Rabindranath Tagore: “Ella” y “El camino cerrado”
Posted: September 28, 2014 Filed under: English, Rabindranath Tagore, Rabindranath Tagore: "Ella" + "El Camino Cerrado", Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best | Tags: Poemas del Alma Comments Off on Rabindranath Tagore: “Ella” y “El camino cerrado”
Rabindranath Tagore (poeta bengalí, 1861-1941)
Ella
.
Ella, quedando en lo más hondo de mí,
en el crepúsculo de resplendores y ojeadas;
ella, que nunca abrió sus velos en la luz del alba,
será mi regalo definitivo para Tí, mi Dios, plegado en mi canto final.
Las palabras han cortejado a ella y fracasaron alcanzarle;
la persuasión se ha estirazo sus brazos ardientes en vano.
He vagabundeado país por país guardándole en la médula de mi corazón,
y el desarrollo y declive de mi vida han subido y caído alrededor de ella.
Reinó sobre mis pensamientos y acciones, mis reposos y sueños,
pero moró solitaria, alejada.
Muchos hombres tocaron a mi puerta, preguntando por ella,
y dieron la espalda en desesperanza.
No hubo nadie en este mundo que le vieron cara a cara,
y ella permaneció en su soledad, esperando para tu reconocimiento.
. . .
She
.
She who ever had remained in the depth of my being,
in the twilight of gleams and of glimpses;
she who never opened her veils in the morning light,
will be my last gift to Thee, my God, folded in my final song.
Words have wooed yet failed to win her;
persuasion has stretched to her its eager arms in vain.
I have roamed from country to country keeping her in the core of my heart,
and around her have risen and fallen the growth and decay of my life.
Over my thoughts and actions, my slumbers and dreams,
she reigned yet dwelled alone and apart.
Many a man knocked at my door and asked for her
and turned away in despair.
There was none in the world who ever saw her face to face,
and she remained in her loneliness waiting for Thy recognition.
. . .
El Camino Cerrado
.
Yo había creído que mi periplo llegaba a su fin,
al último límite de mi fuerza;
que el camino delante de mí fue cerrado,
que se agotaron las provisiones,
y llegaba la hora de buscar un refugio en una silenciosa oscuridad.
.
Pero estoy descubriendo que, adentro de mí, no hay fin de Tu voluntad.
Y cuando se pierden palabras sobre la lengua
hay nuevas melodías que brotan del corazón;
y donde se pierden los viejos rostros
hay un nuevo país que se develará con sus maravillas.
. . .
Closed Path
.
I thought that my voyage had come to its end
at the last limit of my power – that the path before me was closed,
that provisions were exhausted,
and the time come to take shelter in a silent obscurity.
But I find that Thy will knows no end in me.
And when old words die out on the tongue,
new melodies break forth from the heart;
and where the old tracks are lost,
new country is revealed with its wonders.
. . . . .
Lewis Carroll: A Song of Love / Canción de Amor
Posted: April 20, 2014 Filed under: A FEW FAVOURITES / UNA MUESTRA DE FAVORITOS, English, Lewis Carroll, Lewis Carroll: Canción de Amor / A Song of Love, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best | Tags: Easter Sunday poems, Poemas para Domingo de Pascua Comments Off on Lewis Carroll: A Song of Love / Canción de Amor
Un Mundo Mejor_derechos de autor Marie Sabal- Lecco, artista de Camerún_Un Monde Meilleur_droit dauteur Marie Sabal- Lecco, artiste camerounais_A Better World_ copyright Cameroonian artist Marie Sabal-Lecco
John 13: 34
A new commandment I give unto you: That ye love one another. As I have loved you, so ye also are to love one another.
Lewis Carroll (1832-1898)
A Song of Love
.
Say, what is the spell, when her fledglings are cheeping,
That lures the bird home to her nest?
Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping,
To cuddle and croon it to rest?
What the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms,
Till it coos with the voice of a dove?
‘Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low
– And the name of the secret is Love.
For I think it is Love,
For I feel it is Love,
For I’m sure it is nothing but Love.
.
Say, whence is the voice that when anger is burning,
Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease?
That stirs the vexed soul with an aching – a yearning
For the brotherly hand-grip of peace?
Whence the music that fills all our being – that thrills
Around us, beneath, and above?
‘Tis a secret: none knows how it comes, or it goes
– But the name of the secret is Love.
For I think it is Love,
For I feel it is Love,
For I’m sure it is nothing but Love.
.
Say, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill,
Like a picture so fair to the sight?
That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow,
Till the little lambs leap with delight?
‘Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold,
Though ’tis sung by the angels above,
In notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear
– And the name of the secret is Love.
For I think it is Love,
For I feel it is Love,
For I’m sure it is nothing but Love.
. . .
Juan 13: 34
Un mandamiento nuevo os doy: Que os améis unos a otros; como yo os he amado, que también os améis unos a otros.
Canción de Amor
.
Dîgame, ¿qué es la magia que atrae a su nido
el pájaro cuando están piando sus polluelos?
¿O lo que puede despertar a la madre soñolienta
para canturrear y acurrucarse a su bebé que llora?
¿Cuál es el encanto que fascina el niño contento en sus brazos
hasta que arrulla con la voz de una paloma?
Es un secreto, pues cuchicheémoslo en voz baja
– Y el nombre del secreto es Amor.
Porque pienso es Amor,
Me siento que es el Amor,
si, ‘stoy seguro que ES el Amor.
.
Dígame, ¿de dónde llega esa voz cuando quema el enojo,
ella que ordena cesar el tumulto del torbellino?
¿O qué conmueve el alma exaltada con un anhelo
por la mano fraternal de la Paz?
¿De dónde llega la música que llena todo nuestro ser –
que nos anima, alrededor, abajo y arriba?
Es un secreto, y nadie no entiende como llega o va
– Pero su nombre-secreto: Amor.
Porque pienso es Amor,
Me siento que es el Amor,
si, ‘stoy seguro que ES el Amor.
.
Dígame, ¿de quién viene esa habilidad que pinta valle y colina,
como un dibujo tan hermoso mirar?
¿Qué motea el campo con sol y con sombra,
hasta que los corderos saltan con deleite?
Es un secreto no dicho a los corazones fríos,
aunque está cantado por los angeles arriba,
con notas cristalinos para los oídos que pueden oírlas
– Y el nombre del secreto es Amor.
Porque pienso es Amor,
Me siento que es el Amor,
si, ‘stoy seguro que ES el Amor.
. . .
Marie Sabal-Lecco, the Paris-based Cameroonian artist whose work is featured above, tells us: “Je représente sur mes toiles un éternel message de paix, de tolérance, du vivre ensemble, du respect de l’autre, de l’amour. Bonnes fêtes de Pâques!” (I represent in my canvasses an eternal message of peace, tolerance, of living together, of respect for one another, of love. A Happy Easter to you!)
Marie Sabal-Lecco, un artista de Camerún que vive en París – (su pintura está arriba) – nos dice: “Quiero mostrar en mis lienzos el mensaje eternal de la Paz, de la tolerancia, de vivir juntos, del respeto del uno al otro, y del Amor. ¡Feliz Pascua!”
. . . . .
June Jordan: “Poema sobre Intelecto para mis Hermanos y Hermanas” / “A Poem about Intelligence for my Brothers and Sisters”
Posted: February 19, 2014 Filed under: English, June Jordan, June Jordan: Poema sobre Intelecto para mis Hermanos y Hermanas, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best | Tags: Black History Month, El Mes de la Historia Afroamericana Comments Off on June Jordan: “Poema sobre Intelecto para mis Hermanos y Hermanas” / “A Poem about Intelligence for my Brothers and Sisters”
.
June Jordan (1936-2002)
“Poema sobre Intelecto para mis Hermanos y Hermanas”
.
Hace unos años me dicieron que Negro es un seso hueco y otra gente
tienen cerebros / casi como las células dentro las cabezas de niños negros
estaban fuera tomando una siesta a la hora en punto – cada hora.
.
El Científico llamé este fenómeno El Lapsus Arthur Jensen (de mala fama) – ¿no recuerdas?
Bien, estoy pensando en idear una prueba para los eruditos – los sabios, ¿sabes? – algo como una Prueba Cociente Intelectual Stanford-Binet por la CIA – ¿comprendes?
Por ejemplo…El señor doctor Einstein, incuestionablemente el “cerebro” más espectacular del siglo – ¿no?
.
Y estoy luchando contra estas sobras-Lapsus de mi niñez negra, y me pregunto por que alguien deciría: E = MC Squared – la equivalencia entre la masa y la energía.
