Samuel Selvon: poemas traducidos
Posted: August 31, 2016 Filed under: English, Samuel Selvon, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best | Tags: Poetas de Trinidad y Tobago Comments Off on Samuel Selvon: poemas traducidos
Niños jugando bajo de un guayacán o árbol tabebuia © fotógrafo santalucence Chester Williams__ Children playing beneath a yellow Poui tree_photograph © Saint Lucian photographer Chester Williams
Samuel Selvon
(San Fernando, Trinidad, 1923-1994)
Temor
.
Lo cierto es que
profundamente
me asusto de la vida:
la lucubración solitaria
(el mediodía tiene su
cavilación también.)
He descubierto que la incertidumbre
está trepando, acechante y listo;
estando pendiente del momento expuesto.
.
Soy pecador:
Eso es la verdad.
Y los pecadores son ellos que
saben demasiado o muy poco.
Porque soy pagano,
venerando las cosas inanimadas:
ser un rey durante un día, solo – ¿pues?
.
Temo que
la fe no sea suficiente,
pero esta vida no esté lleno.
Construyo unos dioses vagos pequeñines:
esos dioses vagos
en lo más profundo de la noche,
o del día superficial.
Pero todos ellos se precipitaron.
. . .
Sueño
.
Perdí un sueño esta mañana
cuando me desperté,
y supliqué a la noche
para traerlo de nuevo.
Los tranvías roncos, en vano;
y aquellos que yo conocía
pasaban por un desconocido
separado a sí mismo…
.
En un desconcierto completo
averigüé a un méndigo en el parque
– una voz entusiasta por nada sino una voz –
y el reloj de la iglesia
hablaba alocadamente de
alguna hora de la tarde.
.
Pues entendí
el secreto del círculo cuadrado,
y miré la muerte de la Eternidad;
y dos por dos es igual a cinco.
Yo veía el Tiempo tambaleándose
y una puesta del sol
en el centro del cielo.
.
El méndigo escupió
sobre una hoja seca en el polvo…
El bufón era sordo,
entonces escuchaba
el vacío tremendo que yo contaba…
Pues me desperté.
. . .
Consuelo
.
La reacción inmediata a la acción
no es la cosa auténtica
ni representa el hombre usual.
Una furia caliente a causa de un golpe;
un júbilo rápido después de un beso:
estos pasarán, y luego
llegará la verdad.
.
Y puede que sí – con la vida.
Esta existencia en un dos por tres,
dentro de la eternidad del Tiempo,
puede ser que sea la reacción;
y cuando nos moriremos
llegarán los ámbitos, las reflexiones más sabias:
la lucidez de la vida.
. . .
El árbol guayacán
.
Para conseguir la vista esencial
de este árbol guayacán en el parque,
o sea, mirar las floraciones amarillas
parcheando lo azul del cielo tropica,
tengo que estar parado a cierta distancia.
.
Para agarrar una falta de vida
es pisar las flores tiradas sobre la hierba;
es mirar las últimas de la rama hasta el suelo:
una respuesta reluctante a la gravedad.
.
Únicamente son los niños que
entienden la belleza límpida;
con manos extendidas y ansiosas
tras las flores para bloquear un rato
su caída al suelo.
Parto de ellos
porque soy demasiado viejo para comprenderlo.
. . .
Los cuatro poemas arriba están incluidos al volumen de 2012, The Poems of Sam Selvon, editado por Roydon Salick, con un prólogo de Kenneth Ramchand. La mayoría de la poesía de Samuel Selvon data de los años 40, antes de su emigración al Reino Unido. Durante las dos décadas que siguieron, Sr. Selvon se volvió reconocido por sus obras literárias: novelas, relatos cortos, dramas para la radio BBC, y ensayos. Pero empezó todo con algunos poemas inquisitivos y tiernos, escritos mientras vivía en la ciudad de Port-of-Spain donde trabajaba como corresponsal del periódico Trinidad Guardian.
. . .
Samuel Selvon
(San Fernando, Trinidad, 1923-1994)
Fear
.
To tell truth
I am deeply afraid of life,
The lonely lucubration
(Noon-day has its pensiveness
Too).
I have found uncertainty
Creeping,
Lurking just a little way off,
Waiting, watching for the
Unguarded moment.
.
I am a sinner.
That is the truth of it.
And sinners are those who
Know too much or too little.
For I am a pagan
Worshipping inanimate things:
King for a day, and then?
.
I am afraid
Faith might be insufficient,
Yet life might not be full.
I build little vague gods:
Those vague gods in the deep
Of night
Or of the shallow day.
But they all come tumbling
Down.
. . .
Dream
.
I lost a dream this morning
When I woke
And prayed the night
To bring it back again.
In vain the noisy trams;
And those I knew I passed
A self-estranged stranger…
.
In utter bewilderment
I probed the beggar in the park
(An eager voice for nothing
But a voice)
And the clock on the church
Spoke crazily of some time
In the evening.
.
And then I knew
The secret of the square circle,
And saw Eternity die
And two and two make five.
Saw Time staggering,
And a sunset
In the centre of the sky.
.
The beggar spat
On a brown leaf in the dust…
The fool was deaf
So he listened
To the tremendous nothingness
I spoke…
Then I awoke.
. . .
Consolation
.
The immediate reaction to action
Is not the true thing
Nor depicts the usual man.
Hot fury at a blow;
Swift joy at a kiss,
Will pass, afterwards
The truth will come.
.
