is the noble art of love.
I hope against belief
It won’t bring me, as others have,
despondency and grief.
Last night he said “Tomorrow I
will grant your heart’s desire”
God let him have no change of heart
nor let him be a liar.
May God add a good heart to all
your physical attraction
So you’ll no longer torment me
with harrowing distraction.
Hafiz! Unless a mote of dust
aspires to lofty height,
It is not drawn to the true fount
from which the sun draws light.
. . .
Prose paraphrase:
(1) Though the city preacher won’t find it easy to hear these words, as long as he practices sophistry and hypocrisy, he’ll never be a real Muslim. (2) Train yourself in dissolute drunkenness, and be a gentleman to others. For not so artful is the beast that does not drink wine, or become human. (3) There must be a pure-gemmed essence in order to be a vessel for holy grace, for without it stone and clay will not become pearl and coral. (4) He of the Greatest Name does his work – be glad O heart, for by no trick or fraud can a devil ever become Solomon. (5) I practice love, and hope that this noble art will not, as other arts have done, cause me chagrin. (6) Last night he was saying “Tomorrow I will give you your heart’s desire.” Oh God, contrive to keep him from having compunction about doing so! (7) For my own sake I pray God include in your beauty a good disposition, so that my mind is no longer distraught and discombobulated. (8) So long as the dustmote lacks lofty aspiration and drive, Hafiz, it is not in quest for the source that is the resplendent sun’s own dayspring.
. . .
The Original:
گر چه بر واعظ شهر این سخن آسان نشود تا ریا ورزد و سالوس مسلمان نشود
رندی آموز و کرم کن که نه چندان هنر است حیوانی که ننوشد می و انسان نشود
گوهر پاک بباید که شود قابل فیض ور نه هر سنگ و گلی لوءلوء و مرجان نشود
اسم اعظم بکند کار خود ای دل خوش باش که به تلبیس و حیل دیو سليمان نشود
عشق می‌ورزم و امید که این فن شریف چون هنرهای دگر موجب حرمان نشود
دوش می‌گفت که فردا بدهم کام دلت سببی ساز خدایا که پشیمان نشود
حسن خلقی ز خدا می‌طلبم حسن ترا تا دگر خاطر ما از تو پریشان نشود
ذره را تا نبود همت عالی حافظ
طالب چشمه خورشید درخشان نشود
. . .
Romanization:
Gar či bar wā’iz-i šahr īn suxan āsān našawad
Tā riyā warzad o sālūs musalmān našawad
Rindī āmōz o karam kun ki na čandān hunarast
Hayawānē ki nanōšad may o insān našawad
Gawhar-i pāk bibāyad, ki šawad qābil-i fayz,
War na har sang o gilē lu’lu’ o marjān našawad.
Ism-i a’zam bukunad kār-i xwad ay dil, xwaš bāš
Ki ba talbīs o hayal dēw Sulaymān našawad
Išq mēwarzam o ummēd ki īn fan-i šarīf
Čūn hunarhā-i digar mawjib-i hirmān našawad
Dōš mēguft ki fardā bidiham kām-i dilat
Sababē sāz Xudāyā ki pišīmān našawad
Husn-i xulqē zi Xudā mētalabam husn-i turā
Tā digar xātar-i mā az to parēšān našawad
Zurrarā tā nabuwad himmat-i ‘ālī hāfiz
Tālib-i čašma-i xwaršēd-i duruxšān našawad.
. . .
Visit A.Z. Foreman’s poetry translation site:
http://poemsintranslation.blogspot.ca/
. . . . .
Kofi Awoonor: “Poema encontrado” / “Found Poem”
Posted: August 17, 2015 Filed under: English, Kofi Awoonor, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best | Tags: African poetry - Ghana, Poetas africanos Comments Off on Kofi Awoonor: “Poema encontrado” / “Found Poem”
Barack Obama at the Cape Coast Castle in Accra, Ghana, 2009. Photo by Pete Souza. Barack Obama durante su visita a la Fortaleza de la Costa del Cabo en Accra, Ghana, 2009. Foto de Peter Souza.
Kofi Awoonor (Poeta de Ghana, 1935-2013)
Poema encontrado (1976)
.
En el este el día llega…
No digas que hemos empezado demasiado tempranito,
porque cruzaremos muchas cuestas
antes de envejecer.
Aquí la tierra es de una belleza sin par.
(Mao Tse Tung, 1934)
.
Miro hacia afuera de las barras de la Fortaleza,
la capa-corteza, la hilera embarrada de la edad;
en el rincón hay mi araña amigable
y se agacha por los jejenes incautos de mis días.
.
Hay tanto que debemos expiar.
Agujas de certeza
en las pinzas invisibles de arañas,
en el vuelo y curva de gaviotas.
Ellos conocen – yo juro –
los contornos de las Saharas onduladas,
y los océanos indigentes de nuestra historia.
Nos sentamos, y debatimos la caridad de nuestros captores.
.
Las luces están prendiendos,
la ribera se dobla en una bahía amplia
cerca de la Fortaleza; el mar es gris.
Ayer llovía en la víspera de mi año cuarenta y uno
– y esto dejó intactas todas mis derrotas.
.
Permíteme guiarte al campo.
Solo es como un semi-miembro del clan
de la cabra ritual
que puedo jalar al sitio del sacrificio mi canto.
Aquí en las canchas de dolor,
con el alquitrán y el humo de un gran fogón,
dirijo.
Mi riata es corta
pero pronto llegaré bajo del árbol.
.
Yo montaré ciento luchas para honrar a nuestros dioses
– y a nuestro líder amado.
En este lugar, no podrían resultarme más indiferentes
la masa esforzanda de la gente.
Aquí, en este lugar, me retiré antes de la Cuaresma,
hasta mi proprio trecho del frente de mar
– no puedo ver el maldito mar a causa de las paredes embarradas
construidas por los holandeses –
pero el litoral se cae en un golfo profundo;
no hay precipios.