Intento discutir sobre ésto con la vieja mujer que vive en mi cuadra…
Está escobando la escalera de entrada en una noche de sábado, enojado porque un “burro” dejó un colchón de cama king-size – manchas y demás – en frente de su casa, y no quiere saber nada de éso en primer lugar.
.
Inclinándome en la verja, digo: “Señora Johnson, ¿qué piensas en alguien que se inventa E = MC Squared?”
“¿Cómo te va?” me responde de su lado, como no quiere permitirme saber que tengo pelo no peinado (esta mañana de domingo) y que tengo el atrevimiento de molestarle durante una tarea seria con mis preguntas locas…
“¿E igual a que, cariño?”
Pues le digo: “Este tipo que dijo éso, ¡creo que fue El Padre No Refutado de La Bomba Atómica!”
“Sí, eso es,” murmura, no tan amablemente.
“¡Y siempre olvidó ponerse calcetines con sus zapatos!”– agrego (un poco deseperada).
En este momento Señora Johnson se aleja de mí, con su escoba, y da un gran paso atrás en la escalera.
“Y nunca no hizo nada para nadie sino en una comisión…Y decía “¿Qué hora es?” y alguien decía “Son las seis.” Y él decía “– ¿de la mañana o de la tarde?”…¡Y nunca no hirvió agua para una taza de té para nadie durante su entera vida brillante!…¡Y [ mi voz se eleva un poco ] nunca no bugui bugui ni nunca tampoco, no!”
“¿Y bien?” dice ella. “Supongo, sí – cielo – que eso es lo que llaman el Genio, ¿no?”
.
.
Versión de Alexander Best
.
.
.
June Jordan (1936-2002)
“A Poem about Intelligence for my Brothers and Sisters”
.
A few years back and they told me Black
means a hole where other folks
got brain / it was like the cells in the heads
of Black children was out to every hour on the hour naps.
Scientists called the phenomenon the
Notorious Jensen Lapse, remember?
Anyway I was thinking
about how to devise
a test for the wise
like a Stanford-Binet
for the C.I.A.
you know?
Take Einstein
being the most the unquestionable the outstanding
the maximal mind of the century
right?
And I’m struggling against this lapse leftover
from my Black childhood to fathom why
anybody should say so:
E=MC squared?
.
I try that on this old lady live on my block:
She sweeping away Saturday night from the stoop
and mad as can be because some absolute
jackass have left a kingsize mattress where
she have to sweep around it stains and all she
don’t want to know nothing about in the first place.
“Mrs. Johnson!” I say, leaning on the gate
between us: “What you think about somebody come up
with an E equals M C 2?”
“How you doin,” she answer me, sideways, like she don’t
want to let on she know I ain’
combed my hair yet and here it is
Sunday morning but still I have the nerve
to be bothering serious work with these crazy
questions about
“E equals what you say again, dear?”
Then I tell her, “Well
also this same guy? I think
he was undisputed Father of the Atom Bomb!”
“That right.” She mumbles or grumbles, not too politely
“And dint remember to wear socks when he put on
his shoes!” I add on (getting desperate).
At which point Mrs. Johnson take herself and her broom
a very big step down the stoop away from me.
“And never did nothing for nobody in particular
lessen it was a committee
and
used to say, ‘What time is it?’
and
you’d say, ‘Six o’clock.’
and
he’d say, ‘Day or night?’
and –
and he never made nobody a cup a tea
in his whole brilliant life!
and
[my voice rises slightly]
and
he dint never boogie neither: never!”
.
“Well,” say Mrs. Johnson, “Well, honey,
I do guess
that’s Genius for you.”
. . . . .
Black Hairstory Month: Baldheads, Dreads; Wigs & Things
Posted: February 10, 2014 Filed under: Black Hairstory Month, IMAGES | Tags: Black Hairstory Month Comments Off on Black Hairstory Month: Baldheads, Dreads; Wigs & Things. . .
Okhai Ojeikere (born Johnson Donatus Aihumekeokhai Ojeikere) died just over a week ago, on February 2nd, 2014, at the age of 83. Born in 1930 in the Nigerian village of Ovbiomu-Emai, he later mainly worked and lived in Ketu, Nigeria. At the age of 20 he decided to pursue photography; he began with a humble Brownie D camera without flash, and a friend taught him the technical fundamentals of the art. He worked as a darkroom assistant from 1954 till about 1960 for the Ministry of Information in Ibadan. In 1961 he became a studio photographer for Television House Ibadan, and from 1963 to 1975 he was with West Africa Publicity in Lagos. In 1968, under the auspices of the Nigerian Arts Council, he embarked upon an ambitious project of photo-documenting the many varieties of Nigerian hairstyles. He printed close to a thousand such pictures. A selection of Okhai Ojeikere’s prints was featured in the Arsenale at the 55th Venice Biennale in 2013. To honour Ojeikere’s life we present a century of Black hairstyles, with Ojeikere’s own photographs being Images 17 through 20.
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Be Yourself !
Gwendolyn Brooks: “Mis sueños, mis trabajos, tendrán que esperar hasta mi vuelta del infierno”
Posted: January 30, 2014 Filed under: English, Gwendolyn Brooks, Gwendolyn Brooks: poemas traducidos, Spanish Comments Off on Gwendolyn Brooks: “Mis sueños, mis trabajos, tendrán que esperar hasta mi vuelta del infierno”
Gwendolyn Brooks (1917-2000)
“La balada-soneto”
.
Oh madre, madre, ¿dónde está la felicidad?
Se llevaron a mi alto amante a la guerra.
Me dejaron lamentándome. No puedo saber
de qué me sirve la taza vacía del corazón.
Él no va a volver nunca más. Algún día
la guerra va a terminar pero, oh, yo supe
cuando salió, grandioso, por esa puerta,
que mi dulce amor tendría que serme infiel.
Que tendría que serme infiel. Tendría que cortejar
a la coqueta Muerte, cuyos imprudentes, extraños
y posesivos brazos y belleza (de cierta clase)
pueden hacer que un hombre duro dude –
y cambie. Y que sea el que tartamudee: Sí.
Oh madre, madre, ¿dónde está la felicidad?
.
(1949)
.
Versión de Tom Maver
. . .
“Mis sueños, mis trabajos,
tendrán que esperar hasta
mi vuelta del infierno”
.
Almaceno mi miel y mi pan tierno
en jarras y cajones protegidos
recomiendo a las tapas y pestillos
resistir hasta mi vuelta del infierno.
Hambrienta, me siento como incompleta
no se si una cena volveré a probar
todos me dicen que debo aguardar
la débil luz. Con mi mirada atenta
espero que al acabar los duros días
al salir a rastras de mi tortura
mi corazón recordará sin duda
cómo llegar hasta la casa mía.
Y mi gusto no será indiferente
a la pureza del pan y de la miel.
.
(1963)
. . .
“El funeral de la prima Vit”
.
Sin protestar es llevada afuera.
Golpea el ataúd que no la aguanta
ni satín ni cerrojos la contentan
ni los párpados contritos que tuviera.
Oh, mucho, es mucho, ahora sabe
ella se levanta al sol, va, camina
regresa a sus lugares y se inclina
en camas y cosas que la gente ve.
Vital y rechinante se endereza
y hasta mueve sus caderas y sisea
derrama mal vino en su chal de seda
habla de embarazos, dice agudezas
feliz, recorre senderos y parques
histérica, loca feliz. Feliz es.
.
(1994)
.
Versiones de Óscar Godoy Barbosa
Gwendolyn Brooks
“The Sonnet-Ballad”
.
Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?
They took my lover’s tallness off to war,
Left me lamenting. Now I cannot guess
What I can use an empty heart-cup for.
He won’t be coming back here any more.
Some day the war will end, but, oh, I knew
When he went walking grandly out that door
That my sweet love would have to be untrue.
Would have to be untrue. Would have to court
Coquettish death, whose impudent and strange
Possessive arms and beauty (of a sort)
Can make a hard man hesitate–and change.
And he will be the one to stammer, “Yes.”
Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?
. . .
“My dreams, my works, must wait till after Hell”
.
I hold my honey and I store my bread
In little jars and cabinets of my will.
I label clearly, and each latch and lid
I bid, Be firm till I return from hell.
I am very hungry. I am incomplete.
And none can tell when I may dine again.
No man can give me any word but Wait,
The puny light. I keep eyes pointed in;
Hoping that, when the devil days of my hurt
Drag out to their last dregs and I resume
On such legs as are left me, in such heart
As I can manage, remember to go home,
My taste will not have turned insensitive
To honey and bread old purity could love.
