La luz del sol en la esquina de Sherbourne y Bloor

Ya muy tarde mi bicicleta me lleva a través de la ciudad.
Me pregunto como nosotros
amoldamos nuestras vidas, estos desórdenes brillantes,
estos finos errores inspirados cuando – Mira –

El futuro está totalmente implícito en el presente,
el presente es el resultado lógico

De todos los puntos en el pasado y ese edificio al cruzar la calle

su construcción que viene desde Siempre.
Todo lo que hacemos hoy contiene las semillas de su propia transformación.
El puente yace sobre la quebrada honda.

Algo me dice: Nunca harás nada más vital, más
profundo, más perfecto o más necesario que

lo que estás haciendo en estos momentos.

Hoy ha sido Viernes, ese era su nombre – Viernes – y
la luz del sol en Sherbourne y Bloor complementa la ciudad.

*

El Parque: veinte años más tarde

No es el mismo parque, pero podría serlo.

Es Christie Pits al fin del verano,

La tristeza colosal del fin del verano.

Otra arena, otro coliseo,

Atletas diferentes con su esbeltez poderosa,

Diferentes corredores con su fuerza esbelta.

Sentado en la grama reverdecida y lujosa comtemplo

Estos espléndidos jugadores al fin de su juego.

*

Sunlight at Sherbourne and Bloor

Late afternoon my bike takes me across the city. I wonder how we
fashion our lives, these brilliant disorders, these fine, inspired errors when

– look – the future is utterly implicit in the present, the present is the logical outcome

Of all points in the past, and that building going up across the
street has been going up forever. Everything we do now contains the
seeds of its own unfolding.  The bridge eases over the deep ravine.

Something tells me:

You will never do anything more vital, more profound, more perfect or more

Necessary than what you are doing right now.

Today has been Friday, that was its name – Friday – and  the

Sunlight at Sherbourne and Bloor completes the city.

*

The Park: twenty years later

It’s not the same park, but it may as well be.

It’s Christie Pits at the end of summer,

The colossal sadness of the end of summer.

Another arena, another colosseum,

Different athletes and their mighty slenderness,

Different runners with their slender might.

I sit on the extravagant overgreen grass and watch

These splendid players at the end of their game.

———————————————————-

Gwendolyn MacEwen (1941-1987)

Traducción de estos dos poemas al español por Lidia García Garay

*

Gwendolyn MacEwen (1941-1987) was a Torontonian poet.

She taught herself to read Arabic, Greek and Hebrew, and won

the Governor General’s Award for Poetry in 1969 with her collection,

“The Shadow Maker”.

Translation of the above two poems into Spanish by Lidia García Garay

*

Gwendolyn MacEwen’s poetry reprinted with permission of Ms. MacEwen’s Estate

Two poems by Carlos Drummond de Andrade

Português:

“Um boi vê os homens”

Tão delicados (mais que um arbusto) e correm e correm de um para o outro lado, sempre esquecidos de alguma coisa. Certamente falta-lhes não sei que atributo essencial, posto se apresentem nobres e graves, por vezes.
Ah, espantosamente graves, até sinistros.
Coitados, dir-se-ia que não escutam nem o canto do ar nem os segredos do feno,
como também parecem não enxergar o que é visível
e comum a cada um de nós, no espaço.
E ficam tristes e no rasto da tristeza chegam à crueldade.
Toda a expressão deles mora nos olhos -
e perde-se a um simples baixar de cílios, a uma sombra.
Nada nos pêlos, nos extremos de inconcebível fragilidade, e como neles há pouca montanha, e que secura e que reentrâncias e que impossibilidade de se organizarem em formas calmas, permanentes e necessárias.
Têm, talvez, certa graça melancólica (um minuto) e com isto se fazem
perdoar a agitação incômoda e o translúcido vazio interior que os torna tão pobres e carecidos de emitir sons absurdos e agônicos: desejo, amor, ciúme
(que sabemos nós), sons que se despedaçam e tombam no campo
como pedras aflitas e queimam a erva e a água,
e difícil, depois disto, é ruminarmos nossa verdade.

*

“An Ox Looks At Man”

They are more delicate even than shrubs and they run
and run from one side to the other, always forgetting
something.
Surely they lack I don’t know what
basic ingredient, though they present themselves
as noble or serious, at times.
Oh, terribly serious,
even tragic.
Poor things, one would say that they hear
neither the song of the air nor the secrets of hay;
likewise they seem not to see what is visible
and common to each of us, in space.
And they are sad,
and in the wake of sadness they come to cruelty.
All their expression lives in their eyes – and loses itself
to a simple lowering of lids, to a shadow.
And since there is little of the mountain about them –

nothing in the hair or in the terribly fragile limbs
but coldness and secrecy – it is impossible for them
to settle themselves into forms that are calm, lasting
and necessary.
They have, perhaps, a kind
of melancholy grace (one minute) and with this they allow
themselves to forget the problems
and translucent inner emptiness
that make them so poor and so lacking
when it comes to uttering silly and painful sounds:
desire, love, jealousy –  (what do we know ?)

– sounds that scatter and fall in the field
like troubled stones and burn the herbs and the water,
and after this it is hard to keep chewing away at our truth.

*

Español:

“Mira al Hombre el Buey”

Son tan delicados (más que los arbustos) y corren

y corren de un lado a otro, siempre olvidando algo.

Seguramente, les falta no sé

cual atributo esencial , aunque presentan a si mismos

como nobles or serios – a veces.

Ah, profundamente serios,

aun trágicos.

Pobrecitos, alguien podría decir que no escuchan

ni la canción del aire ni los secretos del heno,

como también parecen que no observan lo que es visible

y común a cada uno de nosotros, en el espacio.

Y están tristes,

y a su paso de la tristeza llegan a la crueldad.

Toda su expresión vive en los ojos – y se pierde

en un simple bajar de los párpados, a una sombra.

Y ya que hay poco de la montaña en ellos –

nada en su cabello o dentro los miembros de una inconcebible fragilidad

solo el friolento y el secreto – para ellos, es imposible

acostumbrarles a las formas tranquilas, duraderas

Y necesárias.

Tienen, quizás, una cierta gracia melancólica (un minuto) y con ésta les permiten

olvidar la agitación incómoda

y el vacío interior transparente

que les ponen tan pobres y tan careciendo

cuando dan los sonidos absurdos y agónicos:

el deseo, el amor, los celos – ¡ No sabemos nada ! –

los sonidos que esparcen y caen en el campo

como las piedras preocupadas y queman la hierba y el agua,

y después de ésto es difícil a seguir rumiando el asunto de nuestra verdad.

Traducción al español por Alexander Best

*

Português:

“No meio do caminho”

No meio do caminho tinha uma pedra
tinha uma pedra no meio do caminho
tinha uma pedra
no meio do caminho tinha uma pedra

Nunca me esquecerei desse acontecimento
na vida de minhas retinas tão fatigadas.
Nunca me esquecerei que no meio do caminho
tinha uma pedra
tinha uma pedra no meio do caminho
no meio do caminho tinha uma pedra.

*

“In the middle of the road”

In the middle of the road there was a stone
there was a stone in the middle of the road
there was a stone
in the middle of the road there was a stone.

Never should I forget this event
in the life of my fatigued retinas.
Never should I forget that in the middle of the road
there was a stone
there was a stone in the middle of the road
in the middle of the road there was a stone.

*

Español:

“En el medio de la carretera”

En el medio de la carretera había una piedra

había una piedra en el medio de la carretera

había una roca

en el centro del camino había una roca.

Que nunca yo debería escaecer este acontecimiento

en la vida de mis retinas fatigadas.

Que nunca yo debería escaecer que en el medio de la carretera

había una piedra

había una piedra en el medio de la carretera

en el centro del camino había una roca.

Traducción (y interpretación) al español por Alexander Best

_____

Carlos Drummond de Andrade, 1902 – 1987, was a Brasilian poet,

born in Minas Gerais.  His Portuguese poems often have a free-verse style,

and are full of every-day observations  seen through a socialist eye.

Translations into English from the original Portuguese by Mark Strand

Mark Strand is a Pulitzer-Prize-winning poet and translator.  His thoughtful

translations of de Andrade’s poems recreate the beautiful plain-ness of the originals.

“Growing in Spirit”

He who hopes to grow in spirit
will have to transcend obedience and respect.
He will hold to some laws
but he will mostly violate
both law and custom, and go beyond
the established, inadequate norm.
Sensual pleasures will have much to teach him.
He will not be afraid of the destructive act:
half the house will have to come down.
This way he will grow virtuously into wisdom.

*

Greek:

Δυνάμωσις

Όποιος το πνεύμα του ποθεί να δυναμώσει
να βγει απ’ το σέβας κι από την υποταγή.
Aπό τους νόμους μερικούς θα τους φυλάξει,
αλλά το περισσότερο θα παραβαίνει
και νόμους κ’ έθιμα κι απ’ την παραδεγμένη
και την ανεπαρκούσα ευθύτητα θα βγει.
Aπό τες ηδονές πολλά θα διδαχθεί.
Την καταστρεπτική δεν θα φοβάται πράξι·
το σπίτι το μισό πρέπει να γκρεμισθεί.
Έτσι θ’ αναπτυχθεί ενάρετα στην γνώσι.

*

Español:

“Creciendo en Espíritu”

El que espera crecer en espíritu

tendrá que transcender la obediencia y el respeto.

Cumplirá ciertas leyes

pero más que todo violará

la ley y la costumbre ambas, e irá más allá

de la norma establecida insuficiente.

Los placeres sensuales tendrán mucho que enseñarle.

No tendrá miedo del acto destructor:

tendrá que echar abajo la mitad de la casa.

De esta manera madurará virtuosamente en sabiduría.

*

“Hidden Things”

From all I did and all I said
let no one try to find out who I was.
An obstacle was there that changed the pattern
of my actions and the manner of my life.
An obstacle was often there
to stop me when I’d begin to speak.
From my most unnoticed actions,
my most veiled writing—
from these alone will I be understood.
But maybe it isn’t worth so much concern,
so much effort to discover who I really am.
Later, in a more perfect society,
someone else made just like me
is certain to appear and act freely.

*

Greek:

Κρυμμένα

Aπ’ όσα έκαμα κι απ’ όσα είπα
να μη ζητήσουνε να βρουν ποιος ήμουν.
Εμπόδιο στέκονταν και μεταμόρφωνε
τες πράξεις και τον τρόπο της ζωής μου.
Εμπόδιο στέκονταν και σταματούσε με
πολλές φορές που πήγαινα να  πω.
Οι πιο απαρατήρητές μου πράξεις
και τα γραψίματά μου τα πιο σκεπασμένα —
από εκεί μονάχα θα με νιώσουν.
Aλλά ίσως δεν αξίζει να καταβληθεί
τόση φροντίς και τόσος κόπος να με μάθουν.
Κατόπι — στην τελειοτέρα κοινωνία —
κανένας άλλος καμωμένος σαν εμένα
βέβαια θα φανεί κ’ ελεύθερα θα κάμει.

Translated from Greek into English by Edmund Keeley / Philip Sherrard

*

Español:

“Cosas Ocultas”

De todo lo que hice y dije,

que nadie intente descubrir quien yo era.

Había un obstáculo allá que cambió el diseño

de mis actos y la manera de mi vida.

Allá había un obstáculo, a menudo,

para pararme cuando yo comenzaba a hablar.

De los actos más desapercibidos,

de la obra escrita más velada –

de aquellos solamente yo seré comprendido.

Pero quizás no vale la pena tanta inquietud,

tanto esfuerzo para descubrir quien soy yo en verdad.

Después, en una sociedad más perfecta,

algún otro – hecho justamente como yo –

con seguridad aparecerá y se comportará con libertad.

Traducciones al español por Alexander Best

_____

Constantine Cavafy (Konstantin Kavafis), 1863-1933,

was born and died in Alexandria, Egypt,

though his parents were from Greece.   He

wrote most of his poems after the age of 40,

all the while holding a dull job as a civil servant.

He is one of the great poets in modern Greek, and

though the Greek originals are in rhyme,  still

Keeley and Sherrard (the standard setters for 20th-century

Greek poetry translation, along with George Savidis), in their free-verse

English renderings remain true to Kavafis’ signature “pondering-aloud” style

as well as preserving the poet’s subtlety of feeling and tone.

After great pain, a formal feeling comes –
The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs –
The stiff Heart questions “was it He, that bore,”
And “Yesterday, or Centuries before”?

The Feet, mechanical, go round
A Wooden way

Of Ground, or Air, or Ought –
Regardless grown,
A Quartz contentment, like a stone –

This is the Hour of Lead –
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –
First – Chill – then Stupor –  then the letting go –

*

Italiano:

Dopo una grande pena, un sentimento formale subentra –
I Nervi siedono cerimoniosi, come Tombe –
Il Cuore irrigidito si chiede “fu proprio Lui, che soffrì,”
E “Ieri, o Secoli fa?”

I Piedi, meccanicamente, vanno tutt’intorno –
Un Legnoso percorso
Di Terra, o Aria, o Altro –

Incuranti del divenire,
Un appagamento di Quarzo, come una pietra –

Questa è l’Ora Plumbea –
Ricordata, se si sopravvive,
Come un Assiderato, rammenta la Neve –

Prima – il Freddo – poi lo Stupore – poi il lasciarsi andare –

*

Español:


Después de un gran dolor un sentimiento solemne llega –
Los Nervios descansan ceremoniosos, como Tumbas –
El Corazón endurecido se pregunta  ¿si fue Él, quien aguantó,
Y Ayer, o hace Siglos?


Los Pies dan vuelta mecánicamente –
Una senda Rígida
De Suelo, de Aire, de Obligación –
Crecido sin cuidado alguno,
Una conformidad de Quarzo, como una piedra – 

Esta es la Hora de Plomo –
Recordados, si hay sobrevivientes,
Como las personas Helandas recolectan la Nieve –
Primero – Frío – después Asombro – después rendirse –

_____

To make Routine a Stimulus
Remember it can cease –
Capacity to terminate
Is a specific Grace –
Of Retrospect the Arrow
That power to repair
Departed with the torment
Become, alas, more fair –

*

Italiano:

Per fare della Routine uno Stimolo
Ricorda che può cessare –
La capacità di concludere
È una specifica Grazia –

Della Memoria la Freccia
Quel potere di riparare
Spartito con il tormento
Diventa, ahimè, più caro –

Traduzione Italiana de Giuseppe Ierolli

Giuseppe Ierolli has translated the complete works of Emily Dickinson – sì,

tutte le opere !  He is an acknowledged expert on the poet’s life and oeuvre

And his passion makes for a true labour of love.

