Poetry in Translation

I suppose it bears mentioning that one of the things I want to be "when I grow up" is a translator, specifically a translator of literature. I want to do this because I am (theoretically) a writer, and I think that, when one translates words and sentences from one language to another, it's not just a mechanical process of substituting one word and meaning for its equivalent. In order to do it well, you have to have a mastery of the language you're translating into so that you can shape it in a way that is not only true to the form of the source text, but also to the deeper meaning and the effect. It's no good trying to translate the poetry of Borges from Spanish into English, if you don't understand writing poetry in English in the first place. A literal translation of poetry (and of most of literature) would sound wooden and strange. It would clunk along, having lost all of the music and beauty of the original, and people reading it would be put off and possibly spend their lives believing that Borges was a terrible poet with no sense of rhythm or language. Which would be a tragedy. So in order to do it right, you would need to read and understand the original, and then take it and shape the target language around it in your head, looking for images and expressions and words that can convey the beauty without losing the meaning.
And honestly, I think it's very difficult to do well. But it is worth doing.

All this is really just a preamble to saying that I would like to do this, and so, as I've been often reminded by the Sandwich, I have to practice doing it. Because I will not just wake up one morning being good at literary translation, I will have to work at it and study and practice practice practice. And now that I've FINALLY gotten myself inspired to do so, I would like to post some of the results here, to keep me motivated, hopefully. Or just to remind myself that I do have a goal here, and that even doing little things like wrapping other people's poetry in my own words and language are little steps in the direction that I want to go.

* * *

The following are poems written by Roque Dalton, a Salvadoran poet on whom I wrote my Spanish thesis. I don't own any of them and the translations I've done are not yet perfect.

"Like the Sempervivum"* -translation of "Como la siempreviva" by Roque Dalton

My poetry 

is like the Sempervivum

it pays its price 

for existence

in terms of bitterness.

Between the rocks and the fire,

faced with the tempest

or in the midst of the drought,

from above the banners

of necessary hate

and the gorgeous drive

of rage,

the flower of my poetry always seeks

the air, 

the humus,

the sap,

the sun,

of tenderness.

*The Sempervivum is a genus of succulent plants also known as Houseleek or Liveforever.

"Like you" -translation of "Como tú" by Roque Dalton

I, like you,
love Love,
Life,
the sweet enchantment of things
the celestial landscape of January days.

My blood also boils
and I weep with eyes
that have known the sting of tears.
I believe that the world is beautiful,
that poetry is like bread,
it belongs to everyone.

And that my veins do not end in me,
but in the unanimous blood
of those who fight for Life,
Love,
Things,
the landscape and the bread,
the poetry of all.

"The vain man" -translation of "El vanidoso" by Roque Dalton

Mine would be a grand death.
My vices then would shine like old jewels
with the delicious colors of venom.
There would be flowers of all aromas on my tomb
and the young people would imitate my gestures of exultation,
my hidden words of anguish.

Perhaps someone would say that I was loyal and that I was good.
But only you would remember
my way of looking you in the eye.

One of the faces of love is death,
in the smoke of this eternally youthful age.
What remains to me before you if not the perplexity of kings,
the gestures of learning before the river's flood,
the footprints of the prone figure among the ashes?
Youth fades away
and gloom gallops in like a mule.

Apologies

I'm sorry that I can't seem to be happy about life as it is.

Sorry that something's always wrong.

Sorry I can't let just this, what I have here, be enough.

This is my apology

For all my discontent

For wanting more to do when I am bored

And wishing for more time when I'm busy.

For looking too far ahead to see what's here in front of me

And cursing when I stumble on the obstacles between that horizon and myself.

For feeling paralyzed by the accumulation of little concerns

Until all I can do

Is lament about feeling paralyzed.

This is me saying sorry

For every time that I've been sad when I should have been counting my blessings

And every time I've felt angry at others

Because of my own ability to decide what I want.

For all the moments ruined by resentment

Toward the things in my life that I need but don't want.

This is me asking for forgiveness 

And forbearance

For wearing you out with my black moods

And insecurities about my existence

And for expecting you to accept all my apologies

When I feel guilty about it afterwards.

A Blog Update?? IMPOSSIBLE!