So perhaps with life,
This split-second existence
In the eternity of Time
Might be the first reaction,
And when we die, will come
Wiser realms, soberer thoughts ––
The truth of life.
. . .
Poui Tree
.
To get the essential view
Of this particular
Poui tree in the park,
That is to say, to watch
The yellow blossoms patch
The blueness of the tropic sky,
I must stand some distance off.
.
To capture lifelessness
Is to trample on the flowers
Lying on the grass,
To look at the death-throes
From limb to earth,
The reluctant answer
To gravity.
.
Only children know
The pristine beauty,
With eager outstretched hands
After the flowers from the earth
To bar their fall
A little longer.
I leave them because
I am too old to understand.
. . .
Pauline Enriques with Samuel Sevlon_Caribbean Voices BBC radio programme_1952
The above poems are included in the 2012 volume The Poems of Sam Selvon, edited by Roydon Salick, with a foreward by Kenneth Ramchand, and published by Cane Arrow Press.
The four poems here date from 1947. The bulk of Samuel Selvon’s poetic output dates from before 1950 (the year he emigrated to London, England), though his long prose-poem, “Poem in London” (which was broadcast on BBC Radio’s Caribbean Voices programme in 1951) is perhaps the most famous. Best known for his novels, short stories, radio dramas and non-fiction writing, Selvon’s poems had too long lain in vintage magazines and archive drawers until Cane Arrow Press decided to present these romantic, philosophical verses to the reading public.
. . . . .
Anson Gonzalez: poemas traducidos
Posted: August 31, 2016 Filed under: English, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best | Tags: Poetas de Trinidad y Tobago Comments Off on Anson Gonzalez: poemas traducidos
Anson Gonzalez
(Catalizador y motivador de la literatura caribeña / Poeta)
Poemas en prosa:
del poemario Cruce de Sueño (Crossroads of Dream) (2003)
.
La misma dirección durante cuatro décadas – ¿estabilidad o inercia?
Un solo empleo desde la edad de dieciséis – ¿virtud o fracaso?
Nunca había residido or estudiado en el extranjero – ¿restringido o contento?
Su cacharro y él – juntos para veinticinco años.
La misma esposa, los mismos hijos para cuarenta años
– ¿un compromiso de larga duración o un terror de cambio?
¿Puede ir al próximo nivel, o siempre estará fijado a éste
pues lo encantará eternamente?
El mismo corazón – latiendo desde su nacimiento.
. . .
La araña Anansi se escabullía sobre el cielo de la habitación – como un ninja.
Silenciosamente se centró para capturar una panzada. Mientras concentrándose
en su comida no se dio cuenta de la lanza que se preparaba para arponearle.
Él escuchó la oración halal; sintió las mantras kosher; las bendiciones baraka bashad.
Mientras tanto, el gigante estuvo listo para enviarle hasta su próxima encarnación.
No puedo viajar con la barriga hambrienta, pensó, y de repente dejó descender a sí mismo
una distancia escarpada, y aterrizó el piso cerámico. Corriendo en piernas tambaleantes,
él pasó zumbando hacia la oscuridad, desesperado por esquivar. Apresurándose, corriendo
a las zonas oscuras – demasiado rápido por la araña – un guerrero sobrecargado de vejez.
Se escapó en un recoveco, aterrado pero vivo, y seguro hasta la próxima tentativa de comer.
. . .
Erupciona la hermosura antes del comienzo del tiempo de la cosecha
y los retoños proclamando su plenitud. Borlas cónicas deslumbran el
paisaje navideño de cañas de azúcar. Ellas brillan como los fuegos
artificiales del Año Nuevo que saludan las mañanas de enero – fuegos que
se cortan el chorro – aleatoriamente – después de una expresión efímera pero
gloriosa, de deleite.
Pues, comienza el esfuerzo amargo, y la belleza se inclina por las cuchilladas
de brazos golpeandos que le arrazan a ella en la causa de supervivencia.
Carretillas y remolques rodan, las ruedas de las fábricas gruñen, y el calor
convierte en la riqueza la realidad. El hollín se difunde y cubre el lugar de belleza
con la pátina del Hades. Del sitio de cremación, cercano, el humo oscurece el cielo.
. . .
Mientras sale a caminar al kiosco de diarios, la blancura de platino
del sol baña el valle con las bendiciones. Los vecinos del hombre,
sus cuatro rosas rojas se balancean con un resplendor al aire – como
unos besos del bel alba. La neblina de las colinas se desvanecía
como el aliento del dulce amante al momento de separación.
De pronto, el día parecía tan bendecido y espléndido:
Fue posible, casi posible, olvidar la amenaza a la seguridad de una
confrontación entre el Gobierno y unos insurgentes aspirantes que
habían amenazado nuestra urbanidad y seguridad una vez antes.
Fue un momento yuxtapuesto entre el sagrado y el vulgar. Él estuvo balanceando
en el humbral de una emoción inexplicable, y reflexionó sobre un querido
amigo. Cuando regresó, su esposa estuvo regando sus flores amadas para
salvaguardarlas de las atenciones abrasadoras del ojo antillano al cielo.
. . .
Anson Gonzalez
(Catalyst and motivator for Caribbean literature /
Poet / born Trinidad & Tobago)
Prose poems from Crossroads of Dream (2003)
.
Same address for four decades – stability or inertia? One job
since sixteen – virtue or failure? Never lived or studied abroad
– limited or contented? His old car and he – together for
twenty-five years. Same wife and children for forty years –
longterm commitment or fear of change? Can he go into the next
plane – or will he be attached forever to this one and haunt it
eternally? Same heart beating beating from birth.