.
Hallaron un bebé
– muerto de una semana –
enterrado en una tumba superficial
en el césped de la Fortaleza.
Pero yo quiero que mi tumba sea más honda.
.
Están serrando a través de nuestra leña.
Hoy es es día de la yuca;
el flautista queda silencioso;
quizás su tropa ha llegado en Georgia.
.
A no llegar me descompone,
pero, por el camino que yo he pisado,
no tengo ningunos arrepentimientos.
. . .
Del poemario La Promesa de Esperanza (The Promise of Hope): New and Selected Poems, 1964-2013,
© University of Nebraska Press, 2014.
. . .
Traducción del inglés al español: Alexander Best
. . .
Kofi Awoonor (Ghanaian poet, 1935-2013)
Found Poem (1976)
.
In the east, the day breaks; do not
say we have started too early;
For we shall cross many hills yet
Before we grow old; here
the land is surpassing in beauty.
(Mao Tse Tung, 1934)
.
I look out the bars upon the Castle
the crust, caked row of age;
in a corner my friendly spider
crouches for the unwary gnats
of my days.
.
So much there is we must atone.
There are spires of faith
in the invisible claws of spiders,
in the flight and curve of gulls.
These know, I swear,
the contours of the rolling Saharas
and the destitute oceans of our history.
We sit, debating the charity of our captors.
At night lights come on,
the shoreline bends into a broad bay
near the Castle;
the sea is grey.
Yesterday it rained on the eve
of my forty-first year
and left all my defeats intact.
.
Let me lead you into the country.
It is only as half clansman
of the ritual goat
that I bring my song to the place of sacrifice;
here in the pain fields,
asphalt and smoke of a large hearth,
I lead.
My rope is short.
I shall soon arrive under the tree.
.
I will stage a hundred fights in honour of our Gods
and our beloved leader.
Here, I could care less for the toiling masses.
I retreated here before Lent,
to my own stretch of sea front.
(I cannot see the damned sea
because of old caked walls
built by Dutchmen).
But the shore falls into a deep gulf;
there are no cliffs.
.
They found a week-old baby
buried in a shallow grave
on the front lawn of the fort.
I want my grave to be deeper.
.
They are sawing through our firewood.
Today is cassava day.
The flutist is silent;
perhaps his troops have arrived in Georgia.
.
Not to arrive upsets me,
And for the path that I have trod
I have no regrets.
. . . . .
Kofi Awoonor: poemas traducidos por Raúl Jaime Gaviria
Posted: August 17, 2015 Filed under: Kofi Awoonor, Spanish | Tags: Poetas africanos Comments Off on Kofi Awoonor: poemas traducidos por Raúl Jaime Gaviria
Kofi Awoonor nació en Wheta, Gold Coast (ahora Ghana) en 1935. Su abuela lo involucró en la tradición oral de los Ewe. Algunas de sus libros de poemas son: Rediscovery and Other Poems, 1964; Messages: poems from Ghana, 1970; y Night of my Blood, 1971; Until the Morning After: Collected Poems, 1987; y la novela experimental, que él define como poema en prosa, This Earth, My Brother, 1971. Su libro The House by the Sea, 1978, habla acerca de su tiempo en la cárcel, a la que llegó por persecución política. Otros libros suyos libros publicados son: South of Sahara, 1975; The Ghana Revolution : A Background Account from a Personal Perspective, 1984; Comes the Voyager at Last, 1992; Latin American & Caribbean Notebook, y Africa: The Marginalized Continent, 1992.
La obra de Awoonor combina las tradiciones poéticas de su nativo pueblo Ewe y el simbolismo contemporáneo y religioso para representar África durante la descolonización. Él fue una de las víctimas que murieron en septiembre de 2013 durante un ataque terrorista en el centro comercial de Westgate en Nairobi, Kenia, por el grupo militante Al-Shabaab.
. . .
LOS PECES EN BÚSQUEDA
.
Algunas veces leemos líneas en la hoja verde
deslizamos nuestros dedos a través de la suavidad
de la preciosa madera de nuestros árboles vetustos;
Algunas veces incluso
una puesta de sol nos confunde,
mientras buscamos las líneas que propulsan las nubes
el esquema cromático
consta de múltiples diseños
que el primer artista compuso
Hay danzas en las calles de nuevo
la risa de los niños resuena
por toda la casa.
En la orilla del mar,
vestigios recientes de las últimas tormentas
hablan de una riqueza ancestral saqueada
arrancada, empeñada
por un padre irreflexivo
que vivía la vida de un Lord
y guiaba a las generaciones por venir
hacia la desesperación
y la ruina
¿Pero quién dice que nuestro tiempo ha concluido,
que el fabricante de cajas y el sepulturero
están de acuerdo,
o que los predicadores han oreado sus túnicas
y el coro y los tamborileros
están en ensayo?
No, donde el gusano come
un grano crece.
Las deidades conocidas
han medido el tiempo
con argumentos de eternidad
extendidos a través del viento
Y la muerte, aunque vendrá a la puerta
con su propia e inimitable tarjeta de entrada
habrá de encontrar una granja resucitada
con la risa y la danza
y el carnaval y la carne
del borrego y la hogaza
del nuevo maíz
Somos los celebrantes
cuyo campo en carnaval
fue una vez invadido por pícaros
y otros malos hombres
que interrumpen nuestra danza
con canciones y gestos obscenos
alguien dijo que un pez enfermo
nadó en nuestro lago
buscando un lugar en donde dejar su fardo
en consonancia con el Plan Original
Maestro, si puedes ser el remero
de nuestro bote
hazlo por favor.
Te pregunté antes
¿érase una vez una orilla
en casa, donde el malecón se ha estrechado
hasta el vértice de la infancia? Le damos la bienvenida a los viajeros
que vienen a casa en nuestro bote
frescos desde el árbol enhiesto.
. . .
VOLVIENDO A CASA
.