It seems to be that one of the impossible things mentioned in the title of this blog is actually writing posts. Which is to say, I haven't been very good at doing that. But what better time than November 2nd to begin again, since it's now National Novel-Writing Month? I actually thought about trying it this year, since it seems like something that would be "write" up my alley (pardon the pun), and would get me writing regularly, which would only be a good thing. And it's a November activity that will give me a more tangible result than participating in "No-Shave November" would. 

No matter how hard I try, I will never be able to rival this man's beard.

I still would like to try NaNoWriMo, even if I'm late and will probably not make it to the 50K word goal. Anything would be better than nothing! And I do happen to have a story beginning that I started years ago and still really would like to take further, so maybe the 15 pages already written could count for the first two-three days of missed writing time. 

Spoiler: It's about these guys.

 So hopefully I can hold myself to this one.

In other November news, I spent 6 hours today alternating between folding napkins and tablecloths, and staring blankly into space at work. I have learned that using the computer at the reception where I sit for Facebook is not okay, even though the home page for the browser is set to Facebook's login page. I have decorated the reservations books with pretty colors, drawn Buddhist nuns all over the hostess "to-do" list (after completing it), and discovered that the classical music mix of CDs in the restaurant stereo includes Pachelbel's Canon, something from "Zelda", and several classical versions of Metallica songs as performed by the Angry String Orchestra. There might be some stuff off of the "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon" soundtrack in there as well.

"Welcome to Marco Polo Global Restaurant. Let me show you to your seat."

However, at least I'm being paid to be this bored, which is more than I can say for my episodes of boredom before I got the job!

Another piece of news, more interesting: Today I read an article on the NY Times site about barefoot running which really got me interested. In short, people are rediscovering that human beings were great distance runners for thousands of years before Nike came along with schmancy padded shoes to "protect" us from hurting ourselves while doing the thing we evolved to do (why do you think we sweat instead of panting?). If you run right, you can run barefoot or in minimal footwear and never have an injury (aside from stepping on sharp things, I'm guessing). That's the idea behind those gorilla-feet shoes. My mom wears them and loves them, and I've been wanting to try them for a while now, but I'm thinking of just trying this barefoot running in the time between now and the day (ever more distant) when I have a spare 80-100 bucks to blow on shoes. Although on second thought, maybe I'll wear my ballet shoes or something in recognition of the fact that it is November and thus, flipping cold!

Barefoot running: more difficult when your feet are encased in ice.

Well, this has certainly been an interesting blog post, filled with sudden jumps in topic, irrelevant observations, and more illustrations than content, I fear. But they do say that a picture is worth a thousand words, which means that this post is actually very efficiently long, and also heavy, making it better trebuchet ammunition and likely to do greater damage to the enemy's walls. On that note, FIRE!!!

Ka-SHUNK!

...And it looks like all my dreams.

When I was a kid we had a book called The Big Orange Splot by D. Manus Pinkwater.  

It's about a man named Mr. Plumbean, who lives on a very "Neat Street" where all the houses look the same. One day, "(no one knows why)" a seagull carrying a can of orange paint flies over and drops the paint right onto the roof of Mr. Plumbean's house, leaving a big orange splot. (Picture this image, please)

The neighbors are upset by the blemish, which totally ruins "the look" of their street, and ask Mr. Plumbean to please paint his house to get rid of the splot. Plumbean, however, decides that he rather likes the splot, and what is more, decides to add to the theme. 

He paints his house in wild colors and patterns, and starts adding exotic plants to his lawn. The neighbors are horrified, but when they storm over to demand what he is thinking, Mr. Plumbean replies, "My house is me and I am it. My house is where I like to be, and it looks like all my dreams." He begins to discuss dreams with the neighbors one by one over tall glasses of lemonade, and pretty soon, every house on the street has sprouted new and unique paint jobs and additions, including a moat, a pet crocodile, and battlements.

The one on the left is a mobile home.

It's pretty fantastic. Even though we no longer have the book and I haven't read it in years, I can still quote from it (as evidenced by the quotes above, I didn't look those up). In fact, I see that one can buy it used for less than two bucks on Amazon...Hmm.


ANYWAY. Back to what we were talking about. Which was? Oh yes, that awesome quote.