*

Español:

Para hacer la Rutina un Estímulo

Recuerda que puede cesar –

La abilidad de terminar

Es una Gracia específica –

De Retrospección la Flecha

Ese poder de reparar

Partió con el tormento

¡ay de tí!, sé mas justo –

Traducciones al español por Lidia García Garay

_____

Emily Dickinson, (1830 – 1886), was

born and raised in Amherst, Massachusetts, U.S.A.

She was eccentric, reclusive, and a prolific poet -

though only a handful of her thousand-plus poems

were published in her lifetime.

Unusual for 19th-century poems, Dickinson’s

often had short line lengths, made frequent

use of the dash, and no titles.  Early posthumous editions of

her poetry were edited so as to force her verse into

the poetical conventions of the period.  These two poems,

written in 1862 and 1871 respectively, are

modernizers of English well before the advent of

20th century experimentation.

“In  K’aba’”

In k’abae,
tikín ot’el,
chi’il chi’ u chi’chi’al,
u chá’acha’al tumén u dzay máako’ob.
Dzok in pitik u nóok’il in k’aba’
je bix u podzikúbal kan tu xla sóol.
ƑBaanten ma’ tan u yala xkakbach ti’ uj?
Leti’e suk u xínbal bul ák’ab,
suk u bulik u uínklil,
suk u balik u su’tal,
suk u t’ubkubaj ich ek’jochénil tumén dzok u p’ektik u sáasil.

Tumén leti’e sak kichpán xba’ba’al.
In k’abae
cha takan ti’ páalal.
In k’abae
tatak’cha’tan tumén p’ek.
Bejlae mina’an in k’aaba.
Tené aluxén tan in sosok’ik u tzotzel u pool yáamaj.

_____

“Mi Nombre”

Mi nombre
pellejo disecado
de boca en boca es mordido,
es masticado por los colmillos de la gente.
Me he despojado del ropaje de mi nombre
así como la serpiente de su piel.

Por qué no llaman prostituta a la luna?
Ella acostumbra caminar por las noches,
acostumbra apostar su cuerpo,
acostumbra ocultar su vergüenza,
acostumbra sumergirse en la oscuridad porque ya detesta su claridad.

Porque ella es una hermosa alimaña blanca.
Mi nombre
es chicle prohibido para los niños.
Mi nombre

ha sido pisoteado por el desprecio.
Ahora ya no tengo nombre.
Soy un duende que le revuelve la cabellera al amor.

_____

“My Name”

My name

a scraped animal hide,

from mouth to mouth

bitten and chewed by people’s fangs.

I’ve stripped myself of the garb of my name

like a snake sheds its skin.

Why don’t they call the moon prostitute ?

She’s used to walking through the night,

accustomed to betting on her body,

to hiding her shame,

immersing herself in darkness

(because she loathes her own brightness).

Because she’s a pretty white pest

my name is chewing gum the kids aren’t allowed to have.

My name

has been trampled upon by contempt.

And now I have no name.

I am a spirit that turns its tail on love.

_____

“A Yáamaj”

Mix máak ku yuk’ul tin luuch,
mix máak ku jupik u k’ab ichil in leek,
mix máak ku janal tin laak.
A yámae júntuul tzayam kóil peek’ ch’apachtán tumen máako’ob.
Nájil naj ku páatal yéetel u xtakche’il jool naj
Tu láakal máak yójel dzok u chíiken a yáamaj.

_____

“Tu Amor”

Nadie bebe en mi jícara,
nadie introduce la mano en mi guardatortillas,
nadie come en mi cajete.
Tu amor es un perro rabioso perseguido por la gente.
De casa en casa es esperado con la tranca en la puerta.
Toda la gente sabe que me ha mordido tu amor.

_____

“Your Love”

Nobody drinks from my gourd,

Nobody slips their hand into my breadbox,

Nobody eats from my bowl.

Your love is a rabid dog chased away by everyone.

From house to house a barred door awaits it.

And people know your love has bitten me.

_____

“Como el carbón”

Y entonces naciste,

niña de ojos muy negros.

Tan negros como el carbón que hace tu padre,

como la olla de tu madre,

como el reverso de su comal.

Como el ojo del pozo cuando lo asaetea la oscuridad.

_____

“Like charcoal”

And so you were born,

little girl with eyes so black.

Black like the charcoal your father makes,

like your mother’s cooking pot,

or the underside of the “comal”*.

Like the eye of the waterwell when it pierces the darkness.

* comal:  earthenware disc or metal pan placed over the fire,

especially used for cooking corn tortillas

_____

Briceida Cuevas Cob nació en 1969.  Su pueblo natal es Tepakán,

Estado de Campeche, en la península de Yucatán, México.

Es una poetisa vívida en la lengua maya y hace también sus propias traducciones al español.

(Traducciones al inglés por Alexander Best)

*

Briceida Cuevas Cob (born 1969) is a Mayan poet born in the town of Tepakán,

Campeche State, in the Yucatán Peninsula of México.

She also translates her own vivid Mayan-language poems into Spanish.

(English translations from the Spanish by Alexander Best)

_____ *   _____ *   _____

KNOWLEDGE

First the earth, then the plow:

So knowledge comes out of knowledge.

We know, we don’t know.

We don’t know we know.

We know we don’t know.

We think

This looks like that –

This lemon, that orange –

Until we taste the bitter.

_____

DEVELOPMENT

Change.

Like a child, an infant.

“Let’s go !  Let’s go !”

And our household grows.

“Let’s run.”

We can slow

And sit and stretch

In the sun

Till it sets, but tomorrow

Dawned yesterday.

_____

UNDER CONSIDERATION

Consider this.

Consider that.

Excellent.

Write it

And propose it

For consideration.

Also consider

The official response,

“It’s under consideration.”

Who is considering whom?

When?  Where?

How?  Why?

Give up?   Consider this.

_____

LEARNING FROM HISTORY

We learned from Marx and Lenin:

To be equal trim your feet

For one-size-fits-all shoes.

We made their mistakes, too.

Equally, we all make mistakes.

The evil is in not being corrected.

Aren’t we known

By what we do, undo and do again?

_____

YOUR  HEAD

From birth you need

A door in your head to live.

Mother, father, teacher, preacher,

Sister, brother, relations, friends

Or others of your kind

May have the key

Or it may be lost.

But they still have other ways

To open the lock.

Rancid butter rubbed on your skull

May let the sunshine in.

The phrase, “What are you,

Stupid?  Dumb?” might throw the bolt.

A flywhisk works on the less fragile.

A wooden spoon, a ruler or a good stick

Does the trick on harder nuts and…

Voilà!  An open mind!

_____

SPEAK  OUT

To speak out and to be spoken about,

Or to see no evil, hear no evil,

Shut up, keep it to yourself

And only complain in private?

That is not the question.

Read the constitution

Of our democratic state.

Exercise your rights

To tell it like it is,

Write as you see fit

And get a good night’s sleep.

You also have the right to take

Back what you say by mistake.

The freedom to express

Cannot be given up.

It comes from God.

Be free and brave.

Only one prison remains:

Our minds.

_____  *   _____  *   _____

El Saber

Al primero la tierra, pues el arado:

Tan que el saber viene del saber.

Sabemos, no sabemos.

No sabemos que sabemos.

Sabemos que no sabemos.

Pensamos que

Ésto parace como éso

- este limon, esa naranja -

hasta que degustemos el amargor.

_____

El Desarrollo

Cambio.

Como niño, como bebé.

¡Vamos!  ¡Vamos!

Y crecen nuestro hogar.

¡Corramos!

Podemos aflojar el paso

Y sentarnos, estirando,

Bajo del sol,

Hasta el anochecer, pero

Ayer amaneció la mañana.

_____

Sobre la Consideración

Considera ésto.

Considera éso.

Escríbelo

Y proponlo

Por la consideración.

Considera también

La respuesta oficial:

“Éso es algo que estamos considerando.”

¿Quién está considerando a quién?

¿Cuándo?  ¿Dónde?

¿Cómo – y Porqué?

¿Estás perplejo?

Considera ésto.

_____

Aprendiendo de la Historia

Aprendimos de Marx y Lenin:

A ser igual, recorta tus pies

por zapatos de unitalla.

(Cometimos sus errores también.)

Por otro lado, cometemos los errores

Todos nosotros.

Lo mal es no estar corregido.

¿ Nos conoce la gente

De lo que hacemos, deshacemos y hacemos de nuevo – no?

_____

Tu Cabeza

Del nacer te necesita

Una puerta en la cabeza para vivir.

Madre, padre, maestro, pastor.

Hermana, hermano, la familia y los amigos,

O unos otros de tu tipo

Tengan la llave

O la llave esté perdido.

Pero quedan otras maneras

Para abrir la cerradura.

La mantequilla rancia, frotada sobre el cráneo,

pueda dejar entrar la luz del sol.

La frase, “¿Eres cuál – Tonto?  o Bobo?

Quizás levantará el pestillo.

Sirve bien un matamoscas sobre la gente menos delicada.

Una cuchara/regla de madera,

O un palo bueno,

Con las “cáscaras de nuez” mas duras

Logran el truco…

¡Y ya está!  ¡La mente abierta!

_____

Habla – Di lo que piensas

¿Decir lo que se piensa y ser alguien discutido?

O:  ¿A ver nada de mal, a oír nada de mal,

Cállate, guárdalo a tu mismo

Y quejarte en privado?

Éso no es la pregunta.

Leye la constitución

De nuestro estado democrático.

Ejerce tus derechos

A decir lo que es tu verdad,

Escribe por tu manera

Y duerme bien.

Tienes también el derecho de

Retirar lo que dijiste en error.

La libertad de expresar

no debe estar cedido.

Es algo de Dios.

Sé libre y valiente.

Solamente queda una cárcel:

Nuestra mente.

_____  *  _____  *  _____

Reesom Haile, who died in 2003, was a much-loved Eritrean

poet and public personality.

After working as a radio and television journalist in Ethiopia, he

studied in the USA where he completed a doctorate at New York

University.  A consultant to the U.N., government and NGOs for

twenty years, he returned in 1994 to Eritrea whose thirty-year

independence struggle with Ethiopia had just drawn to a close.

(After five years of relatively peaceful relations the two

countries engaged in a border war (1998-2000)

- over Red Sea access – that claimed 100,000 lives.)  The reality of

war has formed the backdrop to, and sometimes the impetus for,

Haile’s verse.

His language, Tigrinya, is spoken by half (about 3,000,000 people)

the countryfolk in a nation which includes 9 languages and a variety

of ethnic groups.  Tigrinya derives from ancient Ge’ez, as do Tigre

and Amharic.  And Ge’ez is related – like Arabic and Hebrew -

to Aramaic, said to be the language spoken by Jesus.

This is poetry that embraces the Eritrean people, turns an eye

both wry and loving on their history and politics, and also issues

a sincere challenge to “get cracking” !

It is verse of vitality and wit, and is rendered beautifully

into English by Professor Charles Cantalupo of Pennsylvania State

University – a poet himself and a translator who balances gravity of

theme with a lightness of touch, thereby giving us something

of the essential character of Reesom Haile.

*

The poems featured here are from Reesom Haile’s collection:

We Have Our Voice  (Lawrenceville and Asmara: The Red Sea Press,

2000) – the first-ever bilingual edition (Tigrinya + English)

of Tigrinya poems.   Zócalo Poets is grateful to Professor Cantalupo for

assistance in posting the Tigrinya originals.

Translations from the English into Spanish:  Alexander Best

_____

Mucho amado por sus compatriotas, Reesom Haile fue un poeta y

erudito.  Su país, Eritrea, está situado al noreste de África, con una

costa al borde del Mar Rojo.

Durante su vida – se murió en 2003 – escribió dos mil poemas en el

lenguaje Tigriña, un idioma antiguo de la familia lingüística semítica

(como árabe, hebreo, y arameo – “la lengua de Jesús de Nazaret”.)

Lleno de inteligencia, vitalidad y ingenio, sus poemas han estado

traducido por el profesor universitario Charles Cantalupo

(de Penn State) con tanta franqueza, con tanto encanto.

Traducción del inglés al español:  Alexander Best

Peter Blue Cloud

Coyote makes the First People

Coyote stopped to drink at a big lake and saw his reflection.  “Now there’s a really good-looking coyote,”  he said, leaning farther over.

And of course he fell in.  And of course you will think this is a take-off on an old theme.

But what happened was, he drank up the whole lake to keep from drowning.  And because he didn’t really like the taste of certain fish, he spat them out.  And because he felt sorry when he saw them flopping around, he sang a song to give them legs.

“Maybe they’ll become the first people,” Coyote mused aloud.

“Oh no you don’t,” said the headman of that tribe of fish, “if it’s all the same with you, could you just put us back where we were?  And could you please take away these stupid legs?”

So Coyote regurgitated the lake and put everything back the way it was.

Again he saw his reflection and said, “Okay, you’re pretty good-looking, but are you smart?  I’ve been trying to make the first people for a long time now, but nothing wants to be people. So, what do I do – huh – can you tell me?”

His reflection studied him for a long time, then it squatted and dropped a big turd.

“Okay,” said Coyote, “I guess that’s as good an answer as any.”

Then he himself squatted and began to fashion the first people…

_____

An Arrangement

Three dried stems of grass.  A horizontally branching twig of bittersweet.  A single, tiny, hand-like bit of cedar bough found upon the ground.

How to place their stems within the narrow neck of a delicate, ceramic vessel?

Ah, good…But no, perhaps I should break one of the grass stems, to give a sharp downward angle, to balance the bittersweet.

But that’s manipulation, isn’t it?  Well – so’s picking them in the first place.

“We’re out of kindling,”  Coyote Woman said.

Hm, cedar kindling sure makes a nice, smooth, splintering, creaking, tearing-like-jerky noise as the axe penetrates.  If I close my eyes I can daydream the sound into scenes and sensations and imagine all kinds of… …

Yes, Coyote is even like this, sometimes.

_____

Coyote, Coyote, Please Tell Me

–  What is a shaman?

A shaman I don’t know

anything about.

I’m a doctor, myself.

When I use medicine,

it’s between me,

my patient,

and the Creation.