Muy
marcado
en el margen de nuestra vida
así está, el alado y desesperado anhelo
quema y sostiene
siempre.
El eterno dolor se resuelve
en el ojo inflamado
en el corte del codo.
Dios nos observa.
No buscamos más
que la belleza singular
de la victoria
y la muerte
la muerte extermina
los rojos rubores de la rosa
la curvatura del cuello del cardo
los anillos en el árbol del desierto.
Por eso ahora rechazo la muerte
contraproducente
terminal y mortífera
escojo más bien las colinas
y el mar cercano.
. . .
DESEO
.
Las estrellas arriba
artificiosas como alegres campanillas
El fragante rocío
cae en las hojas estropeadas
por la tormenta de ayer
me asomo al pote de hierbas
para leer el mensaje del más allá
Ni una voz, no hay fantasmas que susurren
Sólo voces de pescadores,
recogiendo las redes de caballas
venciendo al tiempo en los tambores de calabaza
En canciones que resuenan en el mar ante ellos
¿Dónde, dónde podrá estar?
¿Adónde habrá ido?
El alegre payaso de la aldea me
llama por mi nombre,
y me da un caurí colorido
en el caurí colorido tú escuchas el mar
y las palpitantes vibraciones de tu propia alma
¿Pero dónde? ¿Dónde podría ser?
El día permanece en quietud
a medida que los años pasan
y me sujetan en la única búsqueda
¿Qué es lo que buscas
en estas cenizas esparcidas por hogares olvidados?
Y en la chimenea donde cuelgan las ollas de la madre
Revelando pasadas tribulaciones
y futuras glorias
¿Glorias? ¿Quién dice que son glorias?
Siento el aroma de sus cuerpos entalcados tras de mí
humedecidos en palmas de olivo
las ropas con olor de alcanfor
sacadas ayer de la caja de la vieja dama.
Dicen que al final del viaje hay un lugar para el descanso
lleno de vacas muertas y sepulturas hambrientas
Que no te dan la oportunidad
Sí, la oportunidad de medir
tus propias limitaciones
Además de tus futuras glorias
Los que llevan los féretros hieden a licor y a vómito
el muerto se levanta, los mira
y vuelve a morir
La luciérnaga te muestra el camino al lugar de los cráneos
y allí te encuentras a ti mismo
reclinándote en una mecedora
observando la armonía de los perdidos
Sí, la ceremonia de los
trotamundos que extraviaron
su camino de regreso a casa
y escogieron el putrefacto
olor de la muerte.
. . .
ALIMENTAR A NUESTRO PUEBLO
.
No me vistas todavía
no me lleves al montículo ante los dolientes.
Aún tengo una cita con
el rocío de la mañana
un poema por escribir
un campo a ser arado
un amante que tocar
alguien a quien consolar
antes que me amortajes
¿Ha llegado ya la invitación desde la India?
Debo ir al encuentro del atardecer
y compartir con las palomas en aquella isla
Debo reencontrarme con mis amigos en Agra
allí me deben cuatro cuadros y una memoria
¿Por qué no estamos pariendo las vacas
o pastoreando las ovejas perdidas
nosotros mismos?
¿Por qué creemos que otros deben guiar nuestros caballos
pastorear nuestras ovejas
y alimentar a nuestro pueblo?
Debemos criar a los niños
y construir caminos
despejar los senderos que van a los campos de cultivo
y purificar los santos lugares,
y ¡oh! debemos encontrarnos
con el húmedo rocío matutino,
trabajar con el sol tempranero
hasta el punto de que venga a casa con nosotros.
Sólo después de la limpieza
podremos sacar afuera nuestros tambores
recordar viejas glorias
y antiguos dolores
con la danza
nuestra danza
cuando la noche final se descargue sobre nuestras cabezas
como lo hizo sobre las de nuestros padres
habremos de retirarnos
a nuestro humilde hogar
tierra segura, satisfechos de haber cumplido
con nuestro deber con el pueblo.
Nos enfrentamos al reto de la historia
y no tuvimos miedo.
. . .
Traducciones del inglés al español © 2007, Raúl Jaime Gaviria
. . . . .
Kofi Awoonor: “America” y “A los viejos poetas”
Posted: August 16, 2015 Filed under: English, Kofi Awoonor, Spanish | Tags: African poetry - Ghana Comments Off on Kofi Awoonor: “America” y “A los viejos poetas”
. . .
Kofi Awoonor (Ghanaian poet, 1935-2013)
America
.
A name only once
crammed into the child’s fitful memory
in malnourished villages,
vast deliriums like the galloping foothills of the Colorado:
of Mohawks and the Chippewa,
horsey penny-movies
brought cheap at the tail of the war
to Africa. Where indeed is the Mississippi panorama
and the girl that played the piano and
kept her hand on her heart
as Flanagan drank a quart of moonshine
before the eyes of the town’s gentlemen?
What happened to your locomotive in Winter, Walt,
and my ride across the prairies in the trail
of the stage-coach, the gold-rush and the Swanee River?
Where did they bury Geronimo,
heroic chieftain, lonely horseman of this apocalypse
who led his tribesmen across deserts of cholla
and emerald hills
in pursuit of despoilers,
half-starved immigrants
from a despoiled Europe?
What happened to Archibald’s
soul’s harvest on this raw earth
of raw hates?
To those that have none,
a festival is preparing at graves’ ends
where the mockingbird’s hymn
closes evening of prayers
and supplication, as
new winds blow from graves
flowered in multi-coloured cemeteries,
even where they say the races are intact.
.
From: The Promise of Hope: New and Selected Poems, 1964-2013 (University of Nebraska Press, 2014)
. . .
Kofi Awoonor (1935-2013) was born George Awoonor-Williams in Wheta, Ghana, to ethnic Ewe parents. He was a poet, literary critic, and professor of comparative literature; he served as a kind of “ambassador” for Ghana. Awoonor earned a BA from University College of Ghana, an MA from University College, London, and a PhD in comparative literature from SUNY at Stony Brook, New York state, U.S.A.. He wrote novels, plays, political essays, literary criticism, and several volumes of poetry, including Rediscovery and Other Poems (1964), Night of My Blood (1971), Ride Me, Memory (1973), The House by the Sea (1978), The Latin American and Caribbean Notebook (1992), and a volume of collected poems, Until the Morning After (1987).