. . .
“The rites for cousin Vit”
.
Carried her unprotesting out the door.
Kicked back the casket-stand. But it can’t hold her,
That stuff and satin aiming to enfold her,
The lid’s contrition nor the bolts before.
Oh oh. Too much. Too much. Even now, surmise,
She rises in the sunshine. There she goes,
Back to the bars she knew and the repose
In love-rooms and the things in people’s eyes.
Too vital and too squeaking. Must emerge.
Even now she does the snake-hips with a hiss,
Slops the bad wine across her shantung, talks
Of pregnancy, guitars and bridgework, walks
In parks or alleys, comes haply on the verge
Of happiness, haply hysterics. Is.
. . .
Gwendolyn Brooks (Topeka, Kansas, EE.UU.) 1917 – 2000
Primera autora negra ganadora del Premio Pulitzer de poesía (1950, Annie Allen). Comprometida con la igualdad y la identidad racial, fue una poeta con conciencia política, dedicada activamente a llevar la poesía a todas las clases sociales, fuera de la academia. Brooks visitaba a Etheridge Knight después de su encarcelación para animarle en su escritura de poesía. Para leer los poemas de Etheridge Knight (en inglés) cliquea el enlace.
.
Gwendolyn Brooks (1917 – 2000) was the first Black woman to win The Pulitzer Prize – in 1950 for her poetry collection Annie Allen. Concerned with racial equality and identity, Brooks dedicated herself to bringing poetry to people of all classes – outside of the realm of academe. A woman of political conscience, she would visit the unjustly over-incarcerated Etheridge Knight in jail to encourage him in the flowering of his poetic voice. Click the link below to read his poems.
https://zocalopoets.com/2014/01/28/etheridge-knight-my-life-the-quality-of-which/
. . . . .
Saeed Jones: Disposición de Sueño / Claro, lo veía venir – que yo estaba destinado a ser una gacela
Posted: January 21, 2014 Filed under: Saeed Jones, Saeed Jones: Disposición de Sueño y A Ser Una Gacela, Spanish, ZP Translator: Alexander Best Comments Off on Saeed Jones: Disposición de Sueño / Claro, lo veía venir – que yo estaba destinado a ser una gacela
Saeed Jones
Disposición de Sueño
.
I
He decidido permitirte quedar aquí – bajo nuestra cama, en el suelo,
no el espacio entre el colchón y el armazón metálico.
Por favor – saca tu mano debajo de mi almohada.
Y quita tus sábanas también.
Rózalas bajo la cama y haz fantasmas pretendidas.
No quiero que repiqueteas los resortes de cama,
pues – que te quedes, que te calles.
Confúndete por las sombras.
Aprende las nanas pelusones.
.
II
Haré lo correcto por ti:
migajas cepillados de las sábanas,
(son de pepitas chocolate-blanco – creo),
o las cráckeres de rincones.
Cuenta con una uva caída – ocasionalmente;
un hueso de durazno con pelusa fina, amarilla,
(donde fue mi lengua mojada – un sabor que recuerdes, quizás.)
Me dicen que hay hombres que pueden sobrevivir
comiendo ácaros del polvo – solamente, y para unas semanas.
Si hace falta, hay una lupa en la mesilla de noche.
. . .
Saeed Jones
Claro, lo veía venir – que yo estaba destinado a ser una gacela
.
Cuando gruñía a la mesa el abuelito,
yo quería saltar en un sprint.
Es lo que hacían los gacelas cuando estuvieron sobresaltados.
Saltaban en el aire como ratoneras salidas, pues no existieron
salvo que como desenfoques marrones de movimiento atajando por las planicies.
A veces, la gacela dentro de mí intentaba hacer un sprint a pesar de mí mismo,
pero mis huesos estevados y torpes me quedaron en un trote firme.
Horas y horas, yo corría a través del jardín trasero.
.
Vivíamos en Memphis… Hubieron leones detrás de cada roble y alambrado.
Un día, mientras yo correteaba el patio – solo, como siempre –
alguién disparó un arma en la distancia. El sonido hice ecos de la casa.
Me quedé muy quieto, en el centro del patio
– bastante inmóvil que me camuflé en el césped. (Fue un barrio muy duro.)
Todo el tiempo las armas parecieron estar disparando.
Cuando la abuela oyó el tiro, irrumpió en el jardín cercado y se paró en el porche.
Por un instante, me miró como si estuve tirado. Mi respuesta a su mirada fija:
salí corriendo.
.
Versiones en español: Alexander Best
. . .
Saeed Jones viene de Memphis, Tennessee, EE.UU., y ahora vive en la ciudad de Nueva York. Tiene un título en Maestría en Bellas Artes ortogado por la Universidad Rutgers en Newark, New Jersey. En 2011 fue nominado al Premio Pushcart. El poeta comenta:
Las preguntas – ¿Soy un poeta gay qué es también negro? o ¿Soy un poeta negro qué es gay también? – estoy bailando con estas preguntas, y molestan mi paz. La verdad es que el asunto de ser negro/gay ¿y importan esos nombres? sea un debate eterno que puede agotar la energía que me necesita para escribir poemas. Pero, además de todo éso, ¡quizás quiero cascar todas las etiquetas!
. . .
Para leer los poemas originales (en inglés) cliquea aquí: https://zocalopoets.com/category/saeed-jones/
. . . . .
Jesucristo, el Gran Chamán: las pinturas de Norval Morrisseau, el mejor pintor canadiense del siglo XX / Jesus Christ, the Shaman: the paintings of Norval Morrisseau, Canada’s greatest painter of the 20th century
Posted: December 25, 2013 Filed under: English, IMAGES, Jesucristo el Gran Chamán: las pinturas de Norval Morrisseau / Jesus Christ the Shaman: the paintings of Norval Morrisseau, Spanish | Tags: ᐅᓴᐘᐱᑯᐱᓀᓯ, Norval Morrisseau Comments Off on Jesucristo, el Gran Chamán: las pinturas de Norval Morrisseau, el mejor pintor canadiense del siglo XX / Jesus Christ, the Shaman: the paintings of Norval Morrisseau, Canada’s greatest painter of the 20th century
Norval Morrisseau_Jesucristo el Indio_Indian Jesus Christ_1974
Norval Morrisseau_El Infante Jesús_Escena de Natividad_Detalle_The Infant Jesus_Nativity Scene_Detail_acrylic on canvas_1972
Sólo es que mis pinturas te recordan que eres Indio. En algún lugar, dentro, somos todos Indios. Entonces ahora cuando me hago amigo de tí, estoy intentando suscitar en tí el ser Indio – para que creerás en Todo como Sagrado.
(Norval Morrisseau / ᐅᓴᐘᐱᑯᐱᓀᓯ 1932-2007)
.
My paintings only remind you that you’re an Indian. Inside somewhere, we’re all Indians. So now, when I befriend you, I’m trying to get the best Indian, bring out the Indianness in you, to make you think Everything Is Sacred.
(Norval Morrisseau / ᐅᓴᐘᐱᑯᐱᓀᓯ 1932-2007)
Norval Morrisseau_Transformación de un Chamán con Osos _Shaman Transforming with Bears_1986
Norval Morrisseau_Pájaro de Trueno y Golondrinas_Thunderbird and Swallows
Desde siempre estoy atraído por las pinturas religiosas, pero únicamente aquellas que tienen una naturaleza mística y supernatural – por ejemplo, la escultura de Santa Teresa por Bernini. Me da “vibraciones” – cuando cierro los ojos puedo sentirlas. Eso es gran Arte – y provoca en mí un hormigueo sexual. También occurre con San Sebastián. Pero es la figura del Jesucristo que es, para mí, la figura dominante. Así que por eso Cristo es El Gran Chamán – El Mejor. Así que por eso ciertas visiones religiosas son tan complejas y difícil explicar a la gente. Pues cuando miras mis pinturas estás mirando mis “visiones” – lo que sea que sean.
.
I have always been attracted to religious paintings, but only the ones that had that mystical or supernatural quality in them, especially Saint Teresa by Bernini. Just looking at Saint Teresa I get vibrations from it. I can close my eyes and feel them. That’s great art, and it brings on that tingling sexual feeling. Other saints, like Saint Sebastian, do that as well. But the Christ figure was always the one that was dominant for me.That’s why I say that Christ to me is still The Greatest Shaman, and that is why some religious visions are so complex – and so very hard to explain to people. So whenever you’re looking at my pictures, you are looking at my visions – whatever they may be.