*

Coyote, Coyote, please tell me – what is power?

It is said that power

is the ability to start

your chainsaw

with one pull.

*

Coyote, Coyote, please tell me – what is magic?

Magic is the first taste

of ripe strawberries, and

magic is a child dancing

in a summer’s rain.

*

Coyote, Coyote, please tell me – why is Creation?

Creation is because I

went to sleep last night

with a full stomach,

and when I woke up

this morning,

everything was here.

*

Coyote, Coyote, please tell me who you belong to?

According to the latest

survey, there are certain

persons who, in poetic

or scholarly guise,

have claimed me like

a conqueror’s prize.

Let me just say

once and for all,

just to be done:

Coyote, he belongs to none.

_____

Elderberry Flute Song

He was sitting there on a stone

at world’s end,

all was calm and Creation was

very beautiful.

There was a harmony and a wholeness

in dreaming,

and peace was a warming breeze

given by the sun.

*

The sea rose and fell

in the rhythm of his mind,

and stars were points of thought

which led to reason.

The universe turned in the vastness

of space like a dream,

a dream given once and carried

forever as memory.

*

He raised the flute to lips

sweetened by springtime

and slowly played a note

which hung for many seasons

above Creation.

And Creation was content

in the knowledge of music.

*

The singular note drifted

far and away

in the mind of Creation,

to become a tiny roundness.

And this roundness stirred

to open new born eyes

and gazed with wonder

at its own birth.

Then note followed note

in a melody which wove

the fabric of first life.

The sun gave warmth

to waiting seedlings,

and thus were born

the vast multitudes

from the song

of a flute.

Editor’s note:

The Coyote (“Canis latrans”) is related to the domestic dog, the wolf, and the fox – and based upon its proven adaptability to human settlement is one of the most reviled – and admired – North American animals of the last century-and-a-half.

*

And then there is Coyote…

Coyote can be Trickster, Fool, Clown – and even The Creator – in Native mythologies of North America.

Often anthropomorphic, he is energetic, slyly resourceful, full of himself, goofy, embarrassing, a total liar and completely honest.

Coyote has been compared to Prometheus in Greek mythology and Anansi in the Ashanti mythology of Ghana.

But how about the Irish Leprechaun — or Bugs Bunny ?  They share a lot in common with Coyote, too.

Encounters with Coyote are often spiritually transformative for Human Beings – and he himself is neither dog nor wolf nor fox but a synthesis-in-progress, with Us thrown in just to keep it weird.   Life Lessons plus earthy humour – these are Coyote’s “story”.

*

Peter Blue Cloud (Aroniawenrate) (1935 – 2011)

was a Mohawk poet and short-story-teller – of the Turtle Clan – born in Kahnawake, Mohawk Territory, (Québec, Canada).

He travelled to the west coast of the USA where he spent years as an iron-worker, logger and ranch-hand.

He participated in the craziness of Beat and Hippy cultures in the California of the early 1960s through the mid- ‘70s – learning from those amorphous “movements” yet distancing himself from their excessive self-absorption.  Spending time with Maidu Elders in California, he was strengthened by their wisdom and their stories.

In 1972 his history of the 1969 Native “Occupation” of the former Alcatraz Prison/Island – “Alcatraz is not an Island” – was published.  In 1975-76 – and again from 1983-85 – he wrote for and edited Akwesasne Notes, a Native journal published out of Akwesasne, New York.

He was a recipient of the American Book Award in 1981 – chosen by other writers.

ZP_Untitled, Doves_painting by Skip Noah

احمد شاملو

Ahmad Shamlu (1925-2000, Tehran, Iran)

ZP_Doves of Peace Quartet by Asbjorn Lonvig

Ahmad Shamlu (1925-2000, Tehran, Iran)

“Bright Horizon”

.

Bright horizon

Some day we will find our doves

Kindness will take Beauty by the hand

.

That day – the least song will be a kiss

and every human being be brother to

every other human being

.

That day – house doors will not be shut

Locks will be but legends

And the Heart be enough for Living

.

The day – that the meaning of all speech is loving

so one won’t have to search for meaning down to the last word

The day – that the melody of every word be Life

and I won’t be suffering to find the right rhythm for every last poem

.

That day – when every lip is a song

and the least song will be a kiss

That day – when you come – when you’ll come forever –

and Kindness be equal to Beauty

.

The day – that we toss seeds to the doves…

and I await that day

even if upon that day I myself no longer be.

.     .     .     .     .

We are grateful to Hassan H. Faramarz for the Persian-to-English translation of “Bright Horizon”.

Today in Toronto, at the Art Gallery of Ontario, a first-time-ever exhibition in Canada opens:  “Frida and Diego:  Passion, Politics and Painting”.  Combining the divergent artworks of México’s famous bohemian ‘power couple” of the twentieth century, Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera – an odd yet charismatic pair of artists/soul-mates.

.

Diego Rivera (1886-1957) put México on the map internationally for his enormous public murals depicting Mexican history with a distinct Marxist perspective – and by placing Indigenous people front-and-centre in his work.  Arguably, fellow muralists José Orozco and David Siqueiros were superior artists but Rivera’s vast energy and robust national/historical vision place him at the forefront.  Though in his smaller painted canvases (some of which may be seen at the A.G.O. show) Rivera is wildly uneven as to technique and intellectual perspective – he can be cloying and  mediocre – still, he is an exceptional figure for his vitality alone.

A maverick originality defines Frida Kahlo (1907-1954).  In her short gutsy life she altered people’s perception of what it meant to be a woman painter.  Though her small-size – and they are almost always small – canvases lack painterly finesse , nonetheless they are deeply affecting for their self-absorbed even disturbingly raw subject matter/point of view.  Here  was something new in a female painter – and Kahlo has been embraced by Surrealists, Feminists, champions of “Mestizaje”, Disabled and Chronic-Pain Activists, Body Self-Modifiers, and dedicated Non-Conformists.  All have found what they needed in the work and life of this complex artist and woman – one who continues to fascinate a new generation now discovering her.

.

We present three poems in translation from Spanish by young poets who have meditated upon the “meaning of” Diego and of Frida…

.     .     .

Hoy en Toronto, el 20 de octubre, se inaugurará en La Galería de Arte de Ontario una exposición centrada en obras de los artistas Frida Kahlo y Diego Rivera – y titulada:  Frida y Diego: Pasión, Política y Pintura.  Es la primera vez que están en Canadá las pinturas de estos “compañeros” lo más famosos del arte mexicano del siglo XX.

Y para celebrar este hecho – las reflexiones de tres poetas…

.     .     .

Eduardo Urueta (pseudonym)

“Poem for Diego Rivera” (December 2011)

.

México:

The wet-nurse that breastfed you,

Who gave you your icy tone in love,

And who drew you, with his plump hands, as

Black women, soldiers on fire, Communists, kids;

México misses you –

this place is a fountain of the dismal…

.

So pronounced is your brow – like your temper.

So easygoing – so bearable – these mummy-like buildings.

The México of your tree-of-awareness is – like you – dead.

They’ve got skeletons – ‘at par’ now.

We are grey dust – smog – save for

Guanajuato which keeps on with its brightly-coloured houses in the hills and its

Streets smelling of oil paints – almost kissing us.

.

The buckets which by you got filled in two days

And by the third became big round chests or trunks-ful,

Were:

1. a nude portrait of (audacious poetess) Guadalupe Amor

2. a transvestite you never wanted and who ‘rouged’ you with his bearded cheeks,

And

3. your dead son by your first wife, Angelina Beloff.

.

So much matrimony to satisfy your hefty body,

So much travel to make ‘bug out’ those toad-eyes of yours,

So many kilometres of walls

To fill this country UP with History.

.

You are in debt.

You await – you hope for – a novice urbanization.

You have to hope – always – that the

Wall of memory (painted by you)

Bears the weight of – can hold up – the sky for you.

People will continue to love

The “Bellas Artes” fresco,

and that staircase mural decorated by your hands

– until the thing collapses and falls down…

.     .     .

Eduardo Urueta (Seudónimo)

“Poema para Diego Rivera” (diciembre 2011)

.

México:

la nodriza que te amamantó,

quien te dio tu gélido acento de amor,

y quien te dibujó, en las manos llenas,

mujeres morenas, soldados en combustión, comunistas, niños;

te extraña

- es una fuente sombría.

.

Tan pronunciada tu frente, como tu genio

Tan llevadera la momia de los edificios.

El México de tu árbol-conciencia,

como tú, está muerto.

Se hicieron a la par esqueletos.

Somos polvo gris,

excepto Guanajuato que sigue con casas de color en sus cerros

y sus calles huelen a aceite de pintura, a besos.

.

Los cubos que en ti cupieron dos días

y al tercero se volvieron un baúl redondo,

fueron

Un retrato desnudo de Guadalupe Amor,

Un hombre travesti que nunca quisiste y que ruborizaste de rosa

sus mejillas de hombre barbón,

y tu hijo muerto de Angelina Beloff.

.

Tanto matrimonio para llenar tu cuerpo gordo

tanto viaje

para llenar tus ojos de sapo

tanto kilómetro de muros

para llenar de historia al país

.

En deuda estás.

Te espera el blanco de la novicia urbanización

Te ha de esperar, siempre

el muro de la memoria

te ha de sufrir el cielo

por sujetarte el peso.

Te seguirá amando Bellas Artes

su escalera adornada de tus manos

hasta que se derrumbe…

José Pablo Sibaja Campos

“To Frida”

.

Today, when inexorable Time has shown us

How many calendars have gone up in smoke;

Now that the leaves have begun to fall from the trees;

Only just today when the sky seems to be transforming itself into a violent sea;

I – pausing before your face and its glance – have got to say:

Frida Camarada Kahlo,

That which you painted at one time or another as if wanting to speak to me;

The same fixed glance with which you have turned yourself into a nereid, a sea-nymph,

from that murky sea  many people wanted to conquer but which few have achieved.

.

To be sure, Frida, there are those who look for you under the shade of some Rivera painting;

Others, naïve ones, find you within the shuttered corridors of a dream

– Poor them! – sad…blind.

They don’t notice that you live in your paintings, your paintings live in you.

Come, Frida, rise up and walk, as if you were the biblical Lazarus.

Show yourself again and let us once more call you:

Woman, Artist, Revolutionary.

.     .     .

José Pablo Sibaja Campos

“A Frida”

.

Hoy que el inexorable tiempo nos ha enseñado

Cuantos calendarios ha quemado ya.

Ahora que las hojas han empezado a caer de los árboles,

Justo hoy que el cielo parece convertirse en un mar violento,

Tengo que decirlo, me detuve ante tu mirada

Frida Camarada Kahlo

Esa que pintaste una y otra vez como queriendo hablarme,

La misma mirada con la que te has convertido en la nereida

Del turbio mar que muchos quisieron conquistar

Pero que pocos han logrado.

.

Es cierto Frida algunos te buscan balo la sombra de un tal Rivera,

Otros ingenuos,

Te hallan en los postigos pasillos del sueño

Pobre de ellos, tristes…ciegos.

No se dan cuenta que vives en tu obra y tu obra en ti.

Ven Frida levántate y anda, cual si fueras el Lázaro bíblico

Muéstrate de nuevo y déjanos llamarte una vez más;

Mujer, Artista, Revolucionaria.

.     .     .

Hellen Chinchilla

“Between transgression and normalcy”

.

Why?

Why do you have to be along that line where there are no lines – no horizons?

Why are you not the same as all the others?

Why must you be seen as transgressive and not as normal?

Where is that fine line that keeps you apart?

Apart to be what you must be!

Forced by life, by decision, and by pain to be in that line off to one side,

where the others, even though they wanted not to be there,

are leaving behind the boundaries of the hetero…

Oh, you knew how to love…

You – different Woman,

Woman-transgressor,

Normal Woman – and then some.

Woman.

Hellen Chinchilla

“Entre la transgresión y la normalidad”

.

¿Por qué?

¿Por qué debes estar en la línea dónde no hay líneas?

¿Por qué no eres de las mismas?

¿Por qué tienes que ser vista como transgresora y no como normal?

¿Dónde está esa delgada línea que te mantiene al margen,

Al margen de ser lo que debes ser?

Obligada por vida, decisión y dolor a estar en la línea de al lado

En donde las otras, aunque quieran no pueden estar

Dejando atrás la frontera de lo hetero…

– Supiste amar…

Mujer diferente,

Mujer transgresora,

Mujer normal – o una más…

Mujer.

.     .     .     .     .

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

“A Frida” y “Entre la transgresión y la normalidad” y “Poema para Diego Rivera”

©  José Pablo Sibaja Campos, Hellen Chinchilla, Eduardo Urueta

.     .     .     .     .

Retratos de Frida Kahlo:  dibujos hechos por unos adolescentes y niños en Toronto, Canadá, otoño de 2012:

ZP_Dance_by Aaron Douglas 1899-1979

Love poems, Blues poems – from The Harlem Renaissance:

Langston Hughes verses composed between 1924 and 1930:

.     .     .

“Subway Face”

.

That I have been looking

For you all my life

Does not matter to you.

You do not know.

.

You never knew.

Nor did I.

Now you take the Harlem train uptown;

I take a local down.

(1924)

.     .     .

“Poem (2)” (To F. S.)

.

I loved my friend.

He went away from me.

There’s nothing more to say.

The poem ends,

Soft as it began –

I loved my friend.

(1925)

.     .     .

“Better”

.

Better in the quiet night

To sit and cry alone

Than rest my head on another’s shoulder

After you have gone.

.

Better, in the brilliant day,

Filled with sun and noise,

To listen to no song at all

Than hear another voice.

.     .     .

“Poem (4)” (To the Black Beloved)

.

Ah,

My black one,

Thou art not beautiful

Yet thou hast

A loveliness

Surpassing beauty.

.

Oh,

My black one,

Thou art not good

Yet thou hast

A purity

Surpassing goodness.

.

Ah,

My black one,

Thou art not luminous

Yet an altar of jewels,

An altar of shimmering jewels,

Would pale in the light

Of thy darkness,

Pale in the light

Of thy nightness.

.     .     .

“The Ring”

.

Love is the master of the ring

And life a circus tent.

What is this silly song you sing?

Love is the master of the ring.

.

I am afraid!

Afraid of Love

And of Love’s bitter whip!

Afraid,

Afraid of Love

And Love’s sharp, stinging whip.

.

What is this silly song you sing?

Love is the master of the ring.