. . .
Anansi slinked on the ceiling like a ninja. He quietly settled
in to capture a bellyful. Concentratin on his meal, he didn’t
notice the pole preparing to spear him. He heard the halal
prayer. He sensed the kosher incantations, the baraka bashad
blessings, as the giant prepared to send him to his next
incarnation. Can’t travel on hungry belly, he thought, dropping
suddenly the precipitous distance, hitting the tiled floor,
running on kilkitay legs, scurrying to the darkness, desperate
to escape. Scurrying, hurrying into the darkened areas, too fast
for the age-encumbered warrior, to escape in a crevice, terrified
but alive; safe till another attempt at feeding.
. . .
Beauty erupts before croptime starts and ratoons announce
their time of fullness. Conical tassels dazzle the Xmas canescape.
They shimmer like New Year’s fireworks on January mornings
that go out desultorily after their short-lived but glorious
expressions of delight. Then, bitter toil begins; beauty bows to
the slash of striking arms that lay her low in the cause of survival.
Carts and trailers trundle, factory wheels grumble; heat converts
reality to wealth. Soot spreads and covers beauty’s place with a
patina of Hades. From the nearby cremation site smoke darkens the sky.
. . .
As he stepped out to go to the newsstand, the platinum
whiteness of the sun bathed the valley with its blessings. His
neighbour’s four red roses swayed resplendently in the air like
beautiful dawn kisses. Mist on the hillsides was dissipating
like a sweet lover’s breath at the moment of parting. Day
suddenly seemed so blessed and glorious that one could almost
forget the security threat in a confrontation between Government
and some would-be insurrectionists, who had threatened our
civility and safety once before. It was a moment juxtaposed
between sacred and profane. As he balanced on the cusp of an
inexplicable emotion, he though of his dear friend. When he
returned, his spouse was watering her beloved flowers to save
them from the scorching attentions of the Antillean eye in the sky.
. . .
Anson Gonzalez no empezó a escribir sus propios poemas hasta 1984, aunque había encabezado un movimiento literario en su nación nativa – Trinidad y Tobago. Fundó la revista pancaribeña New Voices (Nuevas Voces) durante los años 70, y lanzó el evento anual Poetry Day (Día de la Poesía) en octubre de 1979. Fue coadyutorio también en la creación de la Writers’ Union of Trinidad y Tobago (Unión de Escritores de Trinidad y Tobago).
. . .
Anson Gonzalez began writing poetry in 1984, though he had been involved in the arts – as founder and editor of The New Voices bi-annual journal during the 1970s. He was an important motivator and promoter of literary culture in the Caribbean – and in Trinidad & Tobago most especially. Poetry Day, observed every October, was an event launched by Mr. Gonzalez in 1979, and he also helped to form the Writers’ Union of Trinidad and Tobago. Survived by his wife Sylvia, T&T’s Poet Laureate died in 2015, in Cardiff, Wales, where his adult daughters have made their home.
. . . . .
Jennifer Rahim: poemas traducidos
Posted: August 31, 2016 Filed under: English, Jennifer Rahim, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best | Tags: Poetas de Trinidad y Tobago Comments Off on Jennifer Rahim: poemas traducidos
Frantz Fanon (1925- 1961): escritor y revolucionario nacido en Martinica_autor de “Los condenados de la tierra” / French- Caribbean writer and revolutionary from Martinique_most famous for his book “The Wretched of the Earth”
Jennifer Rahim
(Trinidad y Tobago)
Versos para Fanon: 1
.
Insististe en que hablabas para tu era.
Bien, Fanon – ahora es.
Como albañiles ingenuos,
construimos sobre la arena de jeraquías falsas,
prejuicios de todo tipo y mezclados con argamasa;
erigimos paredes por dividirnos, no alojarnos
– desconocidos, el uno al otro.
Escucha – el mundo está ruidoso con
el infierno de su propia construcción:
naciones que clonan con la guerra la democracia;
religiones que sacrifican al dogma la fe;
y la inocencia asesinada sobre el altar
de pasiones hórridas.
¡El tiempo de carroña, compañero!
No hay gente aquí sino una comitiva triste de fantasmas
apiñandose juntos. Las puertas están atrancadas y
la gente permanece seca de la tormenta de
nuestro fracaso colosal:
no amaremos más completos que cualquier credo venerado o odiado.
Reza, santo imperfecto, que saltaremos la cancela
– por fin.
. . .
Versos para Fanon: 2
.
El mundo no es como habías deseado, compañero.
Quizás nunca habías anticipado su llegada,
pero trabajabas la esperanza a un lenguaje
grande como la metáfora. La esperanza es
la única fe que puede trasladar una visión
sobre las líneas fortalecidas que nos ciñen
en parcelas que son demasiadas pequeñas
para el universo que fluye, sin costura, por tu sangre.
No es como lo habías imaginado, el mundo.
Exististe demasiado temprano, y nosotros – demasiado tarde.
Entonces somos una humanidad que arrastra sus pies,
y estamos destinados a lamentar el reino casi posible.
No, no somos las estrellas que soñabas tocar
– unos puros resplandores liberados de
cualquier pasado que bloquea la visión –
niños dispuestos y ávidos
– por fin.
. . .
Nota a mí misma
.
Un padre también merece la norma de siete-por-setenta.
(Nota a mí misma: no es un poema.)
