Pier Paolo Pasolini: Versi dedicati a Marilyn Monroe

Pier Paolo Pasolini (1922-1975)

Versi dedicati a Marilyn Monroe

(morì 5 agosto 1962)

 

 

Del mondo antico e del mondo futuro

era rimasta solo la bellezza, e tu,

povera sorellina minore,

quella che corre dietro i fratelli più grandi,

e ride e piange con loro, per imitarli,

tu sorellina più piccola,

quella bellezza l’avevi addosso umilmente,

e la tua anima di figlia di piccola gente,

non ha mai saputo di averla,

perché altrimenti non sarebbe stata bellezza.

*

Il mondo te l’ha insegnata,

cosi la tua bellezza divenne sua.

Del pauroso mondo antico e del pauroso mondo futuro

era rimasta sola la bellezza, e tu

te la sei portata dietro come un sorriso obbediente.

L’obbedienza richiede troppe lacrime inghiottite,

il darsi agli altri, troppi allegri sguardi

che chiedono la loro pietà! Così

ti sei portata via la tua bellezza.

*

Sparì come un pulviscolo d’oro.

Dello stupido mondo antico

e del feroce mondo futuro

era rimasta una bellezza che non si vergognava

di alludere ai piccoli seni di sorellina,

al piccolo ventre così facilmente nudo.

E per questo era bellezza, la stessa

che hanno le dolci ragazze del tuo mondo…

le figlie dei commercianti

vincitrici ai concorsi a Miami o a Londra.

*

Sparì come una colombella d’oro.

*

Il mondo te l’ha insegnata,

e cosi la tua bellezza non fu più bellezza.

Ma tu continuavi a essere bambina,

sciocca come l’antichità, crudele come il futuro,

e fra te e la tua bellezza posseduta dal Potere

si mise tutta la stupidità e la crudeltà del presente.

La portavi sempre dietro come un sorriso tra le lacrime,

impudica per passività, indecente per obbedienza.

*

Sparì come una bianca colomba d’oro.

*

La tua bellezza sopravvissuta dal mondo antico,

richiesta dal mondo futuro, posseduta

dal mondo presente, divenne un male mortale.

*

Ora i fratelli maggiori, finalmente, si voltano,

smettono per un momento i loro maledetti giochi,

escono dalla loro inesorabile distrazione,

e si chiedono: “E’ possibile che Marilyn,

la piccola Marilyn, ci abbia indicato la strada?”

*

Ora sei tu,

quella che non conta nulla, poverina, col suo sorriso,

sei tu la prima oltre le porte del mondo

abbandonato al suo destino di morte.

 

(1963)


“Come, leh we jump up!” The Roots of Toronto Caribbean Carnival (“Caribana”): Calypso from Trinidad and Tobago

 

Today marks the 45th anniversary of Toronto, Canada’s, original Caribbean festival, started in 1967 by a handful of energetic Trinidadians who had settled in the city.  What began as a simple parade of a few hundred on McCaul Street evolved into a massive day-long Jump-Up attracting a million-plus people, where the line between spectator and participant was often invisible – crowds following Charlie’s Roots, Catelli All-Stars or Toronto’s own AfroPan steel orchestra all along the parade route – holding up ‘streetcars’(trams) and causing traffic snarls on the Saturday of the Simcoe Day long weekend.  Brass bands on flatbed trucks playing whichever year’s Road March or Calypso/Soca Top Ten, interspersed with costumed revellers “playing mas”, commenced at Queen’s Park, headed south down University Avenue, under the York Street railway bridge and dispersed at Queen’s Quay and the ferry dock on Lake Ontario – the party then continuing with a picnic and live music on Olympic Island.

Caribana was Toronto’s single biggest cultural event throughout much of the 1980s and up until the mid-1990s when The Jump-Up finally had some real summer competition:  The Gay Pride Parade, The Beaches Jazz Festival, and Taste of the Danforth.

But it was Trinis who brought FUN to this city’s streets FIRST.

Today, Saturday August 4th, the 2012 Jump-Up is winding its way along Lakeshore Boulevard under sunshine and 30 degree Celsius heat – perfect weather for “playing mas”!