.
Awoonor’s grandmother was an Ewe dirge singer, and the form of his early poetry draws from the Ewe oral tradition. He translated Ewe poetry in his critical study Guardians of the Sacred Word and Ewe Poetry (1974). Other works of literary criticism include: The Breast of the Earth: A Survey of the History, Culture, and Literature of Africa South of the Sahara (1975).
.
In the early 1970s, Awoonor served as chairman of the Department of Comparative Literature at SUNY Stony Book. He returned to Ghana in 1975 to teach at University College of Cape Coast. In Ghana, he was arrested and tried for suspected involvement in a coup d’état. He was imprisoned without trial and was later released; he wrote about his time in jail in The House by the Sea. Awoonor resumed teaching after his prison sentence. In the 1980s he was the Ghanaian ambassador to Brazil and Cuba and served as ambassador to the United Nations from 1990 to 1994; in 1990 he published Ghana: A Political History from Pre-European to Modern Times.
.
Awoonor is author of the novels This Earth, My Brother (1971) and Comes the Voyager at Last: A Tale of Return to Africa (1992). He died randomly with other innocents in the Westgate shopping-mall attack in Nairobi, Kenya in September of 2013.
. . .
“A los viejos poetas” por Kofi Awoonor de Ghana – su poema traducido en español durante El Festival de la Poesía Internacional de Medellín (Colombia), 2007:
Ghana’s Rising Star: Rocky Dawuni
Posted: August 15, 2015 Filed under: IMAGES Comments Off on Ghana’s Rising Star: Rocky Dawuni
Singer/songwriter Rocky Dawuni performed with his band at Harbourfront last night. All day and evening was rainy but those of us who made the trek down to Lake Ontario got swept up in the Ghanaian music artist’s “positive vibrations”. Rambunctious joy and passionate sincerity were the hallmarks of Dawuni’s personality, and for style and content the influence of Fela Kuti and – most especially – Bob Marley, made for a Best of Summer 2015 experience here in Toronto!
Poets from Ghana: New Voices in 2015: Adwini-Poku, Dadson, Atsu, Nartey, Kyeraah
Posted: August 12, 2015 Filed under: English | Tags: African poetry - Ghana Comments Off on Poets from Ghana: New Voices in 2015: Adwini-Poku, Dadson, Atsu, Nartey, Kyeraah
Lambert Adwini-Poku
“But Sometimes, When We Touch –”
.
But sometimes when we touch,
the tears of yesterday when eyes turned rain
and the heart felt alone in the crowd
that was when your voice set it free.
.
But sometimes when we touch,
the shadows of psychology and emotions
and the fullness of the mind with no data
that was when your face melted away loneliness.
.
But sometimes when we touch,
the warmth of anger and of its illness
and when no distinction was made
that was when your embrace smiled at me.
.
But sometimes when we touch,
the deafening of the sense organs
and when eyes, nose, and ears were meaningless
that was when your note in my hand breathed on me.
.
But sometimes when we touch,
the concept of reality and destiny
and of may and/or may not
that is when our lives are determined.
.
But sometimes when we touch,
we touch love and friendship.
. . .
Kay Dadson
“Paper Planes”
.
Sometimes, we fly like paper planes
Gliding in the air, silent, with no roar of a jet.
Sometimes proud, putting on the mane like we’re never gonna hit the dirt.
Changing our lanes every time we get hurt.
With the least turbulence and bad weather
We turn around or pummel to the ground when we experience danger.
Fly like a jumbo;
Not depending solely on the flow.
Fly majestically. Ride the wild winds.
Break through the ice in the clouds.
Even if you begin to fall,
Do not enter the state of dismay, whether in a stall.
This ain’t no mayday, do not make that call.
You may have struck ice,
but believe in yourself.
You ain’t no titanic.
This day isn’t that different. Enjoy it.
It’s a can-day.
Fire the engines once again. Make that ascent.
Be a jetfighter. Let the stars cream.
Like a transformer, make some changes.
As the typhoon, ride the winds. Take the journey across.
Your weakness may be air-to-ground but I think we all agree:
that isn’t your purpose.
Be a sidewinder missile. Seek your target,
Don’t give up. Do not explode. No. Not just yet.
Like the shuttle, launch into space, out of this domain.
Not even the sky is your limit.
Time to close this piece. Returning to base.
Continue to be who you are. Be different.
. . .
Patrick K. Atsu
“The Bleeding Heart”
.
Serenity blushes the shadows mild
And blow soft wind like “pepi”
As your dent romances me with pains
That worm over my body like death.
.
Erecting my emotions like breath
As disappointments walk me through this journey of solitary
With my prints clapping in the sands
Hiding my fears in clouds of tears.
.
As if there were no you tomorrow
Here the scorching sun shivers
Sharing her cries over my head
To console this bereft heart
.
That bleeds in tons of memories
With skips of pages one after the other
To silent the sweet tastes
That last but for a while.
.
It is this bleeding heart.
. . .
Jonathan Nartey
“How did Death find Me?”
.
How did Death find me?
I thought I was just dreaming.
O, like seriously:
I slapped death.
I know you can’t!
But I just did.
.
Look!
This is how I reprobated his blue.
I fetched the sky for him to sip
Since his throat was dusty
Like the harmattan.
Yet still a smile did not dance on his face.
.
Again!
The waft of the volcano slapped him up
So he was dripping here like a crying bottle
Filled with unflustered water.
Poor you!
O poor you!
.
Look!
I pleaded with the heavens
For the seed of air
Since Mr. Death was dripping here
Like nobody’s business.
.
Hm, hm, hm.
I can’t believe this.