Norval Morrisseau_Desplazamiento_La Gran Inundación_Migration_The Great Flood_1973
Norval Morrisseau_Madre y Bebé_Mother and Child_1969
Nosotros – los Nativos – creen en este dicho: Nuestro Dios es Nativo. Y es La Gran Deidad de los Cinco Planos. Somos “ni pro ni contra”, hablamos ni del Cristo ni de Dios. Decimos: Déjalo estar. Seguimos el Espíritu en su Paso Interior del Alma vía actitudes y atenciones. Recuerda: Estamos en una Escuela Grande…y El Maestro Interior nos enseña Experiencia – durante muchas Vidas.
.
We Natives believe in the following saying: Our God is Native. The Great Deity of the Five Planes is So. We are neither for nor against. We speak not of Christ nor of God. We say: Let them be. We follow the Spirit on its Inward Journey of Soul through attitudes and attentions. Remember: We are all in a Big School and the Inner Master teaches us Experience – over many Lifetimes!
Norval Morrisseau_Creación _Creation_1970
Norval Morrisseau_Retrato del Artista como el Jesucristo_Portrait of the Artist as Jesus Christ_1966
Norval Morrisseau_Autoretrato devorado por demonios_Selfportrait devoured by demons_1964
Norval Morrisseau_Oso sagrado del Midawiin Ojibwa_Ojibwa Midawiin Sacred Bear_circa 1962
. . . . .
Poemas para o Dia Mundial de Combate à AIDS / Poemas para el Día Mundial de la Lucha contra el SIDA / Poems for World AIDS Day / Poèmes pour la Journée mondiale de lutte contre le SIDA
Posted: December 1, 2013 Filed under: English, French, Portuguese, Spanish, World AIDS Day: 25th Anniversary Poems in 4 Languages | Tags: World AIDS Day: 25th Anniversary: Poems Comments Off on Poemas para o Dia Mundial de Combate à AIDS / Poemas para el Día Mundial de la Lucha contra el SIDA / Poems for World AIDS Day / Poèmes pour la Journée mondiale de lutte contre le SIDA
. . .
“Não ser amado é uma simples desventura; a verdadeira desgraça é não saber amar.” (Albert Camus)
.
“No ser amado es una simple desventura;
la verdadera desgracia es no saber amar.” (Albert Camus)
.
“To be unloved is merely misfortune; the true tragedy is in not loving.” (Albert Camus)
.
“Il y a seulement de la malchance à n’être pas aimé; il y a du malheur à ne point aimer.” (Albert Camus)
. . .
Liduina Felipe M. Fernandes (Mossoró, Brasil)
“Dia de Celebrar a Vida todos os dias”
.
1º de dezembro – dia de comemorar
O Dia Mundial de Combate à AIDS
Para que todos possam espalhar
Que a melhor solução
É sempre a informação
Educação e prevenção.
Dia de celebrar a vida.
Dia de socializar conhecimentos,
Respeitar, e não discriminar
Pois a vida pede dignidade,
Solidariedade e qualidade
E não apenas quantidade.
Dia de compreender que não basta falar
É preciso garantir condições para que a vida
Se possa resgatar e preservar.
Dia de gritar que direitos sociais legais
Carecem de aplicação no dia-a-dia,
Pois se forem “leis de papel”
Onde estará a garantia
De que tudo que foi escrito
É sinônimo real de cidadania?
1º de dezembro – dia de refletir
Que todo dia é dia de viver e de lutar
Pelo direito à vida,
Pelo respeito à saúde,
Pela consciência individual e coletiva
Para que todos, sem discriminação,
Respeitando as diferenças, possam desfrutar
De melhores dias sem AIDS.
E todas as armas violentas biológicas e “fabricadas”
Que nada mais fazem do que vidas, desrespeitar e ceifar.
1º de dezembro – dia de lembrar
De que todos os dias devemos, a vida, celebrar!
. . .
Maria do Rosário Lino (Brasil)
“Saudação à Vida” (2000)
.
Era um médico
e peregrinava
pelos templos
do mundo
onde a natureza
humana
lhe pedia ajuda.
.
Percorrendo aldeias
miseráveis
transportava
sua profissão
como um sacerdócio
onde o ócio
não havia.
.
Perplexo,
combatia
a mortandade social
que estagnava
as possibilidades
de nascedouros.
.
Paz e saúde
a toda a gente
era sua passagem
pelas cidadelas
e sua mensagem
era a superação
das mazelas
como produto
de uma fé
que se prova,
bebendo em pé,
no copo
da força de vontade.
Saciedade, nunca!
.
É preciso
epidemizar
o bem estar
de todos,
do café da manhã
ao jantar,
do deitar-se
ao levantar,
quando então
se pronunciará
a morte da decadência
ao bem da ciência
e um dia,
com a sapiência
e muita sorte,
a decadência
da morte.
. . .
Rui de Noronha (Maputo, Moçambique, 1909 – 1943)
“Mulher”
.
Chamam-te linda, chamam-te formosa,
Chamam-te bela, chamam-te gentil…
A rosa é linda, é bela, é graciosa,
Porém a tua graça é mais subtil.
.
A onda que na praia, sinuosa,
A areia enfeita com encantos mil,
Não tem a graça, a curva luminosa
Das linhas do teu corpo, amor e ardil.
.
Chamam-te linda, encantadora ou bela;
Da tua graça é pálida aguarela
Todo o nome que o mundo à graça der.
.
Pergunto a Deus o nome que hei-de dar-te,
E Deus responde em mim, por toda parte:
Não chames bela – Chama-lhe Mulher!
. . .
Rui de Noronha
“Amar”
.
Amar é um prazer, se nós amamos
Alguém que pode amar-nos e nos ama.
Amar é um prazer, se por nós chama
Continuamente alguém que nós chamamos.
.
Então a vida inteira a rir levamos,
O mesmo fogo ardente nos inflama,
E os ideais da vida, o bem, a fama,
Mãos dadas pelo mundo procuramos.
.
No encapelado mar desta existência,
O amor é compassiva indulgência
A culpa original dos nosso pais.
.
Que resta ao homem, suprimido o amor?
Buscar a morte p’ra fugir a dor,
Tristeza, indiferença – e nada mais.
New York Times, July 3rd,1981: First newspaper publication of an indirect reference to what would later come to be known as Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome or AIDS_Medical correspondent Lawrence K. Altman’s article about Kaposi’s Sarcoma – which can be a cancer of opportunity for someone with a severely weakened immune system – was buried on p.20. GRID (Gay-related immunodeficiency disease) – as the unknown disease was called in the first year – was emerging in the USA between 1981-1982, and was largely associated with white, gay men in San Francisco and New York…
…Meanwhile, in two African nations, another part of the same medical story was developing… Slim Disease – so called because people’s bodies just wasted away – appeared in 1982 in Tanzania and in the Rakai District of Uganda bordering Lake Victoria, and was debilitating mostly heterosexual men and women. By October 1985, in an issue of the British peer-reviewed medical journal, The Lancet,
Dr. David Serwadda of the Makerere Medical School in Kampala would publish with his team an article entitled: “Slim Disease: a new disease in Uganda and its association with HTLV-III infection”. Soon after, researchers on opposite continents understood that those different early names – whether GRID or SLIM – were, in fact, describing one disease: AIDS. Image shown here: a Ministry of Health public poster, Zimbabwe,1989
“Fight AIDS! We need healthcare and research, not bigotry!.” A 1985 demonstration in front of New York City Hall as a City Council committee considered legislation to bar pupils and teachers with the AIDS virus from public schools_photograph by Rick Maiman_By the end of 1981, 159 cases of the mysterious new disease had been reported in the USA. By 1985, 15,527 cases of AIDS had been reported, with 12,529 deaths. Ten years later, in 1995, it was 513,486 cases and 319,849 deaths, making AIDS the leading cause of death for Americans ages 25 to 44.
ACT UP_AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power_was founded in 1987 by a group of gay men. Seen here, a demonstration at the Food and Drug Administration in Washington, D.C._1988_photograph © Donna Binder
Poster aimed at helping people get past their fear of knowledge about HIV_USA, around 1990
Tanzanian safe sex poster drawn by Father Bernard Joinet_The Fleet of Hope in the Flood of AIDS_A rubber lifeboat is the metaphor for condoms_1994
Members of ACT UP protest during a session of the National Conference on Women and HIV being held in Pasadena, California_1997_Associated Press photo
. . .