(1926)

.     .     .

“Ma Man”

.

When ma man looks at me

He knocks me off ma feet.

When ma man looks at me

He knocks me off ma feet.

He’s got those ‘lectric-shockin’ eyes an’

De way he shocks me sho is sweet.

.

He kin play a banjo.

Lordy, he kin plunk, plunk, plunk.

He kin play a banjo.

I mean plunk, plunk…plunk, plunk.

He plays good when he’s sober

An’ better, better, better when he’s drunk.

.

Eagle-rockin’,

Daddy, eagle-rock with me.

Eagle rockin’,

Come an’ eagle-rock with me.

Honey baby,

Eagle-rockish as I kin be!

.     .     .

“Lament over Love”

.

I hope my child’ll

Never love a man.

I say I hope my child’ll

Never love a man.

Love can hurt you

Mo’n anything else can.

.

I’m goin’ down to the river

An’ I ain’t goin’ there to swim;

Down to the river,

Ain’t goin’ there to swim.

My true love’s left me

And I’m goin’ there to think about him.

.

Love is like whiskey,

Love is like red, red wine.

Love is like whiskey,

Like sweet red wine.

If you want to be happy

You got to  love all the time.

.

I’m goin’ up in a tower

Tall as a tree is tall,

Up in a tower

Tall as a tree is tall.

Gonna think about my man –

And let my fool-self fall.

(1926)

.     .     .

“Dressed Up”

.

I had ma clothes cleaned

Just like new.

I put ’em on but

I still feels blue.

.

I bought a new hat,

Sho is fine,

But I wish I had back that

Old gal o’ mine.

.

I got new shoes –

They don’t hurt ma feet,

But I ain’t got nobody

For to call me sweet.

.     .     .

“To a Little Lover-Lass, Dead”

.

She

Who searched for lovers

In the night

Has gone the quiet way

Into the still,

Dark land of death

Beyond the rim of day.

.

Now like a little lonely waif

She walks

An endless street

And gives her kiss to nothingness.

Would God his lips were sweet!

.     .     .

“Harlem Night Song”

.

Come,

Let us roam the night together

Singing.

.

I love you.

Across

The Harlem roof-tops

Moon is shining.

Night sky is blue.

Stars are great drops

Of golden dew.

.

Down the street

A band is playing.

.

I love you.

.

Come,

Let us roam the night together

Singing.

.     .     .

“Passing Love”

.

Because you are to me a song

I must not sing you over-long.

.

Because you are to me a prayer

I  cannot say you everywhere.

.

Because you are to me a rose –

You will not stay when summer goes.

(1927)

.     .     .

“Desire”

.

Desire to us

Was like a double death,

Swift dying

Of our mingled breath,

Evaporation

Of an unknown strange perfume

Between us quickly

In a naked

Room.

.     .     .

“Dreamer”

.

I take my dreams

And make of them a bronze vase,

And a wide round fountain

With a beautiful statue in its centre,

And a song with a broken heart,

And I ask you:

Do you understand my dreams?

Sometimes you say you do

And sometimes you say you don’t.

Either way

It doesn’t matter.

I continue to dream.

(1927)

.     .     .

“Lover’s Return”

.

My old time daddy

Came back home last night.

His face was pale and

His eyes didn’t look just right.

.

He says, “Mary, I’m

Comin’ home to you –

So sick and lonesome

I don’t know what to do.”

.

Oh, men treats women

Just like a pair o’ shoes –

You kicks ’em round and

Does ’em like you choose.

.

I looked at my daddy –

Lawd! and I wanted to cry.

He looked so thin –

Lawd! that I wanted to cry.

But the devil told me:

Damn a lover

Come home to die!

(1928)

.     .     .

“Hurt”

.

Who cares

About the hurt in your heart?

.

Make a song like this

for a jazz band to play:

Nobody cares.

Nobody cares.

Make a song like that

From your lips.

Nobody cares.

.     .     .

“Spring for Lovers”

.

Desire weaves its fantasy of dreams,

And all the world becomes a garden close

In which we wander, you and I together,

Believing in the symbol of the rose,

Believing only in the heart’s bright flower –

Forgetting – flowers wither in an hour.

(1930)

.     .     .

“Rent-Party Shout:  For a Lady Dancer”

.

Whip it to a jelly!

Too bad Jim!

Mamie’s got ma man –

An’ I can’t find him.

Shake that thing!  O!

Shake it slow!

That man I love is

Mean an’ low.

Pistol an’ razor!

Razor an’ gun!

If I sees man man he’d

Better run –

For  I’ll shoot him in de shoulder,

Else I’ll cut him down,

Cause I knows I can find him

When he’s in de ground –

Then can’t no other women

Have him layin’ round.

So play it, Mr. Nappy!

Yo’ music’s fine!

I’m gonna kill that

Man o’ mine!

(1930)

.     .     .     .     .

In the manner of all great poets Langston Hughes (February 1st, 1902 – 1967) wrote love poems (and love-blues poems), using the voices and perspectives of both Man and Woman.  In addition to such art, Hughes’ homosexuality, real though undisclosed during his lifetime, probably was responsible for the subtle and highly-original poet’s voice he employed for three of the poems included here:  Subway Face, Poem (2), and Desire.  Hughes was among a wealth of black migrants born in The South or the Mid-West who gravitated toward Harlem in New York City from about 1920 onward.  Along with Countee Cullen, Zora Neale Hurston, Wallace Thurman and many others, Hughes became part of The Harlem Renaissance, that great-gorgeous fresh-flowering of Black-American culture.

.     .     .     .     .

Z|P_Cabeza de piña por Eduardo Roca alias Choco_pintor cubano

Nicolás Guillén (Cuba, 1902-1989)

A poem from “ ‘Son’ Motifs ” (1930)

“Go get some dough”

.

Get some silver,

go get some dough for us!

Cuz I’m not goin one step more:

we’re down to just rice and crackers,

that’s it.

Yeah, I know how things are,

but hey, my Guy – a person’s gotta eat:

so get some money,

go get it,

else I’m gonna beat it.

Then they’ll call me a ‘no good’ woman

and won’t want nothin’ to do with me. But

Love with Hunger? Hell no!

.

There’s so many pretty new shoes out there, dammit!

So many wristwatches, compadre!

Hell – so many luxuries we might have, my Man!

.

Translation from Spanish: Alexander Best

.

Note: ‘Son’ (meaning Sound) was the traditional Cuban music style of the early twentieth century.

It combined Spanish song and guitars with African percussion of Bantu origin. ‘Son’ was the basis upon which Salsa developed.

.     .     .

Del poemario “Motivos de Son” (1930)

“Búcate plata”

.

Búcate plata,

búcate plata,

poqque no doy un paso má;

etoy a arró con galleta,

na má.

Yo bien sé como etá to,

pero biejo, hay que comé:

búcate plata,

búcate plata,

poqque me boy a corré.

Depué dirán que soy mala,

y no me quedrán tratá,

pero amó con hambre, biejo.

¡qué ba!

con tanto sapato nuevo,

¡qué ba!

Con tanto reló, compadre,

¡qué ba!

Con tanto lujo, mi negro,

¡qué ba!

.     .     .

A poem from Sóngoro cosongo: mulatto poems (1931)

“Cane”

.

The black man
together with the plantation.

The yankee
on the plantation.

The earth
beneath the plantation.

Our blood
drains out of us!

.     .     .

Un poema del poemario Sóngoro cosongo: poemas mulatos (1931)

“Caña”

.

El negro
junto al cañaveral.

El yanqui
sobre el cañaveral.

La tierra
bajo el cañaveral.

¡Sangre
que se nos va!

.     .     .

Two poems from “West Indies, Ltd.” (1934):

“Guadaloupe, W. I., Pointe-à-Pitre”

.

The black men, working
near the steamboat. The arabs, selling,
the french, strolling, having a rest

– and the sun, burning.
.

In the harbour the sea
lies down. The air toasts
the palm trees… I scream: Guadaloupe!

but nobody answers.

.

The steamboat leaves, labouring through
the impassive waters with a foaming roar.

There the black men stay, still working,
and the arabs, selling,
and the french, strolling, having a rest

– and the sun, burning…

.     .     .

“Guadalupe, W. I., Pointe-à-Pitre” (1934)

.

Los negros, trabajando
junto al vapor. Los árabes, vendiendo,
los franceses, paseando y descansando

– y el sol, ardiendo.

En el puerto se acuesta
el mar. El aire tuesta
las palmeras… Yo grito: ¡Guadalupe!

pero nadie contesta.

.

Parte el vapor, arando
las aguas impasibles con espumoso estruendo.

Allá quedan los negros trabajando,
los árabes vendiendo,
los franceses, paseando y descansando

– y el sol, ardiendo…

.     .     .

“Riddles”

.

The teeth, filled with the morning,
and the hair, filled with the night.
Who is it? It’s him, or it’s not him?
— Black man.

.

Though she being woman and not beautiful,
you’ll do what she orders you.
Who is it? It’s him, or it’s not him?
— Hunger.

.

Slave of the slaves,
and towards the masters, tyrant.
Who is it? It’s him, or it’s not him?
— Sugar cane.

.

Noise of a hand
that never ignores the other.
Who is it? It’s him, or it’s not him?
— Almsgiving.

.

A man who is crying
going on with the laugh he learned.
Who is it? It’s him, or it’s not him?
— Me.

.     .     .

“Adivinanzas”

.

En los dientes, la mañana,
y la noche en el pellejo.
¿Quién será, quién no será?
— El negro.

.

Con ser hembra y no ser bella,
harás lo que ella te mande.
¿Quién será, quién no será?
— El hambre.

.

Esclava de los esclavos,
y con los dueños, tirana.
¿Quién será, quién no será?
— La caña.

.

Escándalo de una mano
que nunca ignora a la otra.
¿Quién será, quién no será?
— La limosna.

.

Un hombre que está llorando
con la risa que aprendió.
¿Quién será, quién no será?
— Yo.

.     .     .

Poem from “Cantos para soldados y sones para turistas (1937)

“Execution”

.

They are going to execute
a man whose arms are tied.
There are four soldiers
for the shooting.
Four silent
soldiers,
fastened up,
like the fastened-up man they’re going to kill.

— Can you escape?
— I can’t run!
— They’re gonna shoot!
— What’re we gonna do?
— Maybe the rifles aren’t loaded…
— They got six bullets of fierce lead!
— Perhaps these soldiers don’t shoot!
— You’re a fool – through and through!

.

They fired.
(How was it they could shoot?)
They killed.
(How was it they could kill?)
They were four silent
soldiers,
and an official señor
made a signal to them, lowering his saber.
Four soldiers they were,

and tied,
like the man they were to kill.

ZP_En la mira (In the cross-hairs)_Eduardo Roca (Choco)_pintor cubano

“Fusilamiento”

.

Van a fusilar
a un hombre que tiene los brazos atados.
Hay cuatro soldados
para disparar.
Son cuatro soldados
callados,
que están amarrados,
lo mismo que el hombre amarrado que van a matar.

—¿Puedes escapar?
—¡No puedo correr!
—¡Ya van a tirar!
—¡Qué vamos a hacer!
—Quizá los rifles no estén cargados…
—¡Seis balas tienen de fiero plomo!
—¡Quizá no tiren esos soldados!
—¡Eres un tonto de tomo y lomo!

.

Tiraron.
(¿Cómo fue que pudieron tirar?)
Mataron.
(¿Cómo fue que pudieron matar?)
Eran cuatro soldados
callados,
y les hizo una seña, bajando su sable,
un señor oficial;
eran cuatro soldados
atados,
lo mismo que el hombre que fueron los cuatro a
matar.

.     .     .

“Bourgeois”

.

The vanquished bourgeois – they don’t make me sad.
And when I think they are going to make me sad,
I just really grit my teeth, really shut my eyes.

.

I think about my long days with neither shoes and roses,
I think about my long days with neither sombrero nor
clouds,
I think about my long days without a shirt – or dreams,
I think about my long days with my prohibited skin,
I think about my long days And

.

You cannot come in, please – this is a club.
The payroll is full.
There’s no room in this hotel.
The señor has stepped out.

Looking for a girl.
Fraud in the elections.
A big dance for blind folks.

.

The first price fell to Santa Clara.
A “Tómbola” lottery for orphans.
The gentleman is in Paris.
Madam the marchioness doesn’t receive people.
Finally And

.

Given that I recall everything and

the way I recall everything,
what the hell are you asking me to do?
In addition, ask them,
I’m sure they too
recall all.

.     .     .

“Burgueses”

.

No me dan pena los burgueses vencidos.
Y cuando pienso que van a dar me pena,
aprieto bien los dientes, y cierro bien los ojos.

.

Pienso en mis largos días sin zapatos ni rosas,
pienso en mis largos días sin sombrero ni nubes,
pienso en mis largos días sin camisa ni sueños,
pienso en mis largos días con mi piel prohibida,
pienso en mis largos días Y

.

No pase, por favor, esto es un club.
La nómina está llena.
No hay pieza en el hotel.
El señor ha salido.

.

Se busca una muchacha.
Fraude en las elecciones.
Gran baile para ciegos.

.

Cayó el premio mayor en Santa Clara.
Tómbola para huérfanos.
El caballero está en París.
La señora marquesa no recibe.
En fin Y

Que todo lo recuerdo y como todo lo
recuerdo,
¿qué carajo me pide usted que haga?
Además, pregúnteles,
estoy seguro de que también
recuerdan ellos.

.     .     .

“The Black Sea”

.

The purple night dreams

over the sea;

voices of fishermen,

wet with the sea;

the moon makes its exit,

dripping all over the sea.

.

The black sea.

Throughout the night, a sound,

flows into the bay;

throughout the night, a sound.

.

The boats see it happen,

throughout the night, this sound,

igniting the chilly water.

Throughout the night, a sound,

Inside the night, this sound,

Across the night – a sound.

.

The black sea.

Ohhh, my mulatto woman of fine, fine gold,

I sigh, oh my mixed woman who is like gold and silver together,

with her red poppy and her orange blossom.

At the foot of the sea.

At the foot of the sea, the hungry, masculine sea.

.

Translation from Spanish:  Alexander Best

.     .     .

“El Negro Mar”
.
La noche morada sueña
sobre el mar;
la voz de los pescadores
mojada en el mar;
sale la luna chorreando
del mar.

El negro mar.

Por entre la noche un son,
desemboca en la bahía;
por entre la noche un son.