Ninguna cosa que yo he dicho sobre ti era cierto. Nada que dije
alguna vez visitó tu sufrimiento fruncido
– algo que solamente yo ideara. Mi padre, vivía
el veredicto de mi deseo que seas un héroe, durante esos días
cuando se caían los dioses; yo quería que seas un dios
viniendo para rescatarme. Ay no, los padres no deben ser escritos
a menos que les permitamos ser en carne y hueso
– necesitando clemencia.
Solo es ahora, cuando resplandece tu vida en su fin,
que empiezo a entenderte.
. . .
Jennifer Rahim
(Trinidad and Tobago)
Lines to Fanon I
.
You insisted you spoke for your time.
Well, it is now, Fanon. Like foolish masons,
we build on the sand of false hierarchies,
prejudices of all kinds mixed with mortar,
walls erected to divide, not house us all –
strangers to each other.
Listen, the earth is noisy with the hell
of its construction: nations clone democracy
with war, religions sacrifice faith to dogma,
innocence murdered on the altar
of horrid passions.
Carrion time, brother!
No people here, just a sad company of ghosts
huddled together, doors bolted, keeping dry
from the storm of our colossal failure
to love larger than any creed
we venerate or hate.
Pray, imperfect saint,
we finally leap the gate.
. . .
Lines to Fanon II
.
The world is not as you desired, brother.
Maybe you never expected its arrival,
but worked hope into a language large
as metaphor – the one faith that transports
vision across hardened lines that gird us
in plots much too small for the universe
coursing, seamless, through your blood.
The world is not as you imagined it.
You were too soon, and we too late.
So we are a drag-foot humanity, destined
to lament the kingdom almost possible.
No, we are not the stars you dreamed
to touch, pure radiances unfettered
by any past – barring vision –
like bright-eyed children, at last.
. . .
Note to Self
.
Fathers, too, deserve the seven times seventy rule. (Note to self: not
a poem.) Nothing I ever said of you was true. Nothing said visited
your pursed suffering I could only imagine. Father, you lived the
sentence of my wanting you to be a hero, in those days when gods fell.
I wanted you to be a god to my rescue. No, fathers should never be
written unless we allow them, first, to be flesh, needing forgiveness.
Only now, when your life glows at its end, I begin to see you.
. . .
Poeta, ensayista y escritora de cuentos, Jennifer Rahim es una profesora también de la Universidad del Caribe (UWI) en Saint Augustine, Trinidad y Tobago. Fue una galardonada del premio Casa de las Américas en 2010 con su poemario Approaching Sabbaths (Sabbates inminentes ). Los poemas arriba están incluidos en el volumen Ground Level (Al nivel del suelo): (Peepal Tree Press, 2014).
. . .
Trinidadian poet/essayist/short-story writer Jennifer Rahim is a Senior Lecturer at the University of the West Indies in St. Augustine, Trinidad and Tobago. She was awarded a Casa de las Américas prize in 2010 for her collection Approaching Sabbaths. The above poems are from her 2014 Peepal Tree Press volume Ground Level.
. . . . .
Fernando Brant & Milton Nascimento: “Heart is My Master”
Posted: August 28, 2016 Filed under: English, Fernando Brant, Portuguese | Tags: Brazilian song lyrics in translation Comments Off on Fernando Brant & Milton Nascimento: “Heart is My Master”
Milton Nascimento / Fernando Brant
Heart is My Master
.
Heart –
this drum within,
my sincerest friend,
who has given me a love whose
slightest tenderness will reach the Redeemer.
Like a river that runs in me,
it stems from a natural source;
the love that is in me
stems from the road
it designed for me.
.
From knowing me so well,
it takes me through time to see the world;
territories of passion.
Heart teaches me the courage to live;
throws me into the sea of love.
Within these good waters I will learn to sail –
as I am merely a pupil
who shall follow his tutor wherever he may lead.
.
…And my tutor is my heart,
this drum within,
my sincerest friend,
who has given me a love whose
slightest tenderness will reach the Redeemer.
Like a river that runs in me,
it stems from a natural source;
the love that is in me
stems from the road
it designed for me.
.
My tutor is my heart,
this drum within,
my sincerest friend.
Life – and Passion!
. . .
Milton Nascimento / Fernando Brant
Meu Mestre Coraçao
.
Coração
meu tambor do peito, meu amigo cordial
fez de mim um amador
que por um carinho sobe até o Redentor
o rio que corre em mim
vem dessa nascente seu leito natural
o amor que existe em mim
vem desse caminho de vida que ele me traçou
.
Por me saber de cor
me leva no tempo para o mundo conhecer
território da paixão
coração me ensina a coragem de viver
me joga no mar de amar
nessa água boa eu irei navegar
e eu sou um aprendiz
que segue seu mestre aonde ele for
.
E o meu mestre é o meu coração
meu tambor do peito meu amigo cordial
fez de mim um amador
que por um carinho sobe até o Redentor
vem dessa nascente seu leito natural
o amor que existe em mim
vem desse caminho de vida que ele me traçou
.
Meu mestre é o coração
meu tambor do peito, meu amigo cordial
– vida e paixão
. . .
Fernando Brant (1946-2015) was born in Minas Gerais state in Brazil. He would become well known as a poet, lyricist and journalist. In the 1960s he met singer-songwriter and guitarist Milton Nascimento, who was born in 1942 in Rio de Janeiro, but was raised in Minas Gerais by his adopting parents. The two first collaborated on the 1967 song Travessia (a later English-language version with different lyrics was called Bridges.) Heart is My Master / Meu Mestre Coraçao was featured on Nascimento’s 1987 album Yauaretê (Jaguar).