*

Mas is short for masquerade, and we feature Trinidad Calypsonian David Rudder’s 1998 Soca lyrics for High Mas (a pun on playing mas and holy mass) to honour the nation which brought a lusty public party spirit to the streets of Toronto away back when…

 

 

David Rudder

High Mas

 

( Give praise, give praise, Children, yeah!

Give praise, give praise, Children! )

Our Father who has given us this art

So that we can all feel like we are a part

Of this earthly heaven – (Amen)

Forgive us this day our daily weakness

As we seek to cast our mortal burdens on your city – (Amen)

Oh merciful Father, in this Bacchanal season

Where men lose their reason

But most of us just want to wine and have a good time

Cuz we looking for a lime,

Because we feeling fine, Lord, – (Amen)

And as we jump up and down in this crazy town

Send us some music for some healing – (Amen)

*

Everybody hand raise

Everybody give praise

Everybody hand raise

And if you know what ah mean – put up your finger

And if you know what ah mean – put up your hand

And if you know what ah mean – put up your finger

And if you know what ah mean then scream:

O O O O O, give Jah his praises

O O O O O, let Jah be praised

O O O O O, the Father in his mercy

He sends a little music to make the vibration raise

So Carnival Day everybody come and celebrate

Everybody come and celebrate

See the ragamuffin congregate, yeah

Everybody come and celebrate

And everybody say:

Eh eh eh eh eh eh, ah love meh country

Eh eh eh eh eh eh, ah feeling irie

Eh eh eh eh eh eh, ah love meh country

Eh eh eh eh eh eh, ah feeling irie

*

Our Father who has given us this art

So that we can all feel a part

Of your heaven – (Amen)

Forgive us this day our daily weakness

As we seek to cast our mortal burdens on your city – (Amen)

On this lovely day when we come out to play and

We come out to sway and we breakin a-way

Some will say what they have to say

But only you know the pain we are feeling – (Amen)

As it was in the beginning of J’ouvert

Goodbye to Carnival Tuesday ending – (Amen)

*

Everybody hand raise

Everybody give praise

Everybody hand raise

And if you know what ah mean – put up your finger

And if you know what ah mean – put up your hand

And if you know what ah mean – put up your finger

And if you know what ah mean then scream:

O O O O O give Jah his praises

O O O O O let Jah be praised

O, the Father in his mercy

He sends a little Soca  to make the vibration raise

So Carnival Day everybody come and celebrate

Everybody come and celebrate

See the ragamuffin congregate, yeah

Everybody come and celebrate

And everybody say:

Eh eh eh eh eh eh ah love meh country

Eh eh eh eh eh eh ah feeling irie

Eh eh eh eh eh eh ah love meh country

Eh eh eh eh eh eh ah feeling irie…..

 

*     *     *

 

Trinidadian glossary:

 

Mas  –  Masquerade;  revellers “play Mas”  when they are in costume

Bacchanal  –  old-time word, still in use, meaning:  festivities, good times, mayhem!

wine  –  verb:  to move sensuously, and it’s all in the waist!

lime  –  noun or verb:  hanging-out with friends;   “chilling”

ah  –  I

Jah  –  God, The Creator, The Father –  in the 20th-century Jamaican religion of Rastafarianism

(which has pan-Caribbean believers  –  including Trinidad’s David Rudder)

Soca  –  contemporary word for Calypso music;  originally coined from Soul+Calypso

meh  –  my

irie  –  a Rastafarian word:  joyful, deep down in your soul

breakin a-way  –  dancing with vitality and confidence;  making a beautiful spectacle of yourself

J’ouvert  –  from the French “Jour ouvert” (Opening day);  the Monday just before Ash Wednesday

(which is the day that Lent begins and Carnival is officially done  –   till the following year!)