Mr. Death is indeed a Judas.
Upon all the things I did for you, Mr. Death,
You made me devour the knife.
.
O Mr. Death,
So can you crunch the moon?
.
O Mr. Death,
O Mr. Death,
Did you know deep within that
I’m more than a Victor?
No, you don’t!
Yes! I know very well you don’t!
. . .
Dorothy Kyeraah
“I’m Pressing On Still”
.
On rocky ground I did fall
But up I got and still am pressing on
Tears did soak my pillow all day
But my heart be not weary
Oh I am pressing on
My eyes still on the prize
Though my feet hurt
I shall not rest
‘Cos am still holding onto the prize
With sore feet and trembling hands
I will crawl to the throne
To receive my own crown
Even with tattered clothes
I will retire not till I get hold of the gold.
. . .
Dorothy Kyeraah
“Gazing at the Sun”
.
Gazing at the sun in the late of the day
I am lost in thought of life so infinite
What tomorrow brings so bleak my mind goes wandering
Yet in this element lies the seed of life
Going down it casts its beautiful bright light
A sight so spectacular it blows my mind
It gets me to wonder at the power of the creator
And the awesome beauty it beholds
Colours so bright you just name them
As the day closes and this beauty fades away
It is almost as if all hope is lost
Yet early next morning there it is
Mighty Sun from the east does appear
Vibrant and majestic it shines in all glamour
And powers the whole earth.
. . . . .
Michael Ray Burch: Translations from Japanese poets Kurihara Sadako and Takashi Tanemori
Posted: August 9, 2015 Filed under: English | Tags: Hiroshima and Nagasaki: 70th anniversary of the Atom Bomb horror Comments Off on Michael Ray Burch: Translations from Japanese poets Kurihara Sadako and Takashi Tanemori
Nagasaki Japan_August 8th 2015_eve of the 70th anniversary of the Atom Bomb Fat Man dropped on the city killing 70,000 people
The U.S.A. dropped atomic bombs on the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki on August 6th and August 9th, 1945. This was the final stage of the Second World War, taking place not in Europe but in Asia and the Pacific. The two August 1945 bombings killed approximately 129,000 people – the largest “single-day” killings in the entire history of human war; and they remain until the present day the only use of nuclear weapons for warfare. Tens of thousands died of radiation sickness in the months that followed – and the majority of the dead were civilians. On August 15th, Japan announced its surrender to the Allies, and in early September of 1945 Japan signed an international document/treaty, bringing WWII to an end.
. . .
Kurihara Sadako (a Hiroshima Bomb survivor)
Let Us Be Midwives!
(translation from the Japanese by Michael R. Burch)
.
Midnight . . .
the basement of a shattered building . . .
atomic bomb survivors sniveling in the darkness . . .
not a single candle between them . . .
the odour of blood . . .
the stench of death . . .
the sickly-sweet smell of decaying humanity . . .
the groans . . .
the moans . . .
Out of all that, suddenly, miraculously, a voice:
“The baby’s coming!”
In the hellish basement, unexpectedly,
a young mother had gone into labour.
In the dark, lacking a single match, what to do?
Scrambling to her side,
forgetting their own suffering . . .
. . .
Kurihara Sadako
War Close Up
(translated from the Japanese by Michael R. Burch)
.
Stirring bugles! Rousing martial music!
The announcer reporting “victory”
like some messenger from on high,
fanning, fanning the fervoured flames of battle!
.
Masterful state magicians materializing
in a wizardly procession,
spreading cleverly poisoned words
to bewilder reason!
Artistic expression abracadabra’d into state-sponsored magic!
The sound of boots, guns, bombs, cannons
as our army advances, advances, advances toward the enemy!
The thunder of our invincible tanks advancing! Alleluia!
The sudden, sweet gurgles of drowning enemy ships!
.
The radio broadcasts the sounds of battle:
A war hymn resounding to the skies,
sung by courageous men and women
who worship this cruel idol, War.
.
Oh, so powerful the merest whiff
addles even the most independent spirit—
the opium of patriotism!
the religion of race!
.
While on scenic islands
scattered like stepping stones across the globe,
and on farflung continents,
driven by boundless avarice,
the landlords rage and rave again,
instilling hatred in indigenous populations
then prodding, driving them into battle.
Full of high-sounding pretexts
inevitably adapted to expediency
they raise indisputable banners—
God is on our side!
Righteous war!
Holy war!
.
“Right” becomes the password of thieves.
They square their shoulders:
“To secure world peace,
annihilate
the evil opponent!”
.
They bark commands:
“For ten years, a hundred years,
fight to the last man, the last woman!”
The master magicians’ martial music
resounds magisterially;
fanatic bull-mad patriots
roar and run amok;
completely bewitched, the people carol in unison:
“O, let me die by the side of my sweet Sovereign!”
. . .
Takashi “Thomas” Tanemori
The Blade of Grass in a Dreamless Field
.
Only a few knew it existed;
No one knew its power;
The world would never be the same again,
Changing irrevocably and forever.
The six-hundred-year history of Hiroshima
Disappeared in the ashes,
On this Judgment Day, on this Morning!
(i)
Blameless souls forever vanish
on this morning, this judgment day.
Our silent cries, to heaven we appeal,
scattered like the ash of withered leaves.
Our ebbing souls
cling to that lonely sky;
we try in vain to escape this sea of flame.
Oh, Hiroshima, once my haven,
why has your life been sacrificed?
(ii)
The abounding sadness within my heart . . .
drowning my loneliness in tears of self-pity.
Four abandoned children;
wishing to feel our mother’s love,
just once more;
if only in our dreams.
The heat of yet another long night lingers.
Oh, Hiroshima, once my home,
my tears run dry waiting for the breaking dawn.
(iii)
My soul is torn—this rage inside,
an orphan of war;
why does this make me feel guilty?
Why do my neighbours turn away
or close their ears when I speak?
Bitterness poisons this innocent child,
I madly waste away.