. . . . .
Erasmo Carlos & Roberto Carlos: “Love to live, or die of love”
Posted: August 28, 2016 Filed under: English, Portuguese | Tags: Brazilian song lyrics in translation Comments Off on Erasmo Carlos & Roberto Carlos: “Love to live, or die of love”
Erasmo Carlos & Roberto Carlos
Love to Live…
.
Let’s revive our native feelings
Let’s compile all the good moments
And then show the movie around.
.
Let’s keep poison from our wine
Let’s keep the darts from intoxicating
The Blood that strews our ground.
.
At war, but only if
Wars of love
Missiles of flowers, flowers, flowers
And bombs made out of styrofoam.
.
Suddenly – dive into optimism
And swim in the dark waters of the abyss
Avoid that the one be chased by the thousand
We all came from the very same ground
So let’s end the lovelessness…
.
Love to live
Or die in love…
Love to live
Or die in love…
Love to live
Or die in love…
. . .
Erasmo Carlos & Roberto Carlos
Amar pra Viver
.
Vamos reviver nativos sentimentos
Vamos editar os bons momentos
Depois passar o filme por aí
.
Vamos evitar veneno em nosso vinho
Não deixar que as setas se embriaguem
Do Sangue que semeia nosso chão.
.
Guerra mas só se for
Guerras de amor
Mísseis de flores, flores, flores
Bombas de isopor.
.
De repente, mergulhar com otimismo
E nadar nas águas turvas do abismo
Evitar que mais de mil persiga um só
Viemos do mesmo pó
Fim ao desamor.
.
Amar pra viver
Ou morrer de amor…
Amar pra viver
Ou morrer de amor…
Amar pra viver
Ou morrer de amor…
. . .
Erasmo Carlos and Roberto Carlos during the 1960s Jovem Guarda years
Erasmo Carlos (born Erasmo Esteves in 1941 in Rio de Janeiro) and Roberto Carlos – no relation – (born Roberto Carlos Braga in 1941 in Espíritu Santo state) have been decades-long collaborators in Brazilian music. The two met as teenagers, and early on exchanged the original lyrics for Elvis Presley’s version of Big Mama Thornton’s “Hound Dog”. Roberto was the founder of the Jovem Guarda (Young Guard) pop-rock movement in mid-1960s Brazil – influenced by American rock&roll plus the “British Invasion” – and Erasmo was one of JG’s core members.
Love to Live / Amar pra Viver was featured on Erasmo Carlos’ 1982 album of the same name.
. . . . .
Earl McKenzie: cinco poemas del poemario “La hoja del almendro” / five poems from “The Almond Leaf”
Posted: August 27, 2016 Filed under: Earl McKenzie, English, ZP Translator: Alexander Best Comments Off on Earl McKenzie: cinco poemas del poemario “La hoja del almendro” / five poems from “The Almond Leaf”
Earl McKenzie
(nacido 1943, Mount Charles, St. Andrew, Jamaica)
El silencio es mi hogar
.
Si el oído es el último sentido que “va”,
según dicen,
entonces envíeme a la meta con
El Canon en Re Mayor por Pachelbel
pues la cosa final que oiré
es la capacidad para la belleza
del hombre pecador.
.
Si me afferaré tan tenazmente
a los ruidos de este mundo,
esto es porque
el sonido – sobre todo –
es la consecuencia más pura
del ser.
.
Si yo soltaría
tu belleza,
tu perfume,
y tu piel lisa,
me afferaré al sonido de tu voz.
.
Y si el sonido es
el vecino más cercano de la muerte,
pues este amante – yo –
sabe que el silencio es su casa.
. . .
Las ruedas de la guerra
.
Las ruedas de matanza por la guerra
están moviendo sobre el desierto
los camiones y tanques del ejército.
.
Entre los cuentos saliendo a la luz
hay una fotografía
de un chico refugiado
jugando con una rueda.
.
Yo, a la misma edad de él,
corría las ruedas
en caminos tranquilos
que hendieron colinas verdes
– sin ningunos soldados a la vista.
.
Pero este chico,
más que cuantos soldados,
entiende el júbilo del
ingenio de la rueda.
. . .
Jazz y Canto de Ave
.
Mientras escuchando
el saxofón de Coltrane
dando forma a una melodía exquisita
también yo oía
un pájaro cantando afuera.
.
El uno es arte,
según dicen,
un arreglo de sonidos,
estampado por la voluntad humana,
que tira enigmáticamente
a la experiencia del corazón.
.
El otro es un sonido
genéticamente programado
– quizás una llamada de apareamiento –
y moldeado por la evolución.
.
Pero los dos son divinos
– como la gramática –
ordenados en su manera.
.
Pues:
hay la divinidad
– seguramente –
en el jazz y en el canto de aves.
. . .
El análisis
.
Después del análisis de sangre
yo di un paseo en el centro comercial.
.
En la tienda
la música era empalagosa
mientras yo miraba las ropas que
llevare como un hombre enfermo.
.
En la librería
no había ningún volumen
que hablara de mi condición.
.
En el supermercado
compré la comida saludable
– pero demasiado tarde.
.
Mientras yo conducía a casa
me decía que
la enfermedad es algo tan natural
– como un río en torrente,
o una tormenta en el mar.
.
El resultado estaba negativo
– y alegremente.
. . .
La fuerza del arte
.