Jaime Gil de Biedma (1929-1990, Barcelona, España – fallecido por el SIDA)
“Mañana de ayer, de hoy”
.
Es la lluvia sobre el mar.
En la abierta ventana,
contemplándola, descansas
la sien en el cristal.
.
Imagen de unos segundos,
quieto en el contraluz
tu cuerpo distinto, aún
de la noche desnudo.
.
Y te vuelves hacia mí,
sonriéndome. Yo pienso
en cómo ha pasado el tiempo,
y te recuerdo así.
. . .
S. Luz Teresa nació en San Jerónimo, Guerrero, México. En 1986 necesitó una cirugía, en la cual requirió de transfusiones –siendo alguna de éstas las que le causó su infección por VIH. Falleció en 1996.
S. Luz Teresa
“¡Auxilio!”
.
¡Auxilio! Se me está acabando el oxígeno, tengo SIDA,
soy un enfermo de SIDA
quiero gritarlo
para poder vivir en paz
y saber con quién cuento
y quién me rechazará.
¡Silencio! ¡Cállate!
Habla más bajo que te pueden oír
y me callo y me resigno
no por mí, por mi familia
porque la gente insensata
que, lamentablemente,
es mucha todavía,
por el simple hecho de saber
que conviven con una persona
como yo, los señalaría
¡me ahoga esta miseria!
¿Por qué a ellos que son
los únicos prudentes?
¡Maldición!
¿Cuándo aprenderán a distinguir
qué es lo que vale de la vida?
¿Cuándo aprenderán
a respetar el silencio?
¿Cuándo dejarán de cuestionarse
si estás o no infectado?
¿Cuándo cambiarán el morbo
por comprensión o cariño?
¿Cuándo?
¿Cuándo sabrán ser amigos?
Espero que no sea dentro de
mucho tiempo.
Porque si esto sucediera,
nadie más tendría que mentir
y ocultar su mal,
nos haría ciudadanos de nuevo,
nos cuidaríamos mutuamente,
porque como nosotros estamos
mucho más conscientes
de cuan dura
es nuestra enfermedad
quisiéramos que nadie
más sufriera
esta larga agonía,
igual que nuestras familias
y nuestros doctores,
aquellos que sabiendo la verdad
nos tocan, nos cuidan
y nos quieren
y no se infectan
y hacen que nos sintamos bien
y nos alientan a que,
por encima de nuestros problemas,
tracemos nuevas metas,
que en ocasiones
estemos contentos,
que no nos impacientemos
y que no olvidemos del todo
nuestra capacidad de amar.
No, no les estoy pidiendo amor,
seria una propuesta absurda,
sólo les pido comprensión
y eso es mucho más sencillo
soy un enfermo de SIDA
que simplemente,
quiere vivir en paz.
. . .
Jordi Demarto (España)
“No te duermas” (2005)
.
Cuando mi cuerpo invadiste
No fui capaz de evitar,
Sentirme sucio, muy triste
Hasta me hiciste llorar.
.
¿Qué será ahora de mi vida,
Mis proyectos de futuro?
Ahora tenía el SIDA.
Fue un golpe tan fuerte y duro.
.
Más tarde ya comprendí
“Gracias a la información”
Que mi vida no acababa
– No moriría mañana,
deshuesado y sin razón.
.
Sentí la fuerza de un oso,
Y hasta ganas de volar,
cada año un lazo rojo
nos ayuda a no olvidar.
.
Que la guerra sigue en pie,
Que esta guerra ha de acabar,
En todos los continentes
“y sin África olvidar”.
.
Que la vida no se acaba,
Que no hay que dejarse vencer
Por un virus despiadado
Que hoy no podemos vencer.
.
Sigamos luchando en la vida
Sin confiar en la suerte.
¡No te quedes ahí sentado!
¡No des tu tiempo a la muerte!
. . .
Arjona Delia (Argentina)
“Lucha contra el SIDA” (2011)
.
El cuerpo se daña en agonía,
pierden la esperanza y valentía,
lágrimas, sollozos y lamentos,
acerca la muerte día a día.
.
Cuida tu vida y la de los demás,
del virus letal, cruel enfermedad,
que te lo trasmiten al amar,
cuando no te saben cuidar.
.
Lucha, no te des por vencido,
si la herida te hace sangrar
yo te ofrezco mi mano para andar,
en mi corazón tendrás lugar.
.
No temas, aprende sobre el sida,
la ignorancia es la que contamina,
la mejor defensa es la prevención,
y contar con buena información.
.
http://www.arjonadelia.blogspot.com
. . .
Craig G. Harris (Black gay poet, U.S.A., died in 1991 of complications from AIDS)
“Alive after his passion” (for Elias)
.
green mangos
with salt and
vinegar,
hearts of palm
and holy ghosts
make me
speak in
tongues
with garlic breath,
dance to unheard
beats,
fall beneath your
holy temple,
inhaling grey
incense dust,
writhing in
shed snake skins,
purified in the
flame,
wrapped
in unspeakable
joy.
.
(1987)
.
Phillis Levin (New York City)
“What the Intern Saw” (1988)
.
I
He saw a face swollen beyond ugliness
Of one who just a year ago
Was Adonis
Practicing routines of rapture.
.
A boy who could appear
To dodge the touch of time,
Immortal or immune –
A patient in a gown,
Almost gone.
II
In the beautiful school of medicine
He read about human suffering,
A long horrible drama
Until the screen of anaesthesia
And penicillin’s manna.
.
But now, in myriad sheets
Of storefront glass refracting evening’s
Razor blue, in a land of the freely
Estranged from the dead, he meets
That face – and fear seizes his body.
III
His feet have carried him to bed.
He thinks he must be getting old
To so revise
His nature and his plan.
.
He shuts his eyes
And in his sleep he sees a gleaming bar,
The shore of pain.
It isn’t far.
People live there.
. . .
Adam Johnson (Gay U.K. poet, 1965-1993, died of complications from AIDS)
“December 1989”
.
The nascent winter turns
Each root into a nail,
And in the West there burns
A sun morbid and pale.
.
Now, from the city bars
We drift, into a cool
Gymnasium of stars –
The drunkard and the fool:
.
Into the night we go,
Finding our separate ways –
The darkness fraught with snow,
The leaves falling like days.
. . .
Clovis S. Palmer (Jamaica/Australia)
“Guilt”
.
Whoi! Mother, father, mi baby – gone
Whoi! Sister, brother, mi uncle – gone
Whoi! Daughter, mi son, mi family – gone
Whoi! What stain have I bestowed?
.
She held her son, the flesh melted from his bones,
Tears streamed down her cheeks, like raindrops down the window screen.
Unexplainable, undeniable, but beneath the ground he must go
– Singing, mourning, cries of pain –
Who next will suffer this dreadful stain?
.
The sunset kisses the Blue Mountain range,
Darkness covers the Kingston plains.
Tomorrow we shall start again –
Who next will suffer this dreadful stain?
.
The sun seeps over the Caribbean Sea,
Today my brother I shall not see.
Like the petals from roses – gone too soon –
Red ribbons I left on his tomb.
. . .
“HIV/AIDS is defined by people: their complex lives, their bravery, their fear, their sadness, their need, their laughter, their inconsistencies – basically, their rich humanity. These people taught me how to write about hope, and the beauty in the ordinariness of all of our lives.” (Kwame Dawes)
.
Kwame Dawes (born 1962, Ghana – raised in Jamaica)
“Coffee Break”
[This 2008 poem was inspired by caregiver John Marzouca of Jamaica]
.
It was Christmastime,
the balloons needed blowing,
and so in the evening
we sat together to blow
balloons and tell jokes,
and the cool air off the hills
made me think of coffee,
so I said, “Coffee would be nice,”
and he said, “Yes, coffee
would be nice,” and smiled
as his thin fingers pulled
the balloons from the plastic bags;
so I went for coffee,
and it takes a few minutes
to make the coffee
and I did not know
if he wanted cow’s milk
or condensed milk,
and when I came out
to ask him, he was gone,
just like that, in the time
it took me to think,
cow’s milk or condensed;
the balloons sat lightly
on his still lap.
.
“Coffee Break” © Kwame Dawes
.
. . .
Kwame Dawes
“Cleaning”
[This 2008 poem was inspired by Dr. Peter Figueroa of Jamaica]
.