Oh, Hiroshima, once my cradle,
I am waiting to die.
(iv)
Gathering remnants of my courage,
I stand alone in this notorious America, land of the enemy.
An outcast with slanted eyes,
I fall before the indifference of strangers;
sightlessly, they trample upon my dignity.
This life of anguish seems to be my destiny.
Praying for death, I endure time.
Oh, Hiroshima, once my comfort,
I am lost in dreams of revenge.
(v)
Budding leaves renew this tired place, this tired soul;
gently the rain is embraced—your love,
comforting this savaged heart.
A blade of grass emerges from the ashes,
and my heart becomes a light,
connecting me to heaven.
Living for one another, this is my path!
Oh Hiroshima, forever my love,
may my life become a bridge from you and others.
(vi)
At the dawn of the 21st century,
we honour this passage through darkness.
We must have the courage to enter
the void again . . . and again,
emerging with the gift of new life.
Healing only comes through learning to forgive
and making peace with our past.
Only then, will the wind whisper:
“Hibakusha, you have not lived in vain!”
. . .
Sadako Kurihara was present on August 6th, 1945 ,when the Atom Bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. It was at that moment that her life was transformed from being a shopkeeper to becoming one of Japan’s most controversial poets. Her first major collection of poems, Black Eggs, published in 1946, was censored during the American Occupation because of her boldly addressing the horrors of the aftermath of the Bomb. The full volume of Black Eggs was not published until 1986. Over the years Kurihara has taken a stand on Japan’s aggressive rule in its Chinese occupation, the mistreatment of Koreans in Japan, plus the need for a world-wide ban on nuclear weapons. She was born in 1913 and died in 2005.
. . .
Takashi “Thomas” Tanemori (born 1938) is a “hibakusha“, and an Atomic Bomb survivor. After the bombing, he went from being the treasured Number One Son to being an Oyanashigo or “street urchin”. As he tried to survive after the loss of his parents, he became a “rat”, searching waste sites and garbage cans for food, just to stay alive in the rubble of post-war Japan. He fought constantly against a traditional society that showed no mercy to a “fatherless” child, and was ostracized by his fellow Japanese. Takashi’s life has been controlled by the emotion of Revenge, and he has lashed out at people for their icy unwillingness to help him. He emigrated to the United States in 1956, and, though he initially experienced prejudice and rejection, he has journeyed his way toward a vision of Hope.
. . .
Michael Ray Burch (born 1958) is an American poet and peace activist who lives in Nashville, Tennessee. He has translated the poems of Basho, Brecht, Allama Iqbal, Ono no Komachi, Miklós Radnóti, and Rainer Maria Rilke, among others.
. . . . .
Festival Kompa Zouk Ontario 2015 – et poèmes par les haïtiens Joelle Constant, Emanyel Ejen, Suze Baron, Dominik Batravil, etc.
Posted: August 5, 2015 Filed under: Creole / Kréyòl, Emanyel Ejen, English, French, Joelle Constant Comments Off on Festival Kompa Zouk Ontario 2015 – et poèmes par les haïtiens Joelle Constant, Emanyel Ejen, Suze Baron, Dominik Batravil, etc.
Une famille congolaise qui habite á Toronto…prête pour Le Festival Kompa Zouk Ontario 2015_02 août 2015
Translations from Creole (Kréyòl) into English by Merete Mueller:
Dominik Batravil
PAPYE 33
.
Depi lapli
Pa vini ak van
Siyati chovsouri
Chaje mi prizon
PAPER 33
As long as rain
marks no wind
signatures of bats
burden prison walls
. . .
Woudof Mile
Yo Ti Fanm Sezan Ki Kanpe
On ti fanm sezan
ki kanpe
kwen gran ri ak ri demirak
a onze diswa
lan yon to wob fatigue
On ti fanm sezan
ki kanpe kon yon I
anba on galeri
Li pa p’tann pesonn moun
Selman lakay li
manman-l grangou
prêt pou mouri
lit pito ret kanpe la
gwo onze diswa
lan fredi anba yon galeri
sou gran ri.
A SIXTEEN YEAR OLD GIRL STANDS
Sixteen year old girl
standing
corner of Miracle and Main
at eleven p.m.
in a faded dress
A sixteen year old girl
stands alone
under the arcade
Not waiting for the bus
Not waiting for anybody
at home her
starving mother is
about to die
But she’d rather be standing
here with the eleven
p.m. crowd in the cold
on Main Street.
. . .
Suze Baron
YO DI
Yo di
san kretyen
enrichi
late
Si sete vre
Si sete vret
mezanmi
ala diri
pitmi
ak mayi
ki ta genyen
la peyi
D’Ayiti
.
They say
human blood
enriches
soil
If that were true
If that were true
my friends
how rice
millet
and corn
would thrive
in
Haiti
. . .
Lenour Suprice
TI BO LANMOU LITTLE LOVE KISS
(Pou A-F.L.) (For A-F.L.)
Soley kouchan Sunlight reclines
Ti bouch ou your little mouth
K’ap pentire paints my eyes with
Syel grenn je-m flecks of sky
Fe dan-m siret siret My sweet mango tender
Nan dan-w between your teeth
Fe dan-w siret siret Your sweet mango tender
Nan dan-m between mine
Fe mwen domi I fall asleep
Nan bra-w in your arms
Fe ou domi You fall asleep
Anba-m down below me
. . .
Merete Mueller:
Creole Poetry from Haiti:
These are poems that I translated as part of a poetry project in 2005, as a student at Naropa University.
Despite not speaking the Creole language, I was inspired to explore the poetry of Haiti by my dear friend, Dominique, who is Haitian and also a writer. I first began reading Haitian poetry in an attempt to learn about the culture of a person whom I admire and care for, and ended up realizing how little I knew about the history of Haiti, despite my own country’s (U.S.A.) influence on its ups and downs.