Cuando nos dimos cuenta de que
nuestras voces pueden volverse en
instrumentos musicales exquisitos;
.
que nuestros cuerpos pueden estar moldeados
en danzas poderosas;
.
que nuestras palabras pueden estar colocadas
en poemas y cuentos emotivos;
.
que podemos dar forma de declaraciones de la verdad
con el barro y la pintura;
.
que podemos erigir la arquitectura sublime
de las materias de esta tierra;
.
que la grande música está empotrada
en la madera y los metales y las pieles;
.
cuando descubrimos estas cosas
tropezamos con la potencia
– no el misterio –
del arte.
. . .
El profesor McKenzie ha dado lecciones sobre la Filosofía en la Universidad del Caribe (UWI) en Mona, Jamaica. Ha escrito dos novelas y publicó dos poemarios – Contra la linealidad cronológica (Against Linearity, 1993), y La hoja del almendro (The Almond Leaf, 2008).
. . . . .
Earl McKenzie
(born 1943, Mount Charles, St. Andrew, Jamaica)
Silence is My Home
.
If hearing is the last sense to go,
as they say,
then send me home with
Pachelbel’s Canon in D
so that the last thing I hear
is sinful man’s capacity for beauty.
.
If I will cling most tenaciously
to the noises of the world,
it is because
above all else
sound is the purest consequence
of being.
.
So if I let go
of your beauty,
your perfume,
and your smooth skin,
I will cling to the sound of your voice.
.
And if sound
is death’s nearest neighbour
this lover of stillness knows
that silence is my home.
. . .
Wheels of War
.
The killing wheels of war
move army trucks and tanks
into the desert.
.
Among the stories coming out
is a photograph
of a boy refugee
playing with a wheel.
.
At his age I ran wheels
on quiet roads
slicing green hills,
without a soldier in sight.
.
But this boy,
more than the soldiers,
knows the joy
of the invention of the wheel.
. . .
Jazz and Birdsong
.
While listening
to Coltrane’s saxophone
shaping an exquisite melody
I also heard a bird
singing outside.
.
One is art,
they say,
patterns of sound
arranged by human will
and mysteriously tugging
at the heart’s experience.
.
The other is genetically programmed sound,
a mating call, perhaps,
shaped by evolution.
.
Yet, so ordered,
both are divine as grammar.
.
There is divinity, surely,
in jazz and birdsong.
. . .
The Test
.
After the blood test
I went for a walk in the mall.
.
In the store
the music was sickly sweet
as I looked at the clothes
I might wear
as a sick man.
.
In the bookshop
not a single volume
spoke to my condition.
.
In the supermarket
I bought healthy food
too late.
.
As I drove home
I told myself
that sickness is as natural
as a river in spate
or a storm at sea.
.
The result was joyfully negative.
. . .
The Power of Art
.
When we discovered
.
that our voices can become
exquisite musical instruments;
.
that our bodies can be shaped
into powerful dances;
.
that our words can be arranged
into moving poems and stories;
.
that we can form clay and paint
into statements of truth;
.
that we can raise sublime architecture
from the substances of the earth;
.
that great music is embedded
in wood, metals and skins;
.
when we discovered these things
we came upon
not the mystery
but the power of art.
. . .
Earl McKenzie has lectured at the University of the West Indies in Mona, Jamaica, as Professor in Philosophy. He has written novels and philosophical essays, as well as gathering together his poems into two collections – 1993’s Against Linearity, and 2008’s The Almond Leaf (from which the above poems have been chosen).
. . . . .
Gabriel Bamgbose: Three poems
Posted: August 16, 2016 Filed under: English, Gabriel Bamgbose Comments Off on Gabriel Bamgbose: Three poems
Gabriel Bamgbose (Ogun State, Nigeria)
Three Poems
Darkness
When you peep
Through the broken window
Of your broken heart
And all you could see is
darkness…
……………..Brim darkness
……………………..Thick darkness
……………..Dark darkness
Darker than… than
……………..Dark-dark darkness
Legions of horrific darkness
Forming its own sovereignty
Colliding with other darknesses
Already there, lurking elsewhere
Awaiting its doomsday
Spooky, fierce darkness
Coming out… coming…
Claiming its vast space
Crashing into emptiness
Of magnitude mass
You suddenly realize
How intensely you could
Become afraid
Of your own self.
The Gaze of Medusa
Come, let me cast on you
The gaze of Medusa
I know you have your received story
I know they have fashioned your mind
To believe what they think I am
But come, let me cast on you
The gaze of Medusa
It is the working of your own mind
It is what you believe me to be
That tells what becomes of you
Oh come, let me cast on you
The gaze of Medusa
You know in touch with each other
We know our flows and flaws
In touch with each other
We know our true stories
So come closer to me with your own mind
And let me cast on you
The gaze of Medusa
Then you will see
How truly beautiful I could be.
Holy Waters
I entered into the torrents
Of holy waters
I abandoned all other waters
Because the spirits in them
Could lock one up
In the trance of sin
Oh! Love froze my senses
My feeling on my own self
And I entered gullibly, feebly
Into the torrents
Of holy waters –
I almost drowned.
. . .
Gabriel Bamgbose is currently a Ph.D candidate in Comparative Literature at Rutgers University, New Jersey, and is the founding editor of Ijagun Poetry Journal. His work has appeared in Footmarks: Poems on One Hundred Years of Nigeria’s Nationhood, The Criterion, Lantern Magazine, Journal of Social and Cultural Analysis, and BareBack Magzine, among others. He is the author of the poetry collection, Something Happened: After the Rain.
.