"My house is me and I am it. My house is where I like to be, and it looks like all my dreams."

Something about that really resounds with me, for some reason. Maybe because it's such a simple statement. It sounds true. And I like the idea that home is (and should be) a place where you feel like you can be yourself, entirely and without hesitation. And it should be a place where you can unleash your inner creative being and let it splash orange and green paint on the walls, dig a moat in your lawn, and string a hammock between palm trees in the garden while you sip lemonade. 


Maybe it's my upbringing talking here, but those developments where every house has the same shape and is the same shade of beige just depress me. They are too perfect, to the point of looking completely un-lived in. It seems like people become too worried about their house fitting in with everyone else's*, and not concerned enough with making their house into a home where they, themselves, can feel alive. At least, not from the outside. (The insides I have theories on, too. But they can wait.)


And really, it goes for anything in life. It should look like all our dreams, because our dreams are crazy and wild and don't care at all about what the neighbors might say. What's the good of living if I do it for somebody else? I want to be who I am, wear what I want, not worry about what is "expected." Life can be so much fun, and it's so much easier to see that if I'm not tied up in knots over what other people might think of me. There are people in this world, lots of them, who will appreciate the person I am when I let go and just BE. 

There's nothing wrong with saying yes to that big orange splot on the roof and, instead of covering it up, making it a part of something new and exciting. It doesn't have to be a blemish. It could be a starting point instead. 

Hint: The crocodile is integral to any dream home.

 


 *And yes, I realize that these developments are built on a plan by developers, not by the choice of the occupants, and that said communities often actually have regulations regarding the colors one is allowed to paint one's house and whether one can build additions of any sort. Kind of makes it even creepier.

Song of my words

I brought you home with me one night
to say one thing to you
I let it out between my lips
let it fall into your ear
but I'm just not sure
I'm just not sure
that you know what you hear.

And oh I could never think to live
without this is my life
and I could never think to give
you something less than right
my dreams are cold, my words are old
I think my story won't be told.

Your lips are forming shapes of which
I build up castle walls
and this is how I make my wish
and this is how it falls
I guess tonight I'll take that kiss
and let the rest all fade
and in the morning when I wake
the world will be remade.


But in the night
I'll know what calls
I'll hear it in my dreams
and someday soon
I'll take it all
and give it back again.

So all the words I said to you
and all the words you heard
I gather up into my hands
and toss them to the wind
as they dissolve you'll hear them speak
but you won't understand
and when you turn and look at me
you'll find that I have learned.

This piece will go untitled

Sometimes I have to wonder why everybody cares so much about what other people do with their genitalia. Honestly, you'd think that would be the one subject that would be completely and totally the business of the person or people directly involved. How much more intimate can you get, really? So why on earth should it be the subject of endless public discussion, political debate, and governmental policy? When I think about it, it strikes me as incredibly creepy. How many people lie awake at night obsessing about where other people are putting their junk, and how they're doing it and what is on it or in it. Ew. Apparently it's not a new thing, though. How long ago was it that a married couple could be arrested for having anal sex? (Or anything that wasn't man-on-woman missionary, for that matter?) Not very, in some states. The Supreme Court finally ruled that private sexual conduct such as sodomy is protected by the liberty rights implicit in the Constitution in 2003. I'm sorry, but really?

But hey, apparently when Thomas Jefferson wrote a law in Virginia in 1778 which punished any man engaging in sodomy with castration, it was rejected as too liberal by a legislature which continued to prescribe death as the maximum penalty for the act of sodomy in Virginia. So really, this is progress, right? Ha. I notice that Wikipedia doesn't specify this law applying only to homosexual acts of sodomy. Guess that means that all those distinguished Virginian gentlemen with an enhanced appreciation of the female derriére were risking the death penalty. 

"Oh yeah, you shake dat ass..."

 So okay, the Founding Fathers were a bit on the prudish side. What can you expect with all those tight stockings and funny wigs? I had hoped we might have evolved a little further since then, in more than just fashion, but hey.

(And yes, my source for this information was Wikipedia. Apologies to all my college professors.)