Los barcos lo ven pasar,
por entre la noche un son,
encendiendo el agua fría.
Por entre la noche un son,
por entre la noche un son,
por entre la noche un son. . .

El negro mar.

Ay, mi mulata de oro fino,
ay, mi mulata
de oro y plata,
con su amapola y su azahar,
al pie del mar hambriento y masculino,
al pie del mar.

.     .     .

“Son” Number 6

.

I’m Yoruba, crying out Yoruba
Lucumí.
Since I’m Yoruba from Cuba,
I want my lament of Yoruba to touch Cuba
the joyful weeping Yoruba
that comes out of me.
.
I’m Yoruba,
I keep singing
and crying.
When I’m not Yoruba then
I am Congo, Mandinga or Carabalí.
Listen my friends, to my ‘son’ which begins like this:
.
Here is the riddle
of all my hopes:
what’s mine is yours,
what’s yours is mine;
all the blood
shaping a river.
.
The silk-cotton tree, tree with its crown;
father, the father with his son;
the tortoise in its shell.
Let the heart-warming ‘son’ break out,
and our people dance,
heart close to heart,
glasses clinking together
water on water with rum!

.
I’m Yoruba, I’m Lucumí,
Mandinga, Congo, Carabalí.
Listen my friends, to the ‘son’ that goes like this:
.
We’ve come together from far away,
young ones and old,
Blacks and Whites, moving together;
one is a leader, the other a follower,
all moving together;
San Berenito and one who’s obeying
all moving together;
Blacks and Whites from far away,
all moving together;
Santa María and one who’s obeying
all moving together;
all pulling together, Santa María,
San Berenito, all pulling together,
all moving together, San Berenito,
San Berenito, Santa María.
Santa María, San Berenito,
everyone pulling together!
.
I’m Yoruba, I’m Lucumí
Mandinga, Congo, Carabalí.
Listen my friends, to my ‘son’ which ends like this:
.
Come out Mulatto,
walk on free,
tell the White man he can’t leave…
Nobody breaks away from here;
look and don’t stop,
listen and don’t wait
drink and don’t stop,
eat and don’t wait,
live and don’t hold back
our people’s ‘son’ will never end!

.

Translation from Spanish:  Salvador Ortiz-Carboneres

.     .     .

“Son número 6”

.

Yoruba soy, lloro en yoruba
lucumí.
Como soy un yoruba de Cuba,
quiero que hasta Cuba suba mi llanto yoruba;
que suba el alegre llanto yoruba
que sale de mí.
.
Yoruba soy,
cantando voy,
llorando estoy,
y cuando no soy yoruba,
soy congo, mandinga, carabalí.
Atiendan amigos, mi son, que empieza así:
.
Adivinanza
de la esperanza:
lo mío es tuyo
lo tuyo es mío;
toda la sangre
formando un río.
.
La ceiba ceiba con su penacho;
el padre padre con su muchacho;
la jicotea en su carapacho.
.
¡Que rompa el son caliente,
y que lo baile la gente,
pecho con pecho,
vaso con vaso,
y agua con agua con aguardiente!
.
Yoruba soy, soy lucumí,
mandinga, congo, carabalí.
Atiendan, amigos, mi son, que sigue así:
.
Estamos juntos desde muy lejos,
jóvenes, viejos,
negros y blancos, todo mezclado;
uno mandando y otro mandado,
todo mezclado;
San Berenito y otro mandado,
todo mezclado;
negros y blancos desde muy lejos,
todo mezclado;
Santa María y uno mandado,
todo mezclado;
todo mezclado, Santa María,
San Berenito, todo mezclado,
todo mezclado, San Berenito,
San Berenito, Santa María,
Santa María, San Berenito
todo mezclado!
.
Yoruba soy, soy lucumí,
mandinga, congo, carabalí.
Atiendan, amigos, mi son, que acaba así:
.
Salga el mulato,
suelte el zapato,
díganle al blanco que no se va:
de aquí no hay nadie que se separe;
mire y no pare,
oiga y no pare,
beba y no pare,
viva y no pare,
que el son de todos no va a parar!

.     .     .     .     .

ZP_poster for Orfeu Negro

ZP_Breno Mello, 1931 – 2008, as Orpheus in the 1959 Marcel Camus film, Orfeu Negro_Mello was a soccer player whom Camus chanced to meet on the street in Rio de Janeiro. Camus decided to cast the non-actor as the lead in the film. Mello turned out to be exactly right for the role of the star-crossed Everyman enchanted by tricky Fate – his Love is stalked by Death.

ZP_Marpessa Dawn, American-born actress of Black and Filipino heritage who played Eurydice opposite Breno Mello as Orpheus in the 1959 film Orfeu Negro. She is seen here in a photograph taken at the 1959 Cannes Film Festival. Dawn would later have a bizarre role as Mama Communa in the often-censored or banned 1974 Canadian film by European director Dusan Makavejev – Sweet Movie. A long way from her role in Orfeu Negro…yet she brought something of her beautiful wholesomeness even to the disturbing scenarios of Sweet Movie. Marpessa Dawn died in 2008 at the age of 74 in Paris.

ZP_a 1956 record album by Agostinho Dos Santos who sang the now internationally famous songs from the 1959 film Orfeu Negro_ A Felicidade and Manhã de Carnaval

Orfeu Negro (Black Orpheus), a 1959 film in Portuguese with subtitles, was directed by Marcel Camus in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.  Set at Carnaval time, it featured a mainly Black cast and told a modern Brazilian version of the Greek legend of Orpheus and Eurydice.  The Morro da Babilônia “favela” (Babylon Hill “slum”) was used for filming many scenes.  Orfeu Negro is a nearly perfect film.  Exuberant and pensive, charming and mysterious, it is an engrossing story of doomed Lovers accompanied by the exquisitely-intimate singing of Agostinho Dos Santos of Luiz Bonfá’s songs in the then-nascent bossa nova style.  And add to all that the “crazy Life force” pulse of Samba at night in the streets…

Samba – the word – is derived via Portuguese from the West-African Bantu word “semba”, which means “invoke the spirit of the ancestors”.   Originating in Salvador da Bahia, Brazil, by the 1920s the Samba sound was emerging with usually a 2/4 tempo, the use of choruses with hand-claps plus declaratory verses, and much of it in batucada rhythm which included African-influenced percussion such as tamborim, repinique, cuica, pandeiro and reco-reco adding many layers to the music.  The “voice” of the cavaquinho (which is like a ukulele) provided a pleasing contrast and a non-stop little wooden whistle, the apito, made the urgent breath of human beings palpable.

In the late 1920s in the Rio favela of Mangueira – among others – there began one of the earliest “samba schools”, initiating the transformation of Rio de Janeiro’s Carnaval (which had existed on and off since the 18th century but which was neither a large city-wide event nor one with a strong Black Brazilian influence).   In the 21st century, of course, Carnaval in Rio de Janeiro has become the most massive festival in the world;  in 2011, for example, close to 5 million people took part, with more than 400,000 of them being foreign visitors.  But back in the 1920s…the original Mangueira cordões or cords (also known as blocos or blocks) consisted of groups of masked participants, all men, who were led down the street by a “teacher” blowing an apito whistle.  Following them was a mobile orchestra of percussion.  In the years that followed the Carnaval procession expanded to include  1. the participation of women   2. floats   3. a theme   4. a mestre-sala (master of ceremonies) and a porta-bandeira (flag-bearer).

Notable early composers and singers of Samba (sambistas) included Pixinguinha, Cartola, Ataulfo Alves and Jamelão among men and Clementina de Jesus, Carmelita Madriaga, Dona Ivone Lara and Jovelina Pérola Negra among women.  But this is just the beginning of a long list…

The “fathers” of Samba were Rio musicians but the “mothers” of Samba were the Tias Baianas or the Aunties from Salvador da Bahia (a smaller though culturally rich city further up the Atlantic Coast).  Hilária Batista de Almeida, also known as Tia Ciata (1854-1924), was born in Bahia but lived in Rio de Janeiro from the 1870s onward.  Involved in persecuted “roots” rituals, she became a Mãe Pequena or Little Mother – Iyakekerê in the Yoruba language – one type of venerated priestess in the Afro-Brazilian religion, Candomblé.  The Bahia African rhythms that were crucial to her ceremonies at Rua Visconde de Itaúna, number 177, were incorporated into their compositions by musicians such as Pixinguinha and Donga who were used to playing the maxixe (a 19th-century tango-like dance still popular in Rio in the early 20^th century).  That musical fusion was the birth of samba carioca – the early Samba sound of Rio.  Pelo Telefone (“Over the Telephone”), from 1917, the humorous lyrics of which concern a gambling house (casa de jogo do bicho) and someone waiting for a telephone call tipping him off that the police are about to carry out a raid, is considered the first true Samba song.

ZP_1917 sheet music for what is believed to be the earliest Samba carioca_Pelo Telefone

ZP_Os Oito Batutas_The Eight Batons or Eight Cool Guys_around 1920. These Rio musicians had played maxixes and choros for bourgeois theatre-goers in the lobby at intermissions. They began to add ragtime and foxtrot numbers, the latest American imports. But in their spare time, under the influence of the Afro-Brazilian Tias Baianas, they were already synthesizing a new music, the Samba carioca…

As in Trinidad with “rival” Calypsonians and in Mexico with musical “duels” between Cantantes de Ranchera, so in Brazil there were Samba compositions in which musicians responded to one another.  It was during the 1930s that White Brazilian composers began to absorb the Samba and alter its lyrical content…and gradually the special sound of Rio’s favelas (via Bahia) became the national music of Brazil…We are grateful to Bryan McCann for the following translations of two vintage Samba lyrics from Portuguese into English.

.

Wilson Batista (Black sambista, 1913 – 1968)

“Kerchief around my neck” (1933)

.

My hat tilted to the side
Wood-soled shoe dragging
Kerchief around my neck
Razor in my pocket
I swagger around
I provoke and challenge
I am proud
To be such a vagabond
.

I know they talk
About this conduct of mine
I see those who work
Living in misery
I’m a vagabond
Because I had the inclination
I remember, as a child I wrote samba songs

(Don’t mess with me, I want to see who’s right… )

My hat tilted to the side
Wood-soled shoe dragging
Kerchief around my neck
Razor in my pocket
I swagger around
I provoke and challenge
I am proud
To be such a vagabond

.

And they play
And you sing
And I don’t  give in!

.     .     .

Wilson Batista

“Lenço no pescoço”

.

Meu chapéu do lado
Tamanco arrastando
Lenço no pescoço
Navalha no bolso
Eu passo gingando
Provoco e desafio
Eu tenho orgulho
Em ser tão vadio

.

.     .     .

A  response-Samba to Batista’s…

Noel Rosa (White sambista, 1910 – 1937)

“Idle Youth” (1933)

.

Stop dragging your wood-soled shoe

Because a wood-soled shoe was never a sandal
Take that kerchief off your neck
Buy dress shoes and a tie
Throw out that razor
It just gets in your way

With your hat cocked, you slipped up
I want you to escape from the police
Making a samba-song
I already gave you paper and a pencil

“Arrange”  a love and a guitar

Malandro is a defeatist word
What it does is take away
All the value of sambistas
I propose, to the civilized people,
To call you not a malandro
But rather an idle youth.

.

Malandro in Brazil meant:  rogue, scoundrel, street-wise swindler

.     .     .

Noel Rosa

“Rapaz folgado”

Deixa de arrastar o teu tamanco
Pois tamanco nunca foi sandália
E tira do pescoço o lenço branco
Compra sapato e gravata
Joga fora esta navalha que te atrapalha

ZP_Carnaval in Rio de Janeiro_a 1950s glamour photograph of professional revelers

ZP_Irmandade da Boa Morte_Sisterhood of the Good Death_women devotees of Candomblé in contemporary Bahia_photo by Jill Ann Siegel

ZP_Carnaval in Salvador da Bahia, Brazil_photo by David Turnley

For those who observe Lent…just a reminder:   next week, February 13th, is Ash Wednesday. 

–But up until then … … !

And so, tonight, Friday February 8^th, the mayor of Rio will hand over “the keys to the city” to Rei Momo, King Momo (from the Greek Momus – the god of satire and mockery) a.k.a. The Lord of Misrule and Revelry.  A symbolic act signifying that the largest party in the world is about to begin.  Enjoy!

.     .     .     .     .

Poemas de amor quechua – del siglo IXX:  Juan Wallparrimachi,  José David Berríos, y unos poetas bolivianos anónimos

.

“Urpi”

.

Munakusqay urpi,

uyaririllaway,

sunquyta paqumaq

munakapullaway.

.

Waqcha ch’ujllitayman

pusakapusqayki,

chaypi wayllususpa

munakamusqayki.

.

Uj wik’uñita

chakupamusqayki,

amapolitaswan

t’ikanchapusqayki.

.

Uj ch’aynitutapis

jap’imullasaqtaq,

misk’I takiyninwan

kusichisunanpaq.

.

Uj ovejitata

jip’ikapusqayki,

panti millmitaswan

chinuykapusqayki.

.

Nuqamin tarpusaq

quyllu papitasta,

qanri misk’ikunki

clavel t’ikitasta.

.

Nuqamari risaq

qaqa patitasta,

apakamusqayki

phasakanitasta.

.

Jakulla ripusun,

urpi munakusaqay,

qanmin yanay kanki

wiñay wayllukusqay.

.

Munanakuspalla

khuska kawsakusun,

t’ikasta rikhuspa

aswan munakusun.

.     .     .

“Paloma”

.

Mi querida palomita,

escúchame, por favor,

a mi corazón aprisionado

quiéremelo nomás.

.

A mi pobre chocita

te estoy llevando,

allí tiernamente

bien te amaré.

.

Una vicuñita

cazaré para tí

y con amapolitas

te adornaré.

.

También un jilguerito

cogeré para tí,

para que con su dulce trino

te haga alegrar.

.

Una ovejita

te la encerraré,

con su lana suave

bien te arrumaré.

.

También sembraré

papita quyllu,

con florecitas de clavel

tú te perfumarás.

.

Pronto voy a ir

a la punta de la peña

y te traeré

fruto de ulala.

.

Vamos ya, vámonos,

mi querida paloma,

tú serás mi pareja

y te mimaré para siempre.

.

Queriéndonos nomás

viviremos juntos,

mirando las flores

nos amaremos más.

.     .     .

“K’ita Urpi”

.