 


Neal McLeod: “Songs to kill a Wîhtikow” ᐐᐧᐦᑎᑯᐤ

Neal McLeod

Wîhtikow *

 

They spoke of the time

beings broke the stillness of water

retreating from the pollution

that rested on the skin of days

kî-mistâpâwêhisocik, they drowned themselves

and the water became still

*

I went to a place to rest

and lay in the remnants of thunder

I collapsed in ripped and dried hollow earth

a fugitive of spent moments

which had outgrown their divinity

*

The old ones spoke of how the beings dug into the earth,

kôtâwîwak

to retreat from the pollution on the skin of the earth

the old ones spoke of wîhtikow

who hunted dreamers, under thick, dark, coarse sun

took their prey in

like the wind of trains

draws us to the tracks

 

 

Wîhtikow wandering

 

wîhtikow whispers

and pulls the light from the sky

only cluttered cover, electric neon

makes my steps heavy

pass abandoned house

windows opened

no longer covered by glass

emptied of people

and stories

burned out black hollow

my body

has also known

the fire of wîhtikow

bingo caller gives false hope

white johns

circle the wagons of families

cops who drive brothers

to cold places

wîhtikow wanders

in the grey, concrete forest

 

 

Crow cross

 

body heavy wooden

black circling round

crow crowned head

claws extended, cutting

arms extended

wrapped into horizon

feet on hands

abrupt blood pecks

expired fright scarecrow

pulled off

hands fling free

legs fall hard

extend relaxed hand

ready legs

onto road

away from crows

remember tracks

upon skin

sing praises

black crow crying

 

 

Kôkôcîs **

 

plaid crumpled and folded

hidden patterns of fabric

clung around his arms

his brown, storied hands

with lines of memory

which marked events

stories, and words

reached for the chewing tobacco

which slid through the

spaces of his mouth

and with the taste of tobacco

through his tongue

which created words

moving through the room

*

I remember the open windows

and brown, wet roads

cars and trucks

would pull up

and people would fill the windows

with colours and movement

*

familiar faces and rhythms

I remember the sound of his voice

of his laugh

the eternal song

up through his mouth

added stories

and layers of memory

to the photographs

bringing old ones alive

*

I remember kôkôcîs

words came from him like water

formed from the shallow fog

of the early spring afternoon

the room held his voice

the voice of others

pushed through

the fold of eternity

were held in

his textured voice

*

kôkôcîs, kâ-kî-itiht,

the once called kôkôcîs,

was my living link

to eternity and relatives

 

 

 

Cree-language words:

*  wîhtikow — a being who consumes other beings – greedy, like a vampire

**  kôkôcîs  — the name of the poet’s great-grandfather

 

_____

 

Neal McLeod is Cree (having grown up on the James Smith reserve in Saskatchewan),  and Swedish, having had the fortunate opportunity to study abroad at the Swedish Art Academy at Umeå.  He has exhibited art work throughout Canada including at the 2005 exhibition au fil de mes jours (in my lifetime) at Le Musée national des beaux-arts du Québec – remounted at the Museum of Civilization in 2007.  In addition to being a painter he is also a curator:  his latest project was as co-curator of the exhibition James Henderson: The Man who Paints the Old Men which was organized by the Mendel Art Gallery in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.

Neal’s first book of poetry, entitled Songs to Kill a Wîhtikow, was nominated for several Saskatchewan book awards including book of the year in 2005.  It was nominated for book of the year at the Anskohk McNally Aboriginal Literature Awards, and won poetry book of the year by unanimous decision of the jurors.  In 2007 Neal published Cree Narrative Memory which was also nominated for book of the year at the Anskohk McNally Aboriginal Literature Awards.  In the fall of 2008 he published his second book of poetry entitled Gabriel’s Beach.

Neal is currently editing a volume entitled Indigenous Poetics.  In addition he is working on the following books: Dreaming Blue Horses – a novel, a collection of humour short stories entitled Neechi Hustle, 100 Days of Cree, a biography of Noel Starblanket, and a book of poetry called Casting Spells of Neechery.  He teaches Indigenous Studies at Trent University in Peterborough, Ontario.


Nurun Nahar’s “Travellers”: An Inspirational Bengali Poem for Ramadan 2012

Nurun Nahar (1924-1992) was born in Tangail, Bangladesh.  She wrote this poem in her youth.   Artist, writer, and mother of five,  she could crochet blankets in her sleep.  Translation by Syeda Parvin Shirin, her only daughter.  Photo by Laboni Islam, one of Nurun’s many grand-daughters.