Image: “Medusa” by sculptor Ubbo Enninga
. . . . .
Habari Africa Festival in Toronto!
Posted: August 14, 2016 Filed under: English, IMAGES Comments Off on Habari Africa Festival in Toronto!
Portrait of Djely Tapa by photographer Elaine
After a baking-hot day on Friday, August 12th – when the temperature reached 36 degrees celsius here in Toronto – the logical place to cool down at sunset was lakeside for the Habari Africa Festival where African singers and musicians – now based in Canada – sang and played for us from the outdoor stage by the water.
.
Malian “griotte” (female story-teller and praise-singer) – and current Montrealer – DJELY TAPA performed a rousing set with her three band members, one of whom accompanied her in a lilting song on his “kora”. Her brother translated from her French introduction the importance of the message of Une Chanson Contre La Violence Contre Les Femmes (A Song against Violence against Women).
.
Congolese singer BLANDINE MBIYA sang in French and Lingala, and was accompanied by Cour des Grands, veteran Congolese musicians (now living in Montreal) who paid tribute to great 1960s-70s “orchestres” of the Congo “rumba” tradition (Tabu Ley, Papa Wemba, OK Jazz). Mbiya’s voice was tender and sexy – and very sweet in tone! She bantered in English with the audience in between songs – sounding uncannily like Jennifer Lopez when she speaks.
Blandine Mbiya in concert_photograph by Muriel Leclerc
Habari Africa Festival is one of those events we look forward to – when it’s summer in Toronto! Those of us who love musical variety and discovery are grateful to Batuki Music Society founder Nadine McNulty – and to every supporter and partner, including Harbourfront Centre – for making it all happen, down by the Lake!
Lorna Goodison: “Días del Bibliobús” (Bookmobile Days)
Posted: August 14, 2016 Filed under: English, Lorna Goodison, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best Comments Off on Lorna Goodison: “Días del Bibliobús” (Bookmobile Days)
Lorna Goodison (born 1947, Kingston, Jamaica)
Bookmobile Days
.
Reader 1
.
The one who was pressed
up against the door
clutching the last book borrowed;
book read by naked light bulb,
street lamp, bottle torch, or moonlight.
.
The child who’d cut ties
to blood lines and school friends
in order to make the acquaintance
of characters bound to become
trusted lifelong companions.
.
That one would brave blizzards,
extract swords from stones,
fly back to Guinea never ever
having eaten salt.
Fall in and out of doomed love,
forget tethered goats,
neglect to fetch water
in a tin that once brought kerosene
and so draw the ire of parents.
This is the one who would
climb aboard wide-eyed and greedy
for what was carried in the hold
of our brave new world caravel on wheels.
.
Reader II
.
She said: “I’d like a book of fairy tales, please.”
It was a weekday
but she was all Sunday clothes.
Pink frilly frock butterfly bows
white socks patent leather shoes.
She said her godmother had dressed her up
to come and visit the bookmobile.
. . .
Lorna Goodison (nace 1947, Kingston, Jamaica)
Días del Bibliobús
.
Lectora 1
.
Ella que presionó sobre la puerta,
agarrando el último libro prestado
– un libro leído por
una bombilla pelona / una farola / una linterna en botella /
la luz de luna.
.
La criatura que rompió la relación con
su linaje y camaradas de escuela
para conocer a
personajes destinados a volverse
compañeros leales de toda la vida.
.
Ella que desafiaba nevascas;
extraía espadas de las rocas;
volaba de vuelta de Guinea
jamás de los jamases
habiendo comido la sal.
Enamorarse de alguien / desencantarse del mismo
a causa del amor malhadado;
olvidar cuidar a las cabras atadas;
no cumplir con traer el agua en una lata
que contenía el queresén
– y de esa manera enfurecer a los padres.
Ésta es ella que se montara a la ‘carabela-sobre-ruedas’,
la carabela de nuestro ‘mundo feliz’;
ésta es ella: ingenua y ávida por
lo que llevaban en la bodega del ‘barco’.
.
Lectora 2
.
Ella dijo:
“Me gustaría un libro de cuentos de hadas – por favor.”
Durante un día de semana…pero
ella llevaba puesta su ropa de domingo:
un vestido de color rosa con volantes y lazos en forma de mariposa;
calcetines blancos con zapatos de charol.
La muchachita dijo que su madrina
había vestir elegante a ella – para venir a visitar el bibliobús.
. . .
Image at top: Cover of Gitanjali by Rabindranath Tagore. This book is the subject of a companion poem to “Bookmobile Days” called “Tagore on the Bookmobile”.
Lorna Goodison lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan, where she teaches at the University of Michigan. She also divides her time between her native Jamaica and Toronto, Ontario, Canada – just “up the road” from Michigan. The poem featured here is from her most recent poetry collection, Supplying Salt and Light, published by McClelland & Stewart in 2013; Goodison did the watercolour painting on the cover. Her first book of poems, Tamarind Season, from 1980, also included illustrations by her own hand. In 2013 Goodison was awarded Jamaica’s Order of Distinction for “outstanding achievements in Literature and Poetry.”
. . .
Un otro poema de Lorna Goodison / Another poem by Lorna Goodison: “Mi Testamento” / “My Will”
https://zocalopoets.com/category/poets-poetas/lorna-goodison/
. . . . .