Imallataq kay munakuy,

k’ita urpillay,

chiquititan chhika sinchi,

mana khuyana,

ancha yachayniyuqtapis

k’ita urpillay,

muspa muspaspa purichin,

mana khuyana.

.

K’ita urpillay,

mana khuyana,

pacha k’anchiyanna

ripukunallay.

.

Kayraq phawaq waqyanaq

k’ita urpillay.

ñanniykita rikhuchiway,

mana khuyana,

mana pipis musyasqallan,

k’ita urpillay,

kay chhikimanta qhispisaq,

mana khuyana.

.     .     .

“La paloma agreste”

.

¿Qué viene a ser el amor,

palomita agreste,

tan pequeño y esforzado,

desamorada,

que al sabio más estendido,

palomita agreste,

le hace andar desatinado,

desamorada?

.

Palomita agreste,

desamorada,

amanece el día

en que yo me vaya.

.

Alegre golondrina,

palomita agreste,

enséñame tu camino,

desamorada,

para irme sin que me sientan,

palomita agreste,

y salvarme de mi destino,

desamorada.

.     .     .

Tres poemas de Juan Wallparrimachi (1793-1814)

“Imaynallatan atiyman”

.

Imaynallatan atiyman

yana ch’hillu chujchaykita

quri ñaqch’awan ñaqch’aspa

kunkaykipi pujllachiyta?

.

Imaynallatan atiyman

ch’aska quyllur ñawiykita

ñawsa kayniyta kichaspa

sunqullaypi k’anchachiyta?

.

Imaynallatan atiyman

puka mullu simiykita

samayniykita umispa

astawanraq phanchachiyta?

.

Imaynallatan atiyman

rit’I sansaq makiykita

jamanq’ayta p’inqachispa

astawanraq sansachiyta?

.

Imaynallatan atiyman

chay sumaq puriyniykita

sapa thaskiypi t’ikata

astawanraq mut’uchiyta?

.

Kay tukuyta atispanari

atiymantaq sunquykita

sunquy chawpipi mallkispa

wiñaypaq phallallachiyta.

.     .     .

Tres poemas del Soldado-Poeta Juan Wallparrimachi  (Macha, Potosí, 1793-1814)

(Traducciones por Jesús Lara)

“¿Cómo pudiera hacer?”

.

¿Cómo pudiera hacer

para peinar con peine de oro

tu negra y encantada cabellera

y ver como ella ondula al redor de tu cuello?

.

¿Cómo pudiera hacer

para que los luceros de tus ojos,

abriendo el caos de mi cegüedad,

sólo brillaran en mi corazón?

.

¿Cómo pudiera hacer

para beber tu aliento y conseguir

que el rojo coral de tus labios

se volviera más bello todavía?

.

¿Cómo pudiera hacer

para que la pureza de tu mano

avergonzando a la azucena

reverberara todavía más?

.

¿Cómo pudiera hacer

para que el ritmo de tu andar

en cada paso fuera derramando

más flores que las que hoy le veo derramar?

.

Y si me fuera dado hacer todo esto,

ya podría plantar tu corazón

dentro del mío, como un árbol,

para verlo

eternamente verdecer.

.     .     .

“Chay ñawiyki”

.

Chay quyllur ñawiyki uj tuta

llakiyniypi urmaykamurqan.

sunquypi pakaykuq rijtiy

ruruq urpiman tukurqan.

.

Ch’ikikuq muyuq wayrari

qhichuwarqan makiymanta,

ñawiy chakiytan wataspa

mana rinaypaq qhipanta.

.

Ñanpi tukuypa sarusqan,

intiq paraqpa waqtasqan,

ruruq urpinpi yuyaspa

sapallan sunquy mullphasqan.

.     .     .

“Esos tus ojos”

.

Como una estrella tu pupila

cayó una noche en mi congoja.

Caundo a esconderla fui en mi pecho

se convirtió en tierna paloma.

.

Luego, envidioso torbellino

me la arrebató de las manos,

para evitar que la siguiera

dejome ciego y amarrado.

.

Encarnecido en el camino,

flagelado por lluvia y sol,

pensando en su tierna paloma

se carcome mi corazón.

.     .     .

“Munarikuway”

.

Qanllapin sunquy,

qantan rikuyki

musquyniypipas.

Qanpin yuyani,

qantan mask’ayki

rijch’ayniypipas.

.

Inti jinamin

ñawiykikuna

ñuqapaq k’anchan.

Ñawraq t’ikari

uyaykipinin

ñuqapaq phanchan.

.

Chay ñawillayki

k’anchaynillanwan

kawsachiwantaq.

Phanchaq simiyki

asikuyninwan

kusichiwantaq.

.

Munakullaway,

irpa urpilla,

mana manchaspa.

Ñuqa qanrayku

wañuy yachasaq

qanta munaspa.

.     .     .

“Ámame”

.

Sólo en ti está mi corazón

y cuando sueño

no veo a nadie sino a ti.

Sólo en ti pienso

y a ti también te busco

si estoy despierto.

.

Igual que el sol

fulguran para mí

tus ojos.

En tu faz se abren,

para regalo mío,

todas las flores.

.

La lumbre sola

de tus pupilas

me da la vida.

Y tu boca florida

con su sonrisa

me hace dichoso.

.

Ven y ámame,

tierna paloma,

no temas nada.

Pese al destino,

yo te amaré

hasta la muerte.

.     .     .

“Cochabambamanta arawis”

.

Q’ara panpa sunquykipi

manayniyta tarpurqani,

tipiyniyta uqhariq rispa

khishkaman taripurqani.

.

Uj thapapi uywasqa urpi

lijran pura sawnanasqa,

imaynata qunqawanki

si sunquy qanwan yachasqa?

.

Sayk’usqa monteq chawpinpi

llak’isqa samarikuni

nuqaypa llanthullaywantaq

urpiywan pantachikuni.

.

Munakuyki niwarqanki,

maytaq chay munakuyniyki,

qaqapichu, urqupichu,

mayqin runaq llaqtanpichu?

.

Sunquytachus qhawaykuwaq

yawar qhuchapi wayt’asqan

khiskasmanta jarap’asqa

ayrun ayrunta waqasqan.

.

Nuqa mayu rumi kani

qaqamanta k’aqtikamuq,

sinchiq wayraq rumichisqan

punkuykiman k’umuykamuq.

.

Rikuy pitan munasqani

mana sunqunta yachaspa

nuqallataq mask’akuni

jik’un ji’unta waqaspa.

.

Chujchaykita kachaykamuy

chujchaykipi sipikusaq,

t’inpiykipi wañupusaq,

sunquykipi p’anpakusaq.

.

Para yakuchu kasqani

wayq’un wayq’un purinaypaq?

mamaychu, tataychu kasqa

mana qunqay atinaypaq?

.     .     .

“De Cochabamba, Coplas amorosas”

.

En el desierto de tu corazón

sembré un día mi amor

y al ir a recoger la cosecha

solamente espinas hallé.

.

Un solo nido tuvimos,

ala con ala dormimos,

¿cómo quieres olvidarme

si mi corazón es tuyo?

.

Cansado, en pleno monte

descanso de mis penas

y mi propria sombre

me hace confundir con mi paloma.

.

Me dijiste que me amabas,

¿dónde está ese tu amor?

en el monte, en las rocas

o en algún país lejano?

.

Si vieras mi corazón

nadando en un lago de sangre,

enmarañado entre espinas

está llorando sin consuelo.

.

Yo soy guijarro del río

desprendido del barranco

que endurecido por el viento

vino a dar a tu puerta.

.

Miren a quién estoy queriendo

sin conocer su corazón,

yo mismo la busco

llorando sin consolación.

.

Entrégame tu cabello,

con él me voy a ahorcar,

en tu regazo voy a morir,

en tu corazón me voy a enterrar.

.

¿Soy agua de lluvia acaso

para errar por las quebradas?

¿Mi padre o mi madre es ella

Que no la pueda olvidar?

José David Berríos (Potosí, Bolivia, 1849-1912)

“Yuyarikuway”

.

Maypachachus lliphipispa

k’anchaq inti kutimunqa

k’illmi tutata ayqichispa,

yuyarikuway.

.

Maypachchus uraniqta

sayk’usqaña wasaykunqa

lawraq phuyu chawpillanpi,

yuyarikuway.

.

Maypachachus uyarinki

urpi sapan rikhukuspa

sach’a chawpipi waqaqta,

yuyarikuway.

.

Janaq pacha chawpimanta

llunp’aq killata rikuspa

tutata sut’iyachiqta,

yuyarikuway.

.

Ñuqaqa paqarimuypi

ch’isiyaypi llakikuspa

qanllawan muspaykachani…

Yuyarikuway.

.

Kay kawsayniy tukukuqtin

chikaykuqtiy jallp’a ukhuman

phutiy phutiyta waqaspa,

yuyarikuway.

.

Chay waqayniyki qarpaqtin

chiri ushpayta phanchimunqa

sunquymanta yuyay t’ika…

Yuyarikuway.

.     .     .

José David Berríos (Potosí, Bolivia, 1849-1912)

“Acuerdate de mi”

.

Cuando el sol resplandeciente

venga otra vez ahuyentando

a la tenebrosa noche,

acuérdate de mí.

.

Cuando cansado se abisme

tras la línea del poniente

envuelto en ardientes nubes,

acuérdate de mí.

.

Cuando escuches que solloza

su soledad lamentando

la paloma entre los árboles,

acuérdate de mí.

.

Al clarear la mañana

y al anochecer penando

yo sólo sueño contigo…

Acuérdate de mí.

.

Cuando mi vida se acabe

y a la sepultura baje,

en tu tristeza llorando,

acuérdate de mí.

.

Por tus lágrimas regada

brotará de mis cenizas

la tierna flor del recuerdo…

Acuérdate de mí.

.     .     .     .     .

Kusi Paukar (César Augusto Guardia Mayorga)

Sonqup Jarawiinin / El Cantar del Corazón

Sunqupa Harawinkuna / Poemas del Corazón

Lima, Perú, 1961

Traducciones del idioma quechua:  Jesús Lara

“Waylluy”

.

¿Imaraq kay waylluy?

Qawaspa mana qawaq,

Munaspa mana munaq,

Maskaspa mana maskaq,

Waylluqtukuspa cheqnichikuq,

Cheqniqtukuspa waylluchikuq

Kay waylluy kasqanta,

Sonqullaymi yachan.

.

“Amor”

.

¿Qué será el amor?

Que mirando no mira,

Que queriendo no quiere,

Que buscando no busca;

Que simulando amar despierta odio,

Que fingiendo odio hace querer

Lo que es el amor,

Sólo mi corazón lo sabe.

.     .     .

“Qampaq”

.

Umaypim yuyayniiki

Patpatichkan,

Pillpintup rapran jina

Mana samaq.

.

Rinriipim sutiiki

Tuta punchau

Sirwan,

Mana wayrap apasqan

Mana pip uyarisqan.

.

Sonquypim waylluyniiki

Kausan,

Arwi arwi yura jina

Arwiwaspa.

.

Llakispa, asiq tukuni,

Mana pipas llakisqayta

Musianampaq.

Qamllam, sonquypi yachanki,

Imay kusikusqayta,

Jaykaq llakikusqayta,

Cheqampi.

.

“Para Ti”

.

En mi mente

Palpita tu recuerdo,

Como alas de mariposa,

Sin descanso.

.

En mis oídos

Vibra tu nombre

Noche y dia,

Sin que nadie lo oiga,

Sin que se lo lleve el viento.

.

En mi corazón

Vive tu amor,

Aprisionándome

Como enredadera.

.

Sufriendo, simulo reír

Para que nadie

Sospeche siquiera

Que sufro.

Sólo tú sabes en mi corazón

¡Cuándo me alegro en verdad,

Cuándo en verdad sufro!

.     .     .

“Ama Tapukuychu”

.

Warmita, waytata jina qawaspa,

Manaña puñuyta atipaspa,

¿Imapaqtaq tapukunki

Ima onquy kasqanta?

.

Waylluymi mismichkasunki,

Mana musiasqayki;

Kuyaymi arwichkasunki,

Mana yachasqayki.

.

Ama jampita yanqa maskaychu.

Sonquillampi kausay,

Ñawillampi qawakuy,

Makillampi kay.

Waylluy onquyqa,

Waylluyllawanmi jampikun.

.

“No Preguntes”

.

Cuando mires a la mujer

Como a una flor;

Cuando ya no concilies el sueño,

¿Para qué preguntas

Qué enfermedad sufres?

.

Te está rezumando el amor,

Sin que lo sospeches siquiera;

Te está enredando el cariño

Sin que tú lo sepas.

.

No busques remedio en vano.

Vive en su corazón,

Mírate en sus ojos,

Ponte en sus manos;

Que la enfermedad del amor

Sólo con amor se cura.

.     .     .

“Walka”

.

Walkam sutin karqa

Ñoqallay kuyachkaptii.

Tuta jina ñawinpas,

Chukchampas tutay tuta.

.

Walkam suntin karqa

Ñoqallay waylluchkaptii.

Yuraq sisa kirumpas,

Qantu qantu siminpas.

.

Walkam sutin karqa

Ñoqallata kuyawachkaptin.

Waqaptimpas

Sacha kuna sullakuq,

Asiptimpas

Pukiukuna asikuq.

.

Walkam sutin karqa

Ñoqallay kuyachkaptii,

Ñoqallata kuyawachkaptin.

Imaraq kunan sutin

Walka sutiyoq warmi.

.

Sutillanñam simiipi,

Ñawillanñam ñawiipi.

Walka sutiyoq urpi.

Imaraq kunan sutin.

.

“Walka”

.

Su nombre era Walka

Cuando yo, solo, la quería.

Como la noche eran sus ojos,

Sus cabellos, más que la noche.

.

Walka era su nombre

Cuando yo, solo, la amaba.

Sus dientes eran como níveas flores,

Sus labios, como las cantutas.

.

Era su nombre Walka

Cuando ella sólo me quería a mí.

Cuando lloraba

De rocíos se cubrían los árboles,

Cuando reía,

Reían también las fuentes.

.

Walka era su nombre

Cuando yo, solo, la quería,

Cuando ella sólo me quería a mí.

¿Qué se llamará ahora

La mujer que se llamaba Walka?

.

Ya sólo su nombre está en mis labios,

Ya sólo sus ojos están en mis ojos.

Paloma:  Walka era tu nombre.