*     *     *


¡Buffy Sainte-Marie, en Toronto esta noche! / Buffy Sainte-Marie, in Toronto tonight! Una traducción para honrar a la cantautora y activista Cree

 

Buffy Sainte-Marie

(First Nations Cree singer-songwriter, activist, born 1941, Saskatchewan, Canada)

No No Keshagesh

Editor’s note:  Keshagesh means Greedy Guts,

a child (or an adult) who eats his own food – and then wants everybody else’s, too.

_ _ _ _ _

I never saw so many business suits

Never knew a dollar sign could look so cute

Never knew a junkie with a money jones

Who’s buying Park Place? Who’s buying Boardwalk?

*

These old men they make their dirty deals

Go in the back room and see what they can steal

Talk about your ” beautiful for spacious skies “?

— it’s about uranium,  it’s about the water rights!

*

Got Mother Nature on a luncheon plate

They carve her up and call it real estate

Want all the resources and all of the land

They make a war over it — they blow things up for it.

*

The reservation out at Poverty Row

There’s something cookin and the lights are low

Somebody tryin to save our Mother Earth… I’m gonna

Help ’em to Save it and Sing it and Pray it… singin:

No No Keshagesh you can’t do that no more…

No No Keshagesh you can’t do that no more…

*

Ole Columbus he was lookin good

When he got lost in our neighborhood

Garden of Eden right before his eyes

Now it’s all spyware — now it’s all income tax.

*

Ole Brother Midas lookin hungry today

What he can’t buy he’ll get some other way

Send in the troopers if the Natives resist

Same old story, boys — that’s how ya do it , boys!

*

Look at these people,  Lord,  they’re on a roll

Got to have it all — gotta have complete control

Want all the resources and all of the land

They break the law over it — blow things up for it.

*

While all our champions are off in the war

Their final rip-off here at home is on

Mister Greed I think your time has come… I’m gonna

Sing it and Say it and Live it and Pray it… singin:

No No Keshagesh you can’t do that no more…

No No Keshagesh you can’t do that no more…

 

_____

 

Buffy Sainte-Marie (nace 1941, Saskatchewan, Canadá)

¡No, no, Panzas ávaras! (No, no, Greedy-guts!)

Nota del editor:

Keshagesh quiere decir Panzas Ávaras.

Así se le llama a un niño (o un hombre) que se come su comida

y después quiere la de los demas.

 

_____

 

Nunca vi tantos atuendos formales

Nunca supe que un signo de dólar pareciera tan bonito

Nunca conocí a un adicto con una obsesión por dinero

¿Quién está comprando el Park Place – y el Boardwalk?

*

Estos viejos, hacen sus tratos sucios

Van al cuarto interior para hacer sus tratos sucios

¿Habla de “hermosa por cielos espaciosos”?

– ¡ se trata del uranio, se trata de derechos sobre el agua!

*

Tienen en un plato a la Madre Naturaleza

La dividen y la llaman:  bienes raices.

Quieren todos los recursos naturales y toda la tierra

Hacen una guerra por eso – exageran las cosas para eso.

*

La reservación es Condenada a la Pobreza

Están cocinando algo y atenuan las luces

Alguien está intentando salvar a nuestra Madre Tierra

Voy a Ayudarles a Salvarla,  Cantarle, y Orarle…cantando:

¡No, no, Panzas ávaras!

Ustedes ya no pueden hacer éso…..

Ustedes ya no pueden hacer éso…..

*

El bueno de Colón muy fresco

Cuando se perdió en nuestra vecindad

El Jardín de Edén en frente de sus ojos

Hoy día todo es spyware – ahora todo es impuesto sobre la renta.

*

El buen Hermano Midas parece hambriento hoy día

Lo que no puede comprar lo obtendrá de otra manera

Envian a los policías estatales si los Indígenas resisten

La misma historia de siempre muchachos, es así como lo hacen.

*

Mira toda esta gente, Señor, son imparables

Tienen que poseer todo, tener control absoluto

Quieren todos los recursos naturales y todo lo de la tierra

Quebrantan la ley por eso – exageran las cosas por eso.

*

Mientras que nuestros campeones están lejos en la guerra

Su estafa final occurre aquí en casa.

Señor Avaricia – pienso que su tiempo ha llegado…Voy a

Cantarlo y Decirlo y Vivirlo y Orar… cantándolo:

¡No, no, Panzas ávaras!

Ustedes ya no puede hacer éso…..