After a while, you don’t bother
with the brief and the pajamas;
you leave him on the sheet,
make him shit himself, then
shift over to the other side
until I can come, lift up
the body, wipe his bottom
with a soft cotton cloth, bundle
up the sheet with two more
in the corner, straighten
out the plastic over the mattress—
sometimes you have to wipe
it, too, then put a towel
under him until the other
sheet dry, and all the time,
you don’t say a word,
you don’t ask for nothing.
You let your hand brush
against your father’s back
and pray his dignity will last
another day. This is how
a man must care for his father;
quiet, casual, and steady.
.
“Cleaning” © Kwame Dawes
.
Kenya_poster encouraging Safe Sex_1990s
Poster from Morocco promoting safe sex_The Arabic reads: Tradition does not rhyme with Prevention.
Safe sex poster from Cuba_The Spanish reads: Enjoy Life, Avoid AIDS._How do I show that I love you? (With a flower AND a condom.)
A schoolteacher fired after testing HIV-positive is embraced by his daughter_India_2004_photograph by W. Phillips
A Haitian woman takes the opportunity to be tested for HIV_Haiti_2007_photograph © Thony Belizaire
South African women reminding passing motorists that condom use drastically reduces the spread of HIV_2009
At a roadside HIV-testing table near Cape Town, South Africa, a nurse tests a man’s blood_2012_photograph by Rodger Bosch_While South Africa has the highest percentage worldwide of people living with HIV – about 6 million in a nation of 53 million – it also has the world’s largest treatment programme using Anti-Retroviral drugs distributed from several thousand health clinics.
South African Archbishop Emeritus Desmond Tutu has been a vigorous campaigner for access to treatment for TB, HIV and AIDS; he has also publicly promoted condom use for disease prevention, a most forward-looking approach for a Man of the Church.
HIV-positive activists at a rally in India
The International Medical Corps organized an advice and training programme for women at Mera Kachori Afghan Refugee Camp in Pakistan_December 2012
Fight HIV not People with HIV! Activist with banner outside the Russian Embassy in New York City_2013
In Guandong, China, some bold HIV-related policy decisions will come into play. In the wake of concerted advocacy efforts the ban on HIV-positive teachers in the classroom will be lifted_June 2013
Standard Chartered Bank in Brunei Darussalam on the island of Borneo conducted a Living With HIV morning huddle with its staff. True or False statement cards were used to test staff’s knowledge of HIV facts_October 2013
Melbourne, Australia, November 30th 2013_World AIDS Day event
. . .
“This is my dedication and tribute to my patients who live with HIV. I will never be the same because of the way you have touched me, seeing how you continue to move forward every day in this society – with its preconceptions and misbeliefs.” [Paula V. Reid, April 2013]
.
Paula V. Reid (Nurse, North Carolina, U.S.A.)
“The Unique Woman”
.
Hello, I am special just like you.
Why should anyone feel differently?
Is it because I may be
a drug abuser,
a prostitute,
a homeless person,
or do you believe I’m a nobody?
Have you ever thought I could be
your mother,
your sister,
your friend?
Would that make a difference?
But in the whole scheme of things, does it really matter?
Because the most important issue is
I am a woman that needs your help.
Are you in a position to give me that help?
I need to be loved.
I need to be cherished.
I need to be cared for.
I face extraordinary challenges every day
and many times face them alone.
Some women have children,
spouses and loved ones to care for.
Where do I get the strength
and energy to keep going?
Don’t I need compassion?
That is why I am the unique woman.
I hear you talk about me in the hallway and stairwells.
“I have to see that HIV lady down the hall.”
“Oh boy, I am the next one up for an HIV case.”
Treat me the way you would want to be treated.
That is what I ask of you.
Don’t ask me: “How did you get it?”
unless it is relevant to my care for that day.
When I cry, cry with me.
When I laugh, laugh with me.
Then, when I am alone it won’t be so bad.
My walk is hard and the road is tough,
but with your help it could be gentler.
I am reaching out to you.
. . .
Rory Kilalea / ‘Murungu’ (Zimbabwe)
“Prayer”
.
I do not know how to pray.
I only know how to talk
at you, God.
As a stillness supreme
evading my eyes,
avoiding my ears.
Yet I know You are there.
It is only the reflection I miss.
. . .
Senator Ihenyen (Nigeria)
“Is It Because…”
…you did not kiss my hand
like you used to
when with so much love in my eyes
I held it up to your lips
beaming with the crystals in my heart –
Is it because I now have HIV?
When you poured the red wine into the glasses
you did not hold yours to my waiting lips
like you used to
so that – as transparent as the two glasses –
we could see the colours in our hearts –
Is it because I now have HIV –
Or because you never really loved me?
.
(2013)
. . .
Senator Ihenyen (Nigeria)
“Stranger in the Mirror
of My Life”
.
Before me is a mirror
a mirror beside my bed
away from the sun
burning brightly outside the window-blinds
in my darksome room.
For a moment
before the mirror
I stand to see the face of the victim
whose result returned a death sentence
after a test,
and another test, and yet another,
but they kept coming back
one and the same
like the torrent of tears that keep returning to your eyes
when the heart remains wet with worries
Wavering worries of one’s life walking away from the door,
as the wall clock thcks unrestrained, untouched, unconcerned,
like the footsteps of the world moving on,
unaffected, unmoved, unstirred.
In the mirror
I found a face
a certain face too afraid to look at me.
The face of a stranger –
a strange face sketched in the shadows of my unlit room,
against the fiery fingers of the sun flicking the window-blinds on a fateful morning
to irradiate my day.
I know this face hiding in the mirror isn’t me –
It couldn’t be me!
I looked straight into her eyes,
and it was then she looked back at me –
petrified, she crept back into the closet of her life.
I walk slowly and gently towards her,
and the stranger suddenly steps closer and closer towards me.
And when my feet froze on the floor
Upon the freezing fear that gripped me,
the stranger in the mirror suddenly startles – faint-hearted, intimidated –
this stranger is not me,
No, not me!
She is just a shadow –
the shadow of someone too locked-up in her closet to open up to me.
She is a stranger too steeped in shame to stand up to herself
and say:
“I’m Hannah,
I’m HIV-positive –
but see how beautiful life could be
when I open the window-blinds in my heart
and let the rays of the sun
overshadow the stranger in the mirror of my life.”
.
(2013)
.
“Is It Because…” and “Stranger in the Mirror of My Life” © Senator Ihenyen
From his just-released 2013 e-book Stranger in the Mirror of My Life: Poems for Everyone Affected by HIV/AIDS
. . .
“[The poem below] came as result of belonging to what is sometimes called a “sero-discordant couple” – one partner HIV-negative, the other positive. It’s not a difference easy to negotiate, as perhaps the poem makes clear. Early on, my new lover offered me the choice to avoid commitment, citing his condition; but I chose instead to go forward with the relationship – a decision I don’t regret. I believe that medical research will find a fully satisfactory treatment for HIV and that this epidemic will come to an end. When that happens – what joy it will bring.” (Alfred Corn)
.
Alfred Corn (born 1943, Georgia, U.S.A.)
“To a Lover who is HIV-positive” (2002)
.
Grief; and a hope
that springs from your intention
to forward projects as assertive
or lasting as flesh ever upholds.
.
Love; and a fear
that the so far implacable
cunning of a virus will smuggle away
substantial warmth, the face, the response
telling us who we are and might be.
.
Guilt; and bewilderment
that, through no special virtue of mine
or fault of yours, a shadowed affliction
overlooked me and settled on you. As if
all, always, got what was theirs.
.
Anger; and knowledge
that our venture won’t be joined
in perfect safety. Still, it’s better odds
than the risk of not feeling much at all.
Until you see yourself well in them,
Love, keep looking in my eyes.
. . .
Mike Kwambo (Nairobi, Kenya)
“Positive”
.
Positive…
the status of my HIV.
Negative…
your attitude towards me.
Nonchalant…
is how I choose to be.
Pretenders…
you allegedly sympathize with me.
True colours…
you show them when I turn my back.
Pity…
I surely do not need it right now.
Life…
I am full of it and I am living>
Understanding…
I have a condition, like anyone else.
Positive…
the status of my attitude.
Determination…
is filled inside of me.
Oh yes…
I have the will to live.
I am positive…
in every aspect
of the word!
.
(2009)
. . .
Tikum Mbah Azonga (Le Cameroun)
“Venez vous voir (La séropositivité n`est pas la mort)”
.
Si vous êtes séropositif, mon ami,
Ne désesperez pas
Surtout pas!
Venez nous voir même en catinimi.
.
Nous sommes là pour vous tous
Les activités de conseil –
Pour les amis comme vous au conseil,
C`est notre affaire de toujours.