I made a conscious choice to translate poetry originally written in Creole, rather than French, because Creole has long been the language of Haiti’s dis-empowered majority—less than 10% of the country can read and speak French, despite the fact that it was the country’s official language until 1961. For many writers in Haiti and in the Haitian diaspora, to write in Creole is a political statement, a conscious effort to include all Haitians, and not just an educated élite.
As I dug into the Creole language, word by word, I discovered for the first time that a language is actually a worldview.
Syntax and vocabulary are not only tools for communication, but for organizing and understanding the world that surrounds us. The moment that I really understood this was when I looked up the word “poverty” in my Creole-English dictionary and found that it was also the used to describe a “hollow tin can.” The power of this image is breathtaking, and one that belongs solely to Creole.
I decided to dig up these poems and share them online when I read an email from Dominique…She wrote that amidst the heartbreak of seeing the country that she loves so much in devastation (the 2010 earthquake), and her worry for family members still living there, she had been focusing on the beauty of the country, its history and culture:
“The most beautiful sight I remember ever seeing was in Haiti. And people associate Haiti with ugly, but I see beauty in its complicated history. I see beauty in what I know of Haiti, not what people think they know or read.” I believe that it is important for us to send our appreciation to the people of Haiti, for their accomplishments and artistic vitality, as well as our aid during difficult times. Let’s remember that it’s a country of life, and not just devastation.”
. . .
Les Phantoms avec King Kino_Harbourfront, Toronto_02 août 2015
Chanteurs haïtiens du grand spectacle du groupe Les Phantoms_Festival Kompa Zouk Ontario 2015
La joyeuse foule durant le spectacle-musicale “zouk” à Harbourfront, Toronto_02 août 2015
EMANYEL EJEN
WONGOL POEM
Pwezi Wongol
Pou Ayida
I.
Gendele m’rete
M’gade-ou Ayida
Loloj-mwen vire
Tet-ou gridap se vre
Men lannuit genle
Domi nan cheve-ou
Ayida o!
Soley galonnen
Nan tout plenn lakay
Timounn-yo manje grangou
Vant deboutonnen
Poban lannuit
Tonbe sou fey lavi
Lalin-nan tounen biva
Men nwase-a pews konpe!
Ayida o!
Kile jou-a va sevre?
Zonbi sige l’ale
Zetwal file tonbe
Zwazo leve chante
Nan veye kay Ayida
Zekle file pase
Zam rale tire
Zanset leve kanpe
Deblozay pete kay Ayida
I.
Sometimes I stop
I look at you Ayida
My head spins
Your hair may be kinky
but the night rests
in its tangles
Ayida o!
sunlight pours onto
each pity of our home
Children feasting on hunger
bellies unscrewed
Night fills a jar
collapses into life, paper thin
daydreams become blotters but
man, darkness is thick
Ayida o!
When will daylight attack?
Zombies struggle to die
Stars streak, fall
Birds wake, sing
Watch over the house, Ayida
Lightning shoots through
weapons drawn
Ancestors rise erect
Riots shake the house, Ayida
II.
Youn zetwal file tonbe
Fann fonten tet-mwen
Pakanpak
Youn loray gwonde tonbe
Nan mitan zantray-mwen
Tidife boule kale nan ke-m tou wouj
Ou met koupe-m
Rache-m jete-m
Ou met boule-m
Fe chabon ak mwen
Zwazo p’ap sispann
Fe nich nan rasin-mwen
Lespwa p’ap bouke
Fleri nan ke-m
Mwen se samba
Rasin-mwen pa gen tobout
II.
Star sharpens and falls
splits my forehead
temple to temple
Lightning burns
within my gut
Flames hatch in
my pounding heart
You can cut me off
uproot me, toss me away
You can burn me
into charcoal
Birds won’t quit
nesting in my roots
Hope doesn’t wither
but blossoms in me
I am a poet
my roots grow thick
III.
Le youn fledize blese
A dize tapan
Li mouri tetanus
Pa gen anyen nan sa
Le youn choublak senyen
San ko-l benyen ko-l
Wanganeges rele
Sa pa di anyen
Men le youn pye flanbwayan
Fe emoraji
Tout zwazo vole gage
Nan ekziltik y’al chante
Lot bo dlo y’al kriye
Lapenn sa k’rete deye
Van pote nouvel
Nouvel gaye
Zorey Ayida Konen
Li pa tande anyen
III.
When a ten o’clock flower is wounded
at ten o’clock sharp
It dies of tetanus
Nothing gained
When one hibiscus bleeds, its
body bathed in its own blood
hummingbirds cry out
but say nothing
Here, when one poinciania bush
hemorrhages, all the birds
scratch to leave the cockfight
In exile their singing fades
Across the water their weeping fades
Sorrow for those left behind
Wind brings and
scatters the news
Ayida’s ears ring
She hears nothing
IV.
Chak gout lannuit ki koule
Se youn tas kafe anme nan ke-nou
Nan je-nou lawouze koule
Detenn kouch poud
Nan machwa douvanjou
Malfini gagannen jou
Beke soley nan grenn je
Limye bite twa fwa
Anvan li trepase gran jounen
Tout kat libete-nou anba kod
Rev-nou mezire nan timamit
Silans-nou fele
Pasyans-nou kankannen sou nou
Men oumenm ki mezire node
Ki lonnen jipon-ou
Nan kat pwendino
Ki peze lanme nan balans-ou
Loray pete twa fwa nan patmen-ou
Le van kase kod
Ki mounn ki va koupe jaret-li
Le lanme souke jipon-l
Ki mounn ki va di-l san lizay
Le loray va bat kalinda-a
Ki mounn ki va leve danse
IV.
Each drop that sinks through the night
Is a cup of bitter coffee in our stomachs
Dew trickles from our eyes
streaks the gunpowder
that coats the jaws of dawn
Hawk strangles daylight
Pecks sunlight into pieces
Light flickers three times
Before the whole day dies
All four freedoms under arrest
Our dreams held in tin cans
Our silence breaks
Patience blisters among us
You watch for the storm
measuring out your hem
to the four directions
You weigh the ocean on scales
Thunder cracks three times in your palm
When wind breaks the law
Whose blade will gash its haunches?