Ustedes ya no puede hacer éso…..

 

 

_____

Traducción del inglés al español  /  Translation from English into Spanish:  Lidia García Garay

 


Hari Malagayo Alluri: “eyes beat heart wide…”


body body

eyes beat heart wide

n sine co-patience

 

blink rare breath laugh

un sin go pay shun

 

deep shared step speak open tongued rhythms

 

story tell in the pattern of a mischief

round each other’s oldest voices caress

 

in

syncopation

 

abi bellybuttons shoot

memory glances

 

 

 

raven city

rain follows snow follows shine hollows

clouds hollow graves into roots hollow

cracks into tar fallow talk hollows

dreams nightly migrating birds hallow

sky copper indigo follow trickster heart

 

 

 

conjure lion’s roar from spitting cobra’s belly

one language

used to hack

all the others

from my body

this pentongue

my balisong now

jai!

 

 

_____

The poet explains several special words:

abi  –  Nigerian pidgin, from Yoruba; final interrogative particle on a yes/no question

balisong  –  a.k.a. balisong batangas, butterfly knife, fan knife or veinte y nueve; a swing-bladed folding pocketknife used in Filipino martial arts and for self-defence.

jai  –  I use  jai in the sense of “Long live” (Hindi).  It can also be translated as “Up with,” “Hail” or “Victory”. Often it’s a part of call and response chants.

*

Hari Malagayo Alluri is a poet, activist, facilitator and filmmaker who migrated to SouthVancouver, Coast Salish Territories, at age 12.  He will be at Surrey Muse on July 27th.  Hari’s writing appears in several publications.


Cynthia Dewi Oka: Nomad Legends – Midwife and Moon’s Benediction

 

nomad legend: Midwife

 

I am what remains. Here,

on this crop of volcanic rock. At the knees of the temple

where for thousands of years we worshipped

as the moon began her slow retreat

in deference to the gong, the jubilee of roosters –

our women with lotus lily towers on their heads,

our men with bronze curved daggers at their waists.

I still hear their children and recognize

each hungry wail, each budding tenor.

My hands were the first they knew,

the heat from my body preceded their mothers’ milk.

I was the one who rinsed their coats of blood

and breathed the story of this island and its specific stars

into the plaintive Os of their mouths.

In time, they forgot the ocean and learned to trust

paddy, clay, the gods. I began to assume

in their eyes the same madness perceived by their elders.

A madness feared, because no woman should

scratch letters to the drowned with a shark tooth

in cream colored sand. No woman should hunt

fish from her bed of rock, bare-handed, and eat them raw.

No woman should claim the sea is her mother,

the sea snake her husband. No matter.

When the babies were ready to cleave

the shell of their mothers, it was me they summoned.

See now how the land empties. How skin and slender

bones wash to sea. For moons I watch from the temple’s roof

skirmishes between soldiers and vultures

over moonstone anklets, ruby studded rings and abalone

still clinging to blue, salted flesh.  At the cusp of daylight,

I fill my eyes with wine and sheathe my body

in seawater.  The currents pound my eardrums like our warriors’ fists,

tiny fish make meals out of my calves, and time is measured

by the goldening ends of sea grass.  This is the only place

where I do not smell, taste or think in blood.

My body cleaves tunnels through the satin depths,

clean and weightless. Ether.

The old people used to say that water snakes guarded the rock

cradle of our temple, that in fact, the rock was

the temple of greater creatures that came before us.

Pillars, courtyards, pagodas of copra were constructed

to house not the gods, but humans after we shed our hooves and horns.

According to some, we were once winged.

The men laughed at this story as they fondled their bows.

The women rubbed sandalwood oil into each other’s smooth backs.

This is before tips of bayonets split our children down their lengths.

This is before bows and backs were snapped alike.

I know what they did not know because the sea is my mother,

the sea snake my husband. This is why I leave my heart in the water.

The longer I stay, the closer I draw to their secrets.

The more I resemble salt. Within me, bones begin

to loosen. The bloom of my lungs acquires an echo.

I come up less and less for air.