¿Qué te llamarás ahora?

.     .     .

“Kuyaspa”

.

Sonquymi kirisqa kachkan

Ñawiikipa kanchayninwan,

Onquyñam kuyayniiqa,

Wañuymanchus jinam apawanqa.

.

Chisi tuta nuspaspa

Sutiikita oqarisqani

Mana pip uyarisqan,

Ichapas wayra uyarirqa,

¿Maytaraq, yanallay,

Sutiikita wayra aparqa?

.

Ichapas qam kaqpi muyuykachaspa

Llakillayta willasurqanki,

Qamtaq mancharikuspa,

Ayqereqanki.

.

“Quieriendo”

.

Mi corazón está herido

Con la luz de tus ojos,

Ya mi amor es una enfermedad

Que tal vez me lleve a la muerte.

.

Anoche delirando,

Pronuncié tu nombre

Sin que nadie lo oyese.

Acaso lo oyó el viento.

¿A dónde llevaría

Tu nombre el viento,

Amada mía?

.

Quién sabe

Si dando vueltas

En torno tuyo,

Te contó mis penas,

Y tú te asustaste

Y te fuiste.

.     .     .

“¡Imanaykusaqtaq!”

.

Imanaykusaqtaq kunanqa,

Llakiimi kichka jina

Sonquyta nanachichkan.

.

Imanaykusaqtaq kunanqa,

Yuyayniikim tuta jina

Punchauniita tutayachichkan.

.

Imanaykusaqtaq kunanqa,

Waqayta munaspapas

Weqellaymi mana lloqsinchu.

.

Imanaykusaqtaq kunanqa,

Kayta wakta qawaptiipas,

Manam imatapas rikunichu.

.

Sonqullaymi sapampi,

Imapaqraq pipas maypas,

Mana kuyananta kuyan,

Nispa niwan.

.

“¿Qué voy hacer?

.

¿Qué voy hacer ahora?

Mi pena como una espina

Está hincando mi corazón!

.

¿Qué voy hacer ahora?

¡Tu recuerdo como la noche

Está oscureciendo mi día!

.

¿Qué voy hacer ahora?

¡Hasta cuando quiero llorar

No asoman las lágrimas!

.

¿Qué voy hacer ahora?

¡Hasta cuando quiero mirar

No miro nada!

.

Solo mi corazón en su soledad

Se pregunta a sí mismo:

¿Para qué se amará

Lo que no se debe amar?

.     .     .

“Auqaypaq”

.

Yuyayniipim yuyayniiki

Patpatichkan,

Tutayaq punchaupi

Urpi patpatichkaq jina.

.

Puchqu yaku jina

Yuyayniiki,

Kausayniita puchquyachichkan

Mana qampa yachasqayki.

.

Musiaspaqa, yachaspaqa,

Warmi sonquyki,

Warmipa kaspapas,

Sinchitachari Llakikunman.

.

Maypiraq, chaypnaq qamqa,

Asikuspa, kusikuspa,

Llakiita mana yachaspa,

Qonqayta munawaspa,

Qonqawaytaña qallaykunki.

.

Mana kuyana auqa,

Manaña kuyayta tarispa,

Manaña sonquyoq,

Pitaraq wayllunki,

Piñaraq kuyasunki.

.

Sapallaykina rikukuspa,

Weqellaykita umikunki,

Sonquykitaq qaparispa,

Waqaya kunan

Nispa nisunki.

.

Mana kuyana auqa,

Manaña sonquyoq,

¿Pitaraq wayllunki?

¿Piñaraq kuyasunki?

.

“Para mi Adversaria”

.

En mi memoria

Tu recuerdo está latiendo

Como aleteo de paloma

En día que anochece.

.

Como agua amarga,

Tu recuerdo

Está amargando mi vida

Sin que tú lo sepas.

.

Si lo supieras,

Si sospecharas siquiera,

Tu corazón de mujer,

Siendo de mujer,

¡Cómo sufriría!

.

¿Dónde estarás tú,

Riendo y gozando

Sin saber mi pena?

Cuando se quiere olvidar,

Ya empieza el olvido.

.

Indigna de ser amada,

Ya sin encontrar cariño,

Ya sin corazón,

¿A quién amarás?

¿Quién te amará?

.

Al verte ya sola

Beberás tus lágrimas,

I el corazón te dirá a gritos:

¡Ahora sólo te resta llorar!

.

Indigna de ser amada,

Ya sin corazón,

¿A quién amarás?

¿Quién te amará?

.     .     .

“Pituchakuy”

.

Ay ruruchay rurucha,

Ñawi rurucha.

Warmi kasqanta yachachkaspa

Qawarqanki.

.

Ay ruruchay rurucha,

Sonqu rurucha.

Kuyay kasqanta yachachkaspa

Kuyarqanki.

.

Waqayari ñawi,

Llakiyari sonqu,

Chay mana qawana qawasqaykimanta,

Chay mana kuyana kuyasqaykimanta.

“Arrepentimiento”

.

¡Ay!  niña de mis ojos.

¡Ay! pupila mía.

Sabiendo que era mujer

La miraste.

.

¡Ay! corazón mío,

Corazón,

Sabiendo lo que es amor,

La amaste.

.

Llora, pues, pupila mía

Por haber mirado

A quien no debiste mirar;

Sufre, pues, corazón,

Por haber amado

A quien no debiste amar.

.     .     .

“Kaynay”

.

Waylluy, sonquykipi kaptinqa,

Jarawii;

Llaki qasquykita kiriptinqa,

Jarawii, takii, machay;

Auqanayki kaptinqa,

Qari jina kallpachakuspa,

Wajujuy, jayllii.

Cheqnii atisuptiikiqa,

Upallalla kausay,

Ama sonquykita rikchachiichu,

Ama kausayta qanrachaychu.

.

“Has así”

.

Canta,

Si el amor está en tu corazón;

Canta, baila, embriágate,

Si la pena hiere tu pecho.

Si tienes que luchar,

Cobra fuerzas varoniles

Y entona conciones triunfales.

Pero si el odio te domina,

No despiertes a tu corazón,

Vive en silencio,

No ensucies la vida.

.     .     .     .     .

Untitled_photograph © photographer An-My Lê, born 1960

Dieu Nhan (Buddhist nun, 1041-1113)

“Birth, Old Age, Sickness, Death”

.

Birth, old age, sickness, death

Are commonplace and natural.

Should we seek relief from one,

Another will surely consume us.

Blind are those praying to Buddha,

Duped are those praying in Zen.

Pray not in Zen or to Buddha,

Speak not. Linger with silence.

.

(translation: Huu Ngoc, Lady Borton)

Dam Phuong (1881-1947)

“Flood Relief” (around 1928)

.

Harsh winds and the relentless rains drown

Districts that were once Thanh Hoa towns,

Swirling them down river, the water brown.

Warn the world: Silence is a stand,

.

Silence without opening your heart and hand.

Labourers reach out in crises of need,

Women with their gentleness take a lead,

Only then do the palace chiefs heed.

.

From this time on, we understand “kindness”,

Everyone joining in to ease public distress,

Those from humble trades with help appear,

Women draw on friends far and near.

.

(translation: Lady Borton)

Mong Tuyet (1914-2007)

“The price of rice in Tràng An” (1945)

(for Van Muoi, clerk at a flower shop in Tri Duc Garden)

.

I hear the price of rice in Trang An is high.

Starving for food, thirsting for life-saving rain,

Our friends and family in the centre and the north

Are desperately hoping rice will be sent from Dong Nai.

.

Grief dazes our nation’s artists.

You encouraged me to study poetry,

You want to release the ink of my poetic spirit.

Lost in a literary forest, I was building a road out.

.

I carried your books back home.

The people awaiting rice are in agony.

Sister, with my poor skills, how can I help?

You’d answer:

“I’ll sell literature, you sell flowers.”

.

(translation: Xuan Oanh, Lady Borton)

Tràng An is an old name for the city of HaNoi.

An important railway route and main road lay destroyed at the end of WWII,

hence rice did not reach enough people.

In Viet Nam, two million people had died of starvation by the end of the war.

.

Tran Thi My Hanh (born 1945)

“The road repair team at Jade Beauty Mountain” (1968)

.

Jade Beauty Mountain at Van River

Deserted at mid-day, buzzes with heat.

The mountain looks like a beautiful girl

Reclining, her eyes searching the azure sky.

.

Clouds like friends surround the Beauty.

Below are women workers from a road team,

Their youth and strength breaking a new trail,

Their hands skilled with hoes and quick with guns.

.

Pity the road circling the mountain,

Bomb craters slashing into bomb craters,

Olive trees, oak trees blackened with resin,

The birds scattered, ripped from their flocks,

Every rock on Beauty Mountain cringing in pain,

The earth tumbling down into the lowland paddies,

Night after night as the Beauty Mountain lies awake.

The women repairing the road are uneasy;

With torches, they search their way forward.

For them, a bite of dried bread is a delicious treat.

.

The green jackets that arrived yesterday

Were completely mended today (it was nothing).

Despite beating sun, pouring rain and bitter smoke,

The chop chop of hoes lifts skyward until after midnight.

.

The battlefield is here – The Front is here,

We fight the enemy for every inch of this road,

We shovel, shovel rock that smells of the mountain,

Our blood and sweat blending with the mountain’s basalt.

.

I hear the startling horns of passing trucks,

Feel my blood and the road’s blood pulse as one.

We, women with hearts as pure and dazzling as jade,

Stretch in a silhouette along the ridge of Beauty Mountain.

.

(translation: Lady Borton)

Jade Beauty Mountain is in northern Viet Nam’s Red River Delta. Route 1 is nearby,

and this major north-south road served as supply route during the U.S.–VietNam War.

Route 1 was bombed often by American planes.

Ha Phuong (born 1950)

“A meal by a stream” (1971)

.

A platoon of twelve

Four mess kits of cold rice

A packet of jerky

Wild vegetables from the forest

A minute to rest by a stream.

The fire hisses, as if urging the soup to boil –

.

With no dining table,

Some stand, some sit.

The steep mountain pass has quickened our hunger,

We hastily spread a leaf to make a small tray;

A mouthful of dry rice

When you’re hungry is delectable.

.

Jokes, teasing, the crisp sound of laughter,

A mess kit of cold rice, a few minutes’ pause.

“There’s still salt. The rice is tasty…”

The sound of laughter

The sound of laughter spreads.

.

Our unit’s meal is strangely joyful:

We’re far from our parents

But share the love of comrades.

On the Trail these days as we fight the Americans,

Our forest meals are delicious feasts.

.

(translation: Lady Borton)

Thuy Bac (1937-1996)

“Thread of Longing, Thread of Love” (1977)

.

Truong Son East

Truong Son West

.

On one side, sun burns

On the other, rain circles

.

I extend my hand

I open my hand

.

Impossible

To cover you

.

Pull this thread of love

To splice a roof

.

Pull this thread of longing

To weave a blue dome

.

Bend the Eastern Range

To cover you from the rain

.

Bend the Western Range

To spread a cool shadow

.

Canopy the sky with love

Of purest blue

.

I bend everything

Toward you.

.

(translation: Le Phuong, Wendy Erd)

The Ho Chi Minh Trail – a series of old mountain paths used for supply routes

by the North VietNamese during the U.S.–VietNam War –

passed through Truong Son (the Long Mountains).

.

Doan Ngoc Thu (born 1967)

“The city in the afternoon rain” (1992)

The city in the afternoon rain:

A beggar sits singing

A song from the war.

.

The city in the afternoon rain:

Roaming children

Vie for the bubbles they blow

And for fallen almonds.

.

The city in the afternoon rain:

Near a small roadside inn,

Cigarette ashes eddy with a burnt match

And a return ticket filled with nostalgia.

.

The city in the afternoon rain:

Suddenly I run into you,

You’re just as before – proud and harsh.

You step silently through the rain

To the beggar’s side

And weep –

At the song echoing the time of war.

.

(translation: Xuan Oanh, Lady Borton)

The war referred to is the U.S.–VietNam War.

.     .     .

Untitled, Nam Ha, 1994 © An-My Lê

.     .     .

Tran Mong Tu (born 1943)

“Lonely Cat” (1980)

.

The cat sprawls in the yard

Lonely, playing with sunlight.

Inside the window

Lonely, I’m watching him.

.

On grass green as jade,

Alone, his white back spins.

Sun shimmers down, drop by drop

The cat turns round my sadness.

.

I see myself in the glass,

A dim shadow, its outline vague:

The gate to marriage shut tight,

Imprisoning me so gently.

.

The cat has his corner of grass,

I, my dim pane.

We two, so small.

Our loneliness uncontained.

.

Dear cat in the sun,

Assuage my sadness.

My ancient homeland, my former lover,

Still soak my soul.

.

(translation: Le Phuong, Wendy Erd)

Tran Thi Khanh Hoi (born 1957)

“The Pregnant Woman” (1990)

She came to me,

Her eyes like the waves of a river in flood,

Her voice choking

At its source, then gushing like a waterfall,

Her breasts throbbing with milk about to flow,

Her unborn child kicking at my side.

In a few days, birth will release

The child’s hands and feet, its wails and cries,

But right now the mother sits waiting in weariness,

Like an arid field as the rising flood approaches its limit.

.

Angry at her husband, who won’t stop drinking,

She’s been pregnant throughout a season of hard labour.

Fears about her ill-treated baby

Have aged her,

Have left her fearful

Of the wealthy screaming for the money owed them,

Unmoved by the pain of a worried

Woman who is pregnant.

.

She came to me,

Seeking consolation, protection, sympathy.

What could I say when we can’t stop the inevitable?

The time is soon for this pregnant woman.

I swim through waves of silt from the flood,

Tonight –

.

(translation: Xuan Oanh, Lady Borton)

.     .     .

Men and Joy of Cooking, 2010 © Dinh Thi Tham Poong, born 1970

.     .     .

Huong Nghiem (born 1945)

“I don’t know” (1991)

.

Thinking of

The endless Universe,

I am suddenly aware:

The sun is very small.

Thinking of

Endless love,

I realize:

I am limited by you.

Instead of letting my own ego expand,

I am absorbed

In scrubbing

Your shirt collar clean.

But to what end

I don’t know.

.

(translation: Nguyen Quang Thieu, Lady Borton)

Le Thu (born 1940)

“My Poem” (1990)

.

I want you to be the ocean

Never ending, forever strange.