.
Venez nous voir en toute confidentialité –
Nos sessions de counseling se font en douceur.
Vous n`est pas seul car d`autres sont venus sans rancoeur
Et sont partis satisfaits et pleins de vitalité.
.
(2009)
. . .
Tikum Mbah Azonga (Le Cameroun)
“Les confidences d’une mère (La transmission mère-enfant)”
.
Je m`appelle Marthe.
Je suis mère de trois enfants
Dont le dernier a huit mois,
Les trois autres – que Dieu soit loué!
Ont trois, cinq et sept ans –
Je me suis fait dépister a chaque grossesse.
.
Dieu merci, tout a été négative,
Mais si j`avais été testé positive
J`aurais suivi les conseils du médicin,
J`aurais pris des médicaments
Pour ne pas contaminer mon bébé.
.
Avais-je peur du test? Jamais!
Car il y a le counseling.
Alors, si vous êtes enceinte
Comme moi, faîtes
–vous dépister protéger votre bébé.
.
(2009)
. . .
Alassane Ndiaye (Sénégal)
“Sous Le Soleil De L’Amour”
.
Notre premier baiser
A cette saveur lactée
Ce parfum de rose
Aux vapeurs poivrées
.
Et tes lévres douces
Et fermes comme la chaire
Fraiche d’une pomme
Croustillantes comme le pain nouveau
Embrassent ma bouche
Suscitant le désir coupable
.
Tu es une étoile qui chaque jour
Brille dans le ciel trouble de mon existence
Un soleil qui transperce le voile sombre de mon esprit
Une source où s’abreuvent les âmes en peine
– Je t’aime.
.
(2000)
.
. . .
Ibrahim Coulibaly (Côte d’Ivoire)
“Ton Sourire et Ta Voix”
.
Mon regard dans le vent
Je vois dans le ciel sourire ta beauté
Qui fait voyager mon esprit
Dans le train merveilleux de ton charme.
En moi luit la lumière du bonheur
Car ta voix d’or
Ta voix aux mille couleurs
Fait couler sur moi des mélodies de miel.
L’harmonie de ton corps est un tableau
Que jamais ne pourra effacer la force des mots.
Si j’étais une larme dans tes yeux
Jusque sur tes lèvres je coulerai
Si une larme dans mes yeux tu étais
Jamais je ne pleurerais
De peur de te perdre.
.
(2013)
. . . . .
Egon Schiele: Ich bin Mensch, ich liebe / Den Tod und Liebe / Das Leben. “I am a Human Being – I love Death and Love – They are alive.”
Posted: October 31, 2013 Filed under: A FEW FAVOURITES / UNA MUESTRA DE FAVORITOS, Egon Schiele, English, German | Tags: German Expressionist poets Comments Off on Egon Schiele: Ich bin Mensch, ich liebe / Den Tod und Liebe / Das Leben. “I am a Human Being – I love Death and Love – They are alive.”
ZP_Egon Schiele_Selfportrait_Male nude in profile, facing left_1910
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Strange Austrian “wunderkind” Egon Schiele was the son of a railroad station-master in Tulln and a mother from Krumau in Bohemia (Czechoslovakia). Schiele began to draw at the age of 18 months, and was disturbingly precocious when it came to early explorations of his own sexuality. Schiele’s paintings and drawings are always – unmistakably – his, and the artist died on this day (October 31st) in 1918, at the age of 28. One of the many millions who succumbed to the ineptly-named “Spanish Flu” pandemic which began in January 1918 – before the end of what was then known as The Great War – and lasted until December 1920 – Schiele’s art had had, even before the War, so much of Death about it – and yet also of Eros, and of Love. One of the artist’s own poems – and he did write a handful of them to accompany several canvases – states simply: Ich bin Mensch, ich liebe / Den Tod und Liebe / Das Leben. “I am a human being – I love Death and Love – they are alive.” Schiele’s wife Edith, six months pregnant, died of the “Spanish Flu” on October 28th, 1918, and Schiele, himself already extremely ill, made several sketches of her as she lay dying. He was gone just three days later.
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Translators Will Stone and Anthony Vivis wrote, in an issue of The London Magazine: “In one of his untitled poems Schiele talks of a bird where ‘a thousand greens are reflected in its eyes’. That this was written by an artist of Schiele’s calibre infuses the image with added significance. Who but he could know the shade created by a thousand greens and hold it long enough to record? What matters is not literally that a thousand greens reflect in the bird’s eye, but the possibility that they could. The green of the eye is so overwhelming that in his determination to see truth above all else the precocious poet-artist has glutted himself with a thousand variations within a single colour. While admitting the impossibility of capturing the reality of nature – like a translator faced with a text which appears to defy intra-linguistic interpretation – Schiele takes up the challenge nevertheless. It is a microcosm of the artistic calling: proceeding with creation and conceding defeat at the same moment. The sense of precariousness, the constant wavering of the boundary between lucidity and excruciation, is perhaps why Schiele’s paintings score so deeply into us even today [April 2012].”
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The Viennese, bourgeois-art-appreciating public had found Schiele’s un-pretty style and colour palette – often there were grey-green hues for skin, as if the living were putrefying – and his candid, awkward-limbed sexuality / unflattering poses / the angst *of his nudes – difficult to look upon. Yet he was really a proto–Expressionist who was leading the way for Expressionism** – that most powerful German artistic movement of the first quarter of the 20th century. Schiele’s influences were Vincent Van Gogh, “Art-Nouveau”, and Gustav Klimt – all from his boyhood – but it’s the poets, not visual artists, of the decade from 1910 forward, that explored – like Schiele was doing – similar discomfiting emotional and psychological “territories”. And so, we have placed a selection of their verses alongside poems of and images of paintings and drawings by Egon Schiele.
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* Angst is a great-sounding word. It reached German – and English – via the Danish language and an 1844 treatise by the philosopher Kierkegaard. Angst means Existential anxiety or fear.
** German Expressionism – a definition from Ruth J. Owen:
“A Modernist mode, mainly in the second decade of the 20th century; perspective of angst and absurdity; disturbing visions of downfall and decay; pathological world of the crippled and insane, and images of the city and war. ‘Aufbruch’ (an awakening or departure from) becomes ubiquitous – a new era; dislocated colour, shrill tone; the grotesque, deathliness and dissolution.”
. . .
Egon Schiele (1890-1918)
“Ein Selbstbild” / “Self-Portrait” (1910)
.
Ich bin für mich und die, denen
Die durstige Trunksucht nach
Freisein bei mir alles schenkt,
und auch für alle, weil alle
ich auch Liebe, – Liebe
.
Ich bin von vornehmsten
Der Vornehmste
Und von Rückgebern
Der Rückgebigste
.
Ich bin Mensch, ich liebe
Den Tod und Liebe
Das Leben.
. . .
Egon Schiele
“Sensation”
.
High vast winds turned my spine to ice
and I was forced to squint.
On a scratchy wall I saw
the entire world
with all its valleys, mountains and lakes,
with all the animals running around
shadows of trees and the patches of sun
reminded me of clouds.
I strode upon the earth
and had no sense of my limbs
I felt so light.
. . .
“Empfindung”
.
Hohe Grosswinde machten kalt mein Rückgrat
und da schielte ich.
Auf einer krätzigen Mauer sah ich
die ganze Welt
mit allen Tälern und Bergen und Seen,
mit all den Tieren, die da umliefen –
Die Schatten der Bäume und die Sonnenflecken erinnerten
mich an die Wolken.
Auf der Erde schritt ich
und spürte meine Glieder nicht,
so leicht war mir.
. . .
Egon Schiele
“Music while drowning”
.
In no time the black river yoked all my strength
I saw the lesser waters great
and the soft banks steep and high.
.
Twisting I fought
and heard the waters within me,
the fine, beautiful black waters –
then I breathed golden strength once more.
The river ran rigid and more strongly.
. . .
“Musik beim ertrinken”
.
In Momenten jochte der schwarze Fluss meine ganzen Kräfte.
Ich sah die kleinen Wasser gross
Und die sanften Ufer steil und hoch.
.
Drehend rang ich
und hörte die Wasser in mir,
die guten, schönen Shwarzwasser –
Dann atmete ich wieder goldene Kraft.
Der Strom strömte starr und stärker.
.
Egon Schiele’s poems: translations from the German © Will Stone and Anthony Vivis
. . .
Else Lasker-Schüler (1869-1945)
“Oh, let me leave this world”
.
Then you will cry for me.
Copper beeches pour fire
On my warlike dreams.