On the seventy seventh year of the midwife’s submersion, at the moon’s zenith, it is said that new bodies crawled out of the waves.  Their teeth were adamantine and their skin sequined.  They spoke to each other in sign, for they had not yet invented a language for soil.  They were not men and women.  They were multiple, each with their own distinctive architecture.  They practiced the art of disappearing, walking children home and dancing at street corners.  Their dances could not be imitated for they moved in ways unknown to our imagination.  When they looked at you, you heard the sea mother.   It is said that they had solved the alchemy of bone to water.

 

_____

 

nomad legend: Moon’s benediction

 

[at rising]

bless the round belly, elephant tusk, sago

root straining dark moist earth, tongues

of aloe peeled open, their juice kneaded

into the crowns of old women, gypsum

powder, ash scrubbed into linen and skin

preparing them for touch, the flintlock

at rest with nomads and their fire

[in descent]

bless lightning, the unsung flute, proverbs

spelled in tobacco leaves, owl’s hoot

rippling east, its timbre grained in salt

from the palms of fishermen, a coastline

beaded in pearl, pith of a woman

listening for her name in the throng, iron

sphere, devil’s oar,  snake’s teardrop.

 

 

_____

Cynthia Dewi Oka lives in Vancouver.  She writes of these poems:

“Although they are in English, they incorporate elements, landscapes, concepts and re-imagined myths embedded in my native language, Bahasa Indonesia, and experiences of historical and contemporary displacement.”


Rogr Lee: “Half the world is waking from the shaking of the earth!”

Rogr Lee

In Exile

 

 

At first, life without you

didn’t seem so bad

I could do what I want to

and keep your picture in my hand

But things have gone so crazy

in this world of extremes

-half the world is lost inside

a dream within a dream!

An’ that’s why I am so lonely

why I am in exile

why I am so disenchanted

by the human profile

why I always feel so heavy

why everything feels hostile

why the dam is breaking

why I am in exile

(Y’know I’ve come to see that)

life without you doesn’t offer much

except your face

in everything I see and touch!

An’ that’s why I am so lonely

why I am in exile

why I am so disenchanted

by the human profile

why I always feel so heavy

why everything feels hostile

why the dam is breaking

why I am in exile

So I live without you

and that doesn’t make much sense

but I do what I need to

to “keep the wolf behind the fence”

when there’s half the people sleeping

from the moment of their birth

and half the world is waking

from the shaking of the earth!

An’ that’s why I am so lonely

why I am in exile

why I am so disenchanted

by the human profile

why I always feel so heavy

why everything feels hostile

why the dam is breaking

why I am in exile…

(I’m so lonely

I’m in exile…)

 

© D. Roger Lee 2003

Keep some of you hidden

 

 

One error can set you back

Truth is different from the facts

One lover can set you free

One idea can shatter and bleed

And in the end

You’ll tell your friends

Everything as it isn’t

Keep some of you hidden

Keep some of you hidden

Keep some of you hidden

One day I will happen

Upon another stranger

There won’t be any reason

To fear over-exposure

One error can set you back

Truth is different from the facts

One lover can set you free

One idea can shatter and bleed

And in the end

You’ll tell your friends

Everything as it isn’t

Keep some of your heart hidden

Keep some of your heart hidden

Keep some of your heart hidden

 

© D. Roger Lee 201o

 

_____

 

Élève la voix

 

 

Building a life

Buidling a beast

Building ten times what you need

Power-building

Scrape the stars

Addicted to buildings

Addicted to cars

Build a temple

Try a new form

Élevez la voix

Levez les normes

Building your mansion

building on fault lines

Clear-cutting forests like there’s

No end in sight

Reaching far

Beyond his grasp

Man breaking every

Thing in his path.

Build a temple

Try a new form

Élevez la voix

Levez les normes

_____

French phrases:

Élève la voix  –  Raise your voice

Levez les normes  –  Raise the standards

 

© D. Roger Lee 2010

 

_____

Rogr Lee was born in B.C. and spent his 20s in Toronto’s acoustic music scene with various musicians and poets.  He  then moved to Vancouver where he started to explore painting and home recording, producing his 2nd and 3rd indie CDs.  Recently Rogr found the love of his life and is planning a wonderful future with him – and some cats.


Sister Juana Inés de la Cruz: “Stupid, conceited Men…..” / “Hombres necios…..”