But I fear your heart may run too deep

For me to reach its limits.

.

I want you to be a river

Depositing rich soil on its banks.

But I fear the river’s length;

When does flowing water return?

.

I want to hear your words in a vow

To be sure you are mine forever.

But I fear flying high unfettered;

Yet how can I bind your wings?

.

I want you to be the moon,

Full on the fifteenth of the lunar month,

But I fear the next days’ waning;

Would our love also fade with the season?

.

So! You should be a poem

Gently entering my heart.

Then, our love forever young

Can be compassionate and complete!

.

(translation: Xuan Oanh, Lady Borton)

Nguyen Bao Chan (born 1969)

“For my father” (1995)

.

Looking at your hands

I see the lines

Splitting into the future and an exhausting past

I see also the sky of my youth,

How I drifted in dreams, following the moon and stars.

Father,

Time has rushed on

I have crushed my dreams and turned them into a life

I have held the broken pieces of your life in these frail hands

I have ground the shards to bluntness, ground them some more,

In order to live, love, and protect myself.

If ever I’m inattentive to you, broken

And reduced to pieces,

I know you will pick up the shards

Even though they cut your hands and give you pain.

.

(translation: Lady Borton)

Y Nhi (born 1944)

“Longing” (1998)

To leave

like a boat pulling away from a dock at dawn

while waves touch the sandbar, saying goodbye

.

Like a still-green leaf torn from a branch

leaving only a slight break in the wood

.

Like a deep purple orchid

gradually fading and

then one day closing off like an old cocoon

.

To leave

like a radiant china vase displayed on a brightly lit shelf,

as the vase starts to crack

.

Like a lovely poem ripped from a newspaper

first sad

then elated

as it flies off like a butterfly in late summer

.

Like an engagement ring

slipping off a finger

and hiding itself among pebbles

.

To leave

like a woman walking away from her love.

.

(translation: Thuy Dinh, Martha Collins)

.     .     .

My Angel 1_2007 © Nguyen Thi Chau Giang, born 1975

.     .     .

Lam Thi My Da (born 1949)

“I return to myself” (2004)

.

Free the moon for its fullness,

Free the clouds for the wind,

Free the colour green for the grass.

I return to myself.

.

Free the gentle girls

To be unaffected;

Free people from suffering,

From competing for fame,

Free them all, free them all.

I return to myself.

.

Free teenage girls

From hiding away,

Free grey hair

To be white forever.

.

Everyone carries a smile

To chase away tears.

Joy has colours,

Sorrow is transparent.

I return to myself.

.

Poetry is the scarlet of blood

Seeping into the voice.

Life has untold blessings and disasters;

We sow, then unexpectedly reap.

.

The weary can never rest,

The pained can no longer cry,

The silent ones are like shadows.

I return to myself.

.

Luckily, a small child

Remains inside the soul,

Her gaze fresh,

Shimmering at the roots,

Her heart still naive.

I return to myself.

.

(translation: Xuan Oanh, Lady Borton)

.     .     .     .     .

All of the above translations from Vietnamese into English are the copyright © of the following translators:

Huu Ngoc, Lady Borton, Le Phuong, Martha Collins, Nguyen Quang Thieu, Thuy Dinh, Wendy Erd, and Xuan Oanh.

This compilation of poems is the copyright © of editors Nguyen Thi Minh Ha, Nguyen Thi Thanh Binh, and Lady Borton.

.     .     .     .     .

ZP_Portrait of Rita Joe drawn by Tylesia

Rita Joe

(Mi’kmaw poet, 1932-2007, Whycocomagh, Nova Scotia, Canada)

.

“A Mi’kmaw Cure-All for Ingrown Toenail”

.

I have a comical story for ingrown toenail

I want to share with everybody.

The person I love and admire is a friend.

This is her cure-all for an elderly problem.

She bought rubber boots one size larger

And put salted water above the toe

Then wore the boots all day.

When evening came they cut easy,

The ingrown problem much better.

I laughed when I heard the story.

It is because I have the same tender distress

So might try the Mi’kmaw cure-all.

The boots are there, just add the salted water

And laugh away the pesky sore.

I’m even thinking of bottling for later use.

.     .     .

“Street Names”

.

In Eskasoni there were never any street names, just name areas.

There was Qam’sipuk (Across The River),

74^th Street now, you guess why the name.

Apamuek, central part of Eskasoni, the home of Apamu.

New York Corner, never knew the reason for the name.

There is Gabriel Street, the church Gabriel Centre.

Espise’k, Very Deep Water.

Beach Road, naturally the beach road.

Mickey’s Lane. There must be a Mickey there.

Spencer’s Lane, Spencer lives there, why not Arlene? His wife.

Cremo’s Lane, the last name of many people.

Crane Cove Road, the location of Crane Cove Fisheries.

Pine Lane, a beautiful spot, like everywhere else in Eskasoni.

Silverwood Lane, the place of silverwood.

George Street, bet you can’t guess who lives there.

Denny’s Lane, the last name of many Dennys.

Paul’s Lane, there are many Pauls, Poqqatla’naq.

Johnson Place, many Johnsons.

Morris Lane, guess who?

Horseshoe Drive, considering no horses in Eskasoni.

Beacon Hill, elegant place name,

I used to work at Beacon Hill Hospital in Boston.

Mountain Road,

A’nslm Road, my son-in-law Tom Sylliboy, daughter,

three grandchildren live there,

and Lisa Marie, their poodle.

Apamuekewawti, near where I live, come visit.

.     .     .

“Ankita’si (I think)”

.

A thought is to catch an idea

Between two minds.

Swinging to and fro

From English to Native,

Which one will I create, fulfill

Which one to roll along until arriving

To settle, still.

.

I know, my mind says to me

I know, try Mi’kmaw…

Ankite’tm

Na kelu’lk we’jitu (I find beauty)

Ankite’tm

Me’ we’jitutes (I will find more)

Ankita’si me’ (I think some more)

.

We’jitu na!*

.

*We’jitu na! – I find!

.     .     .

“Plawej and L’nui’site’w” (Partridge and Indian-Speaking Priest)

.

Once there was an Indian-speaking priest

Who learned Mi’kmaw from his flock.

He spoke the language the best he knew how

But sometimes got stuck.

They called him L’nui’site’w out of respect to him

And loving the man, he meant a lot to them.

At specific times he heard their confessions

They followed the rules, walking to the little church.

A widow woman was strolling through the village

On her way there, when one hunter gave her a day-old plawej

She took the partridge, putting it inside her coat

Thanking the couple, going her way.

At confession, the priest asked, “What is the smell?”

In Mi’kmaw she said, “My plawej.”

He gave blessing and sent her on her way.

The next day he gave a long sermon, ending with the words

“Keep up the good lives you are leading,

but wash your plawejk.”

The women giggled, he never knew why.

To this day there is a saying, they laugh and cry.

Whatever you do, wherever you go,

Always wash your plawejk.

.     .     .

“I Washed His Feet”

.

In early morning she burst into my kitchen. “I got something to

tell you, I was disrespectful to him,” she said. “Who were you

disrespectful to?” I asked. “Se’sus*,” she said. I was overwhelmed

by her statement. Caroline is my second youngest.

How in the world can one be disrespectful to someone we

never see? It was in a dream, there were three knocks on the

door. I opened the door, “Oh my God you’re here.” He came in

but stood against the wall. “I do not want to track dirt on your

floor,” he said. I told him not to mind the floor but come in, that

tea and lu’sknikn (bannock) will be ready in a moment. He ate and

thanked me… But then he asked if I would wash his feet, he

looked kind and normal, but a bit tired. In the dream, she said, I

took an old t-shirt and wet it with warm water and washed his

feet, carefully cleaning them, especially between his toes. I

wiped them off and put his sandals back on. After I was finished

I put the TV on, he leaned forward looking at the television.

His hair fell forward, he pushed it away from his face. I

removed a tendril away from his eye. “I am tired of my hair,”

he said. “Why don’t you wear a ponytail or have it braided?”

He said all right but asked me to teach him how to braid. I

stood beside him and touched his soft hair and saw a tear in

his eye, using my pinky finger to wipe the tear away. He smiled

gently. I then showed him how to braid his hair, guiding his

hands on how it was done. He caught on real easy. He was

happy. He thanked me for everything. You are welcome any

time you want to visit. He smiled as he walked out. He is just

showing us he is around at any time, even in 1997.

I was honoured to hear the story firsthand.

.

* Se’sus – Jesus

.     .     .

“Apiksiktuaqn (To forgive, be forgiven)”

.

A friend of mine in Eskasoni Reservation

Entered the woods and fasted for eight days.

I awaited the eight days to see him

I wanted to know what he learned from the sune’wit.

To my mind this is the ultimate for a cause

Learning the ways, an open door, derive.

At the time he did it, it was for

The people, the oncoming pow-wow

The journey to know, rationalize, spiritual growth.

When he drew near, a feeling like a parent on me

He was my son, I wanted to listen.

He talked fast, at times with a rush of words

As if to relate all, but sadness took over.

I hugged him and said, “Don’t talk if it is too sad.”

The spell was broken, he could say no more.

The one thing I heard him say, “Apiksiktuaqn nuta’ykw”,

For months it stayed on my mind.

Now it may go away as I write

Because this is the past, the present, the future.

.

I wish this would happen to all of us

Unity then will be the world over

My friend carried a message

Let us listen.

.

sune’wit – to fast, abstain from food

Apiksiktuaqn nuta’ykw – To forgive, be forgiven.

.

All of the above poems – from Rita Joe’s 1999 collection We are the Dreamers,

(published by Breton Books, Wreck Cove, Nova Scotia)

.     .     .     .     .

The following is a selection from the 26 numbered poems of Poems of Rita Joe

(published in 1978 by Abanaki Press, Halifax, Nova Scotia)

.

6

.

Wen net ki’l?

Pipanimit nuji-kina’muet ta’n jipalk.

Netakei, aq i’-naqawey;

Koqoey?

.

Ktikik nuji-kina’masultite’wk kimelmultijik.

Na epas’si, taqawajitutm,

Aq elui’tmasi

Na na’kwek.

.

Espi-kjijiteketes,

Ma’jipajita’siw.

Espitutmikewey kina’matneweyiktuk eyk,

Aq kinua’tuates pa’ qlaiwaqnn ni’n nikmaq.

.

Who are you?

Question from a teacher feared.

Blushing, I stammered

What?

.

Other students tittered.

I sat down forlorn, dejected,

And made a vow

That day

.

To be great in all learnings,

No more uncertain.

My pride lives in my education,

And I will relate wonders to my people.

.     .     .

10

.

Ai! Mu knu’kwaqnn,

Mu nuji-wi’kikaqnn,

Mu weskitaqawikasinukul kisna

mikekni-napuikasinukul

Kekinua’tuenukul wlakue’l

pa’qalaiwaqnn.

.

Ta’n teluji-mtua’lukwi’tij nuji-

kina’mua’tijik a.

.

Ke’ kwilmi’tij,

Maqamikewe’l wisunn,

Apaqte’l wisunn,

Sipu’l;

Mukk kas’tu mikuite’tmaqnmk

Ula knu’kwaqnn.

.

Ki’ welaptimikl

Kmtne’l samqwann nisitk,

Kesikawitkl sipu’l.

Ula na kis-napui’kmu’kl

Mikuite’tmaqanminaq.

Nuji-kina’masultioq,

we’jitutoqsip ta’n kisite’tmekl

Wisunn aq ta’n pa’-qi-klu’lk,

Tepqatmi’tij L’nu weja’tekemk

weji-nsituita’timk.

.

Aye! no monuments,

No literature,

No scrolls or canvas-drawn pictures

Relate the wonders of our yesterday.

.

How frustrated the searchings

of the educators.

.

Let them find

Land names,

Titles of seas,

Rivers;

Wipe them not from memory.

These are our monuments.

.

Breathtaking views –

Waterfalls on a mountain,

Fast flowing rivers.

These are our sketches

Committed to our memory.

Scholars, you will find our art

In names and scenery,

Betrothed to the Indian

since time began.

.     .     .

14

.

Kiknu na ula maqmikew

Ta’n asoqmisk wju’sn kmtnji’jl

Aq wastewik maqmikew

Aq tekik wju’sn.

.

Kesatm na telite’tm L’nueymk,

Paqlite’tm, mu kelninukw koqoey;

Aq ankamkik kloqoejk

Wejkwakitmui’tij klusuaqn.

Nemitaq ekil na tepknuset tekik wsiskw

Elapekismatl wta’piml samqwan-iktuk.

.

Teli-ankamkuk

Nkutey nike’ kinu tepknuset

Wej-wskwijnuulti’kw,

Pawikuti’kw,

Tujiw keska’ykw, tujiw apaji-ne’ita’ykw

Kutey nike’ mu pessipketenukek

iapjiweyey.

.

Mimajuaqnminu siawiaq

Mi’soqo kikisu’a'ti’kw aq nestuo’lti’kw.

Na nuku’ kaqiaq.

Mu na nuku’eimukkw,

Pasik naqtimu’k

L’nu’ qamiksuti ta’n mu nepknukw.

.

Our home is in this country

Across the windswept hills

With snow on fields.

The cold air.

.

I like to think of our native life,

Curious, free;

And look at the stars

Sending icy messages.

My eyes see the cold face of the moon

Cast his net over the bay.

.

It seems

We are like the moon –

Born,

Grow slowly,

Then fade away, to reappear again

In a never-ending cycle.

.

Our lives go on

Until we are old and wise.

Then end.

We are no more,

Except we leave

A heritage that never dies.

.     .     .

19

.

Klusuaqnn mu nuku’ nuta’nukul

Tetpaqi-nsitasin.

Mimkwatasik koqoey wettaqne’wasik

L’nueyey iktuk ta’n keska’q

Mu a’tukwaqn eytnukw klusuaqney

panaknutk pewatmikewey

Ta’n teli-kjijituekip seyeimik

.

Espe’k L’nu’qamiksuti,

Kelo’tmuinamitt ajipjitasuti.

Apoqnmui kwilm nsituowey

Ewikasik ntinink,

Apoqnmui kaqma’si;

Pitoqsi aq melkiknay.

.

Mi’kmaw na ni’n;

Mukk skmatmu piluey koqoey wja’tuin.

.

Words no longer need

Clear meanings.

Hidden things proceed from a lost legacy.

No tale in words bares our desire, hunger,

The freedom we have known.

.

A heritage of honour