When the ocean shakes its underskirt
Who will say it has no breeding?
When thunder comes beating the kalinda
Who will rise to dance?
. . .
Merete Mueller’s
Notes on “Wongol Poem”:
The Wongol is a form of poetry developed in Haiti during the 1960s. Traditionally a poem of two to six lines, the Wongol conveys a brief message expressing deep discontent against the status-quo. Wongols were meant to inspire dissent towards the government.
The Kalinda were the nocturnal dances performed before the Haitian Revolution, probably to conceal the outlawed practices of Voudun ceremonies.
The Zombie is a constant theme in Haitian literature and poetry. Jean Zombi, aiding in the execution of all remaining French settlers after the Haitian Revolution, forced men to strip naked before having their stomachs slit open. In Voudun, the zombie is a dead person resurrected through sacred ritual. After being resurrected, the body has no will of its own, remaining under the control of whomever performed the ritual. Figuratively, the zombie has come to represent an easily manipulated, apathetic person with little awareness of his or her surroundings.
In Rasin-mwen pa gen tobout, the last line of Part II, gen, which I have translated as ‘grow’, can also be translated as ‘earn’. Tobout, ‘thick’ or ‘tough’, also means “prison cell”. While one meaning of the line is “My roots grow thick”, Ejen is also saying, “My origins earn me a prison cell”.
. . .
Emanyel Ejen (born Emmanuel Eugène, in 1946) – pseudonym Manno Ejen – was forced to leave Haiti, but chose to return in 1986, after the end of the Duvalier régime. Upon returning, he co-founded the weekly Creole newspaper Libete (Freedom) in Port-au-Prince, where he currently lives and serves on the newspaper’s editorial board.
Né à Cuba en 1946 de parents haïtiens, Emmanuel Eugène vivait à Montréal pour plus de trente ans. Il est ouvrier et poète. Sa poésie engage le meilleur de nous-mêmes : l’enfance, l’amour, l’espoir.
. . .
Jeanie Bogart Jourdain
Distance
.
Je marche pieds nus
déshabillée
dans les ruelles de ton coeur
tous les sentiers
me mènent à toi
là, je retrouve
mon lever de soleil
mes jeux de cache-cache
parler sans cesse
continuer d’avancer
ce que nous réserve l’avenir
mystère
décembre
le froid pénètre mon cerveau
Père Noël m’a oubliée
j’essaie de tendre la main
au-delà des frontières
pour que nos doigts
puissent se toucher
s’électriser
jusqu’au tressaillement
je t’envoie mon coeur
tu m’envoies le tien
ils restent suspendus
en cours de route
gelés par le froid
d’Amérique du nord
un verre de rhum
comme je les aime
un petit coup fil
au milieu de la nuit
quelques mots qui me glacent
qui me brûlent
qui ressuscitent mes sens
ma passion
mes désirs
mes rêves
mes sensations
mes vilaines pensées
une si longue distance
condamné notre cœur
de côté l’amour
. . .
Distans
.
M ap mache pye atè
toutouni nan riyèl kè w
tout santye
mennen m yon sèl kote
de pla men w
se la m jwenn
solèy leve m
sere liben m
pale pale
mache bouske pi devan
sa demen sere pou nou
se mistè
mwa d desanm
gen yon fredi k antre
jouk nan sèvo m
tonton nwèl bliye m
m lonje menm tout longè
eseye fè l janbe fwontyè
wè si pwent dwèt nou
te ka touche
pase kouran
fè san n mache
mwen voye kè m ba ou
ou voye pa w ban mwen
yo ret kwoke nan wout
fredi lamerik dinò
fè yo tounen glas
yon vè wonm
jan m renmen l la
yon ti kout fil
nan mitan lanwit
de twa ti mo
ki fè m frèt fè m cho
ki reveye dènye sans mwen
pasyon mwen
anvi mwen
rèv mwen
sansasyon mwen
panse malelve mwen
yon distans lan mitan nou
kè nou kondane
lanmou fè jeretyen
. . .
Joelle Constant
Toi
.
Ton visage
Reflet de ta beauté intérieure
Ton expression
Témoin de ton cœur d’écrivain
Tes lèvres
Porte-parole de tes amours non avouées
Tes mains
Messagers infatigables de ta tendresse
Tes yeux
Porteurs de tes désirs inassouvis
Ton corps
Aimant attirant le pôle opposé
. . .
Joelle Constant
Ton Franc Sourire
.
Ton franc sourire
Une source d’émotions
Qui ne peut tarir
Une invitation
Chargée de désirs
La représentation
D’une histoire à écrire
Une poignée de chansons
Entonnées en délire
L’annonce d’une saison
Qui tarde à venir
Ton franc sourire
L’image de ton nom
Que je me plais à redire
. . .
Joelle Constant
Le poète
On ne touche pas un poète
Avec des mains d’acier
On ne parle pas à un poète
Avec des mots vulgaires
On ne regarde pas un poète
Avec des yeux méchants
On ne sent pas un poète
Juste parce qu’il est présent
On n’écoute pas un poète
Avec des oreilles distraites
On ne goûte pas un poète
Comme on goûte l’homme naturel
Un poète, on le traite
Avec délicatesse
Un poète, on le touche
Avec des doigts d’artiste
En interpelant son art
Un poète, on lui parle
Avec révérence
Comme à une divinité
Un poète, on le regarde
Avec les yeux d’un peintre
Car il peint aussi ses mots
Dans sa pensée
Un poète, on le sent
Même absent
Car son œuvre le tient présent
Un poète, on l’écoute
Même si son message
Nous déroute
Un poète, on le goûte
Tout en dégustant
La saveur de ses vers
Un poète, on l’élève
Parce qu’il transcende
Et parce qu’il est
Un poète.
. . . . .
. . . . .
Zócalo Poets 