 

Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz

(1651-1695, Nueva España/México)

Hombres necios

 

 

Hombres necios que acusáis

a la mujer sin razón,

sin ver que sois la ocasión

de lo mismo que culpáis:

*

si con ansia sin igual

solicitáis su desdén,

¿por qué quereis que obren bien

si las incitáis al mal?

*

Combatís su resistencia

y luego, con gravedad,

decís que fue liviandad

lo que hizo la diligencia.

*

Parecer quiere el denuedo

de vuestro parecer loco,

al niño que pone el coco

y luego le tiene miedo.

*

Queréis, con presunción necia,

hallar a la que buscáis,

para pretendida, Thais,

y en la posesión, Lucrecia

*

¿Qué humor puede ser más raro

que el que, falto de consejo,

el mismo empaña el espejo

y siente que no esté claro?

*

Con el favor y el desdén

tenéis condición igual,

quejándoos, si os tratan mal,

burlándoos, si os quieren bien.

*

Opinión, ninguna gana:

pues la que más se recata,

si no os admite, es ingrata,

y si os admite, es liviana

*

Siempre tan necios andáis

que, con desigual nivel,

a una culpáis por crüel

y a otra por fácil culpáis.

*

¿Pues cómo ha de estar templada

la que vuestro amor pretende,

si la que es ingrata, ofende,

y la que es fácil, enfada?

*

Mas, entre el enfado y pena

que vuestro gusto refiere,

bien haya la que no os quiere

y quejaos en hora buena.

*

Dan vuestras amantes penas

a sus libertades alas,

y después de hacerlas malas

las queréis hallar muy buenas.

*

¿Cuál mayor culpa ha tenido

en una pasión errada:

la que cae de rogada

o el que ruega de caído?

*

¿O cuál es más de culpar,

aunque cualquiera mal haga:

la que peca por la paga

o el que paga por pecar?

*

Pues ¿para quée os espantáis

de la culpa que tenéis?

Queredlas cual las hacéis

o hacedlas cual las buscáis.

*

Dejad de solicitar,

y después, con más razón,

acusaréis la afición

de la que os fuere a rogar.

*

Bien con muchas armas fundo

que lidia vuestra arrogancia,

pues en promesa e instancia

juntáis diablo, carne y mundo.

 

_____

 

Sister Juana Inés de la Cruz

(1651-1695, New Spain/México)

Stupid, conceited men

 

 

Silly, you men – so very adept

at wrongly faulting womankind,

not seeing you’re alone to blame

for faults you plant in woman’s mind.

*

After you’ve won by urgent plea

the right to tarnish her good name,

you still expect her to behave–

you, that coaxed her into shame.

*

You batter her resistance down

and then, all righteousness, proclaim

that feminine frivolity,

not your persistence, is to blame.

*

When it comes to bravely posturing,

your witlessness must take the prize:

you’re the child that makes a bogeyman,

and then recoils in fear and cries.

*

Presumptuous beyond belief,

you’d have the woman you pursue

be Thais when you’re courting her,

Lucretia once she falls to you.

*

For plain default of common sense,

could any action be so queer

as oneself to cloud the mirror,

then complain that it’s not clear?

*

Whether you’re favored or disdained,

nothing can leave you satisfied.

You whimper if you’re turned away,

you sneer if you’ve been gratified.

*

With you, no woman can hope to score;

whichever way, she’s bound to lose;

spurning you, she’s ungrateful–

succumbing, you call her lewd.

*

Your folly is always the same:

you apply a single rule

to the one you accuse of looseness

and the one you brand as cruel.

*

What happy mean could there be

for the woman who catches your eye,

if, unresponsive, she offends,

yet whose complaisance you decry?

*

Still, whether it’s torment or anger–

and both ways you’ve yourselves to blame–

God bless the woman who won’t have you,

no matter how loud you complain.

*

It’s your persistent entreaties

that change her from timid to bold.

Having made her thereby naughty,

you would have her good as gold.

*

So where does the greater guilt lie

for a passion that should not be:

with the man who pleads out of baseness

or the woman debased by his plea?

*

Or which is more to be blamed–

though both will have cause for chagrin:

the woman who sins for money

or the man who pays money to sin?

*

So why are you men all so stunned

at the thought you’re all guilty alike?