Through dark underbrush
I crawl,
Through ditches and water.
Wild breakers beat
My heart incessantly;
The enemy within.
Oh let me leave this world!
But even from far away
I’d wander – a flickering light –
Around God’s grave.
. . .
“O ich möcht aus der Welt”
.
Dann weinst du um mich.
Blutbuchen schüren
Meine Träume kriegerisch.
Durch finster Gestrüpp
Muß ich
Und Gräben und Wasser.
Immer schlägt wilde Welle
An mein Herz;
Innerer Feind.
O ich möchte aus der Welt!
Aber auch fern von ihr
Irr ich, ein Flackerlicht
Um Gottes Grab.
. . .
. . .
|
Gottfried Benn (1886-1956) D-Zug Braun wie Kognak. Braun wie Laub. Rotbraun. Malaiengelb. |
Gottfried Benn Express Train Brown as cognac. Brown as leaves. Red-brown. Malayan yellow. . (1912) Translation from the German © Michael Hamburger |
|
Gottfried Benn Vor Einem Kornfeld Vor einem Kornfeld sagte einer: |
Gottfried Benn Before a Cornfield Before a cornfield he said: . (1913) Translation from the German © SuperVert |
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Georg Heym (1887-1912)
“Umbra vitae”
.
Die Menschen stehen vorwärts in den Straßen
Und sehen auf die großen Himmelszeichen,
Wo die Kometen mit den Feuernasen
Um die gezackten Türme drohend schleichen.
Und alle Dächer sind voll Sternedeuter,
Die in den Himmel stecken große Röhren.
Und Zaubrer, wachsend aus den Bodenlöchern,
In Dunkel schräg, die einen Stern beschwören.
Krankheit und Mißwachs durch die Tore kriechen
In schwarzen Tüchern. Und die Betten tragen
Das Wälzen und das Jammern vieler Siechen,
und welche rennen mit den Totenschragen.
Selbstmörder gehen nachts in großen Horden,
Die suchen vor sich ihr verlornes Wesen,
Gebückt in Süd und West, und Ost und Norden,
Den Staub zerfegend mit den Armen-Besen.
Sie sind wie Staub, der hält noch eine Weile,
Die Haare fallen schon auf ihren Wegen,
Sie springen, daß sie sterben, nun in Eile,
Und sind mit totem Haupt im Feld gelegen.
Noch manchmal zappelnd. Und der Felder Tiere
Stehn um sie blind, und stoßen mit dem Horne
In ihren Bauch. Sie strecken alle viere
Begraben unter Salbei und dem Dorne.
Das Jahr ist tot und leer von seinen Winden,
Das wie ein Mantel hängt voll Wassertriefen,
Und ewig Wetter, die sich klagend winden
Aus Tiefen wolkig wieder zu den Tiefen.
Die Meere aber stocken. In den Wogen
Die Schiffe hängen modernd und verdrossen,
Zerstreut, und keine Strömung wird gezogen
Und aller Himmel Höfe sind verschlossen.
Die Bäume wechseln nicht die Zeiten
Und bleiben ewig tot in ihrem Ende
Und über die verfallnen Wege spreiten
Sie hölzern ihre langen Finger-Hände.
Wer stirbt, der setzt sich auf, sich zu erheben,
Und eben hat er noch ein Wort gesprochen.
Auf einmal ist er fort. Wo ist sein Leben?
Und seine Augen sind wie Glas zerbrochen.
Schatten sind viele. Trübe und verborgen.
Und Träume, die an stummen Türen schleifen,
Und der erwacht, bedrückt von andern Morgen,
Muß schweren Schlaf von grauen Lidern streifen.
. . .
Georg Heym
“Umbra vitae” (The Shadow of Life)
.
The people stand forward in the streets
They stare at the great signs in the heavens
Where comets with their fiery trails
Creep threateningly about the serrated towers.
And all the roofs are filled with stargazers
Sticking their great tubes into the skies
And magicians springing up from the earthworks
Tilting in the darkness, conjuring the one star.
Sickness and perversion creep through the gates
In black gowns. And the beds bear
The tossing and the moans of much wasting
They run with the buckling of death.
The suicides go in great nocturnal hordes
They search before themselves for their lost essence
Bent over in the South and West and the East and North
They dust using their arms as brooms.
They are like dust, holding out for a while
The hair falling out as they move on their way,
They leap, conscious of death, now in haste,
And are buried head-first in the field.
Yet occasionally they twitch still. The animals of the field
Blindly stand around them, poking with their horn
In the stomach. They lie on all fours
Buried under sage and thorn.
The year is dead and emptied of its winds
That hang like a coat covered with drops of water
And eternal weather, which bemoaning turns
From cloudy depth again to the depths.
But the seas stagnate. The ships hang
Rotting and querulous in the waves,
Scattered, no current draws them
And the courts of all heavens are sealed.
The trees fail in their seasonal change
Locked in their deadly finality
And over the decaying path they spread
Their wooden long-fingered hands.
He who dies undertakes to rise again,
Indeed he just spoke a word.
And suddenly he is gone. Where is his life?
And his eyes are like shattered glass.
Many are shadows. Grim and hidden.
And dreams which slip by mute doors,
And who awaken, depressed by other mornings,
Must wipe heavy sleep from greyed lids.
.
(1912)
.
Heym translation © Scott Horton
. . . . .
ZP_Egon Schiele_photographed at the age of 24 by Anton Josef Trcka_1914
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Images (paintings and drawings) featured here:
Egon Schiele_Selfportrait_Male nude in profile, facing left_1910
Egon Schiele_Selfportrait with arm twisted above head_1910
Egon Schiele_Reclining male nude_1911
Egon Schiele_Composition with three male figures_Selfportrait_1911
Egon Schiele_Male nude with a red loincloth_1914
Egon Schiele_Sitzender weiblicher Akt_Female nude sitting_1914
Egon Schiele_Death and the Maiden_1915
Egon Schiele_Sitzende frau mit hochgezogenem knie_The model was – possibly – Wally Neuzil (1894 – 1917). Neuzil was a former model for Gustav Klimt and she became Schiele’s model / muse / lover before his marriage to Edith Harms.
Egon Schiele_Reclining woman with green stockings_Adele Harms_1917
Egon Schiele_Embrace_Lovers II_1917
Egon Schiele_Edith sterbend_Edith dying_October 28th 1918_the last drawing by Schiele
. . . . .
Ralph Carmichael: “Un lugar tranquilo” / “A Quiet Place”
Posted: October 1, 2013 Filed under: English, Ralph Carmichael, Spanish, Translator's Whimsy: Song Lyrics / Extravagancia del traductor: Letras de canciones traducidas por Alexander Best, ZP Translator: Alexander Best Comments Off on Ralph Carmichael: “Un lugar tranquilo” / “A Quiet Place”
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Ralph Carmichael (Compositor góspel, nacido 1927)
“Un lugar tranquilo”
.
Hay un lugar tranquilo
lejos del paso raudo
donde Dios puede calmar mi mente afligida.
Guardado por árbol y flor,
está allí que dejo atrás mis penas
durante la hora quieta con Él.
.
En un jardín pequeño
o alta montaña,
Encuentro allí
una nueva fortaleza
y mucho ánimo.
.
Y luego salgo de ese lugar sereno
bien listo para enfrentar un nuevo día
con amor por toda la raza humana.
. . .
Ralph Carmichael es un compositor de canciones ‘pop’ / cristianas contemporáneas.
Su canción “A Quiet Place” (“Un lugar tranquilo”) fue adaptada por un cantautor góspel estadounidense, Mervyn Warren, con su grupo “a capela” cristiano, Take 6, organizado en la Universidad Adventista Oakwood, de Huntsville, Alabama, EE.UU., durante los años 80. El arreglo musical de Señor Warren – hecho para seis voces en 1988 – es exquisitamente dulce y sensitivo. Éste no es el sonido tradicional de la música góspel, sino algo afinado y jazzístico.
Escuche la canción (versión original en inglés) en este videoclip del Festival de Jazz de Vitoria-Gasteiz (País Vasco, 1997):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SH2orpg6ww4
. . .
Ralph Carmichael (born 1927)
“A Quiet Place” (1969)
.
There is a quiet place
far from the rapid pace
where God can soothe my troubled mind.
.
Sheltered by tree and flower
there in my quiet hour with Him
my cares are left behind.
.
Whether a garden small
or on a mountain tall
new strength and courage there I find.
.
And then from that quiet place
I go prepared to face a new day
with love for all mankind.
Zócalo Poets 