Frances-Marie Coke: poems of nostalgia / poems of insight, reflecting upon a Jamaican past
Posted: August 12, 2016 Filed under: English, English: Jamaican Patois, Frances-Marie Coke Comments Off on Frances-Marie Coke: poems of nostalgia / poems of insight, reflecting upon a Jamaican past
“Washday by the River” by Jamaican artist Bernard Stanley Hoyes
Frances-Marie Coke (Jamaica)
River Women
.
Behind their barely-covered lips,
The Whisperers of Above Rocks huddled
in the no man’s land where housetops leaned
.
and clotheslines tilted, their arms akimbo
jutting out from hilly backsides, fingers jabbing
at each other’s brows, presiding over business
.
in the valley. Wielding bramble brooms
dragged across their piece of dust,
they swept up kass-kass with cut-eye,
.
frock-tail fanning an’ kiss-teet, passing sentence
on grudgefulness and bad mind, malice and red-eye ––
hot words spiced with vinegar and scotch bonnet.
.
They planted after-births and futures at the navel-string tree;
washed away bad luck with sinklebible and baptized
in healing streams; read meanings in the wind,
.
in deadening stares of three-foot horse, dogs
howling at full moons, headless sen-seh fowls fluttering
in the feathered blood spilled in time for Sunday lunch.
.
Long-robed, heads wrapped in calico, they journeyed
down dark mud-tracks to their sideways church,
there to sip white rum and rule the nine-night sankey.
.
Their faces wore each other’s rage and everything
that caused it –– (one more half-empty butterpan
de pickney bring up wid him two lef-han from riverside!)
.
They railed at daughters sent to better life in town,
ending up in bed and in the way for men
with nothing but their curly hair and two-toned shoes.
.
No yard was spared from throw-word
when river women draped their wash-pans with their legs,
flared their noses and their skirts, (tucked in where it mattered),
.
and punished the missis white sheets with Guinea Gold
and corn cob, muttering underneath their breaths
when stains betrayed dark secrets of Old Stony Hill.
.
By sunset they’d passed judgement on everything
that counted: clear skin, dark skin, brown skin ––
each with its own grade, depending on the hair ––
.
knotty-knotty, picky-picky, good or nice and long ––
every version praised or damned at the river-bank,
every son instructed how to lighten with a nice brown girl.
.
In time we knew our verdict: “Miss G. gran-pickney dem
have good colour and nice hair, but dat one wid
de mawga foot, she want some good home-training!”
.
The river murmured, minding its own business.
. . .
Idlewild in August
.
Far from the city rattle,
in my retreat behind the country piano,
its keys at rest from the gingery fingers
of a grandfather who loved and ruled
.
with few breaks in his silence, I stumbled
on a haven that was mine alone –– spread out
across old pages that splintered
as I turned them to unearth another time:
.
adventures that entranced, words that smelled
of sky and sea; of consolation brewed
in Limacol and Lipton’s tea,
of love outgrowing loss as Gramma
brushed my hair steeped in rosemary bush
we uprooted from the pearl-pebbles
strung out along our backyard beach.
.
Idlewild erupted every August
when Kingston schoolyards rested
from their noisy rows of prisoners in their blue
and white, with their inky fingers scrawling over
British kings and queens, parliaments and wars
that tossed their disconnected islands out to sea.
.
Along the razor rocks and seagrape bush
huddled round the water’s yawning edge,
we scampered after cowrie shells
and soldier crabs between our mugs of tambrin tea,
sweet corn and condense milk.
.
Now, children of the salt and sand, beguiled
by freedom in the wild, we arched our backs
against the wind and vanished in the eddies
of McCarthy’s pool, defying sea-egg and mermaid,
till one by one our heads bobbed up anew,
like calabashes floating in the unbroken blue
stretched out along the spine of Idlewild.
.
Seasoned to the bone,
our sinews contoured on the edge-cliffs
of the creek, we threw off British history,
simmered in our praisesongs, gospels ringing
in our ears, laying tracks of who we were,
of what we would become!
. . .
Lessons for Young Women
.
Proper English words were not enough
to teach the serious lessons girls must learn.
.
Only stories of who fell, or proverbs in Jamaica talk
could do the job. From morning until night
.
doomsday sayings echoed, breaking silences
that drizzled in between: what it meant to be a big girl,
.
knowing only one woman can live inside the house
so since is not you paying rent, it can’t be you.
.
If you flying past yuh nest, tek sleep mark death
and call back; otherwise you soon find out
.
what happen to dem force-ripe girls
who paint them lip and ass in red
.
and hang up hang up at the gate, with all dem
old bwoy bwoy from down the road. Show me yuh company
.
an ah tell you who you are, for crab who walk too much
always los’ him claw and if you sleep wid dawg
.
you must get up wid flea. For what sweet nanny goat
always run dem belly, and what gone bad a morning
.
can’t come good a evening! So if you think you bad,
an’ you ears don’t have no hole, gwan you ways
.
but mine you don’t cut off you nose an spite you face!
. . .
One of Us is Missing
.
We loved you only yesterday when we were young;
when stars stopped by to hear you sing.
.
We loved you only yesterday
when moonlit stairways led to magic kingdoms
and golden poui petals cushioned every fall.
We loved you only yesterday when we whispered
all our dreams into the Mona sky.
.
The stars stopped by last night to hear you sing
but found you locked in silence.
At dusk a hand fell on your shoulder,
taking –– your fingers
groping in the darkness for a light.
.
You never knew the bow was bent
–– the arrow drawn and stiff ––
until you heard the songbird in the evening
and smiled into the night.
St. Mary’s Church_Port Maria, Jamaica: photograph copyright Mark Phinn
Zócalo Poets 