The reason this subject has come up was that this weekend was the annual Parents and Family Weekend at my alma mater, and, as a shiny new alumna and in-denial college graduate, I felt obliged to attend the festivities. Sandwich had his mom here for the occasion, which gave me a good excuse to be there. Also, delicious food. 

In any case, one of the events that happens every year is one called "Guess the Straight Person", put on by the gay-straight alliance, in which a panel of volunteers (usually club members) answers the questions of the audience in an effort to determine who among them is straight (usually two of the panelists are straight, while the rest identify as everything from asexual to pansexual and everything in between). The idea is to make people think about the stereotypes they associate with heterosexuality and homosexuality (or queerness in general), but to have fun while doing it. The questions from the audience are pretty much anything-goes, except for those that would be a potential "out"-er (example: "do you like having sex with women?" That's a no-go), and panelists can answer as they feel comfortable. It's a great time and also thought-provoking. What more could you ask from a university event?

So yes, I went to an event in which a great deal of the time was spent trying to figure out what people preferred to do with their genitalia based on their taste in TV shows, automobiles and baked goods. (Incidentally, did you know that Subarus are apparently a gay car model? I didn't, and it puts my own ownership of a Subaru in a whole new light) Not surprisingly, the audience didn't have a very high success rate when it came to guessing who was straight and who was not. They generally don't, most years. Which is really the idea, I think. To point out that our assumptions of what is "normal" are completely subjective and that you can't use them as a measure for someone's sexuality. The girl with a penchant for kinky lingerie and bondage? She's straight as an arrow. And the boy next to her with the long-term girlfriend and no visible kinks? He's bisexual. And you know what? It doesn't matter, because we are all people and we all fall in love and really, that thing we do with our junk is the least of it.

An intro to all these impossible things

I thought that, since I am ostensibly writing this blog for others to read, I should at least give a quick introduction of where I am in life and who is there with me. Otherwise we are liable to get sidetracked by long explanations in the midst of mostly unrelated posts, or else risk everybody becoming completely confused. So, here we are:

I'm a writer, an artist, an amateur carpenter, and hardcore traveler. I am co-caretaker of a basil plant named Watson and a total book snob. I like quotes (in case you hadn't guessed from the name of my blog), and when I grow up I want to be a literary translator and/or a professor. (Then I could go to college FOR A LIVING!)

I graduated last spring from a small liberal arts university in the Pacific Northwest, which I loved loved loved. As a total nerd and devotee of knowledge of all kinds, I was horribly disappointed to be graduating after four wonderful years in college. And so, in part because I was (and still am, a bit) in denial about the whole thing, and in part due to other, more personal, reasons, I moved back to Salem after a summer at home to work and pretend to still be a student by association.

I currently live in an apartment that we have dubbed "The Nerd-aerie" with my roomie The Foodie, and between the two of us we probably eat better than most of the professors at the university. The Sandwich, my boyfriend, is still in school and lives on campus, and we have many strange and wonderful adventures together, some of which will probably be featured here at some point.

All in all, life is looking pretty good, even if I'm not in school and it makes me sad. And if, like last week, I ever become forgetful about the good things and start to focus on the negative, a good batch of crepes and a hug usually get me back on track. So that is my life in a nutshell, and the rest will probably hash itself out as we go.

Declaration of Intent

This blog is now officially active. I have started it. I have given it life and now it will be up to me to keep it alive with regular care and nourishment. It shall consist of tales of my life after college (the so-called "real world" feared by college students the world over), anecdotes and observations, a bit of fiction now and again, and probably a lot of musing.

It shall be written in a font called "Trebuchet", because that makes it sound like I am flinging my words at you, my readers, over the walls of a castle. Even if the font itself appears deceptively meek, never forget that it is actually coming at you from behind a curtain wall at 50 miles an hour, covered in flaming pitch.

It has been titled "Six impossible things before breakfast" after a quote from Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland by the Red Queen:

Alice: “There is no use trying; one can't believe impossible things."

Queen: "I dare say you haven't had much practice. When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.” 

So there.

I am not writing this blog for any particular purpose, other than to provide myself with a motive for writing. If it provides entertainment for anyone else, I will be glad. If not, I can live with that. So read on, dear reader, if curiosity prompts you to peer closer. 

Let's see what we can do with a font called Trebuchet and a little creative spark.