Either like them for what you’ve made them

or make of them what you can like.

*

If you’d give up pursuing them,

you’d discover, without a doubt,

you’ve a stronger case to make

against those who seek you out.

*

I well know what powerful arms

you wield in pressing for evil:

your arrogance is allied

with the world, the flesh, and the devil.

 

 

Traducción del español al inglés  /  Translation from Spanish into English:   Alan  S.  Trueblood

 

 

In his biography of Sister Juana Inés de la Cruz (1651-1695), Octavio Paz states that the self-taught scholar and nun of colonial New Spain (later called México) is the most important poet of the Americas up until the arrival of Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson in the 19th century.  We must include the Aztec “poet-king” Nezahualcóyotl (1402-1472) in a statement so broad, yet de la Cruz does have something unique:  a prototypical “feminist” point of view.

Juana Inés de la Cruz lived in México City from the age of 16 onward, and died during a plague at the age of 43 – after tending to the stricken.  The out-of-wedlock daughter of a Spanish captain and a Criolla woman, she was an avid reader from childhood, and though she begged to disguise herself as a boy so as to continue her studies “more openly, in the Capital”, still she was “found out” and barred entrance to the university.  That didn’t stop her – she kept on educating herself – and she’d already had a good head start, sneaking ( – in colonial society women were strongly discouraged from becoming literate in all but religious devotional texts – ) her grandfather’s books to read from his hacienda library.  By her mid-teens she could speak and write in Latin, as well as Náhuatl, the language of the Aztecs.   Devout and a “Daughter of The Church” though she was, yet she challenged male hypocrisy in the poem featured here, Hombres Necios/Stupid, conceited Men.  Written in the conventional rhyming-quatrain verse form of the 17th century, Sister Juana addresses all Men;  the poet analyzes their attraction to, and efforts to attain, women who will have sex with them — women whom the men reject and judge utterly, afterwards.


Ann-Marie Scarlett: “La Vida” y “Quien yo soy” / “Life” and “Who I am”

 

Ann-Marie Scarlett

La Vida

 

 

Viviendo en un mundo sin paz,

De poco amor que no dura

¿Cuándo terminará  la guerra?

Todo trabajando juntos

Y amándonos  la una a la otra

En la Vida no hay límites

No hay satisfacción

Sino mucha distracción

Cavemos dentro de nosotras mismas

Buscando estar completas

Resultados, arrepentimientos,

Pensando en el tiempo

Cuando no lloraremos más

¿Habrá un tiempo de gozo puro

Un tiempo sin dolor?

¿O será siempre el desdén?

El Tiempo no espera a nadie

Y aún, solo el Tiempo lo dirá.

 

*

 

Life

 

 

Living in a world of no peace

Little love with no endurance

When will the war stop?

Everyone pulling together

And loving each other

With Life there are no boundaries

No satisfaction

But lots of distraction

Dig into ourselves

Looking for completeness

Results, regrets

Thinking of the time

When we’ll cry no more

Will there ever be a time of pure joy

A time with no pain

Or will it always be disdain

Time waits for no one

But still; only time will tell.

 

_____

 

Quien yo soy

 

 

Siempre estoy pensando en ese tiempo

Cuando yano estaré asustada

El tiempo cuando estaré liberada de mis miedos

El tiempo cuando no me preocuparé

El tiempo cuando diré:

Ésta es quien yo soy.

El tiempo cuando diré:

Me importa un bledo.

El tiempo cuando diré:

No necesito un hombre.

El tiempo cuando diga:

Ésta es quien yo soy.

El tiempo cuando no me sentiré tan sola

El tiempo cuando me sentiré bienvenida en casa

– el tiempo cuando diré:

Ésta es quien yo soy.

 

*

 

Who I am

 

 

I always think about the time

When I’ll be scared no more

The time I’ll be free from my fears

The time when I wouldn’t care

The time that I’ll say

This is who I am

The time I’ll say

I don’t give a damn

The time I’ll say

I don’t need a man

The time when I say

This is who I am

The time when I

Won’t feel so alone

The time when I’ll

Feel welcome at home

The time when I say

This is who I am.

 

 

*     *     *     *     *

Traducciones del inglés al español / Translations from English into Spanish:

Alexander Best and Lidia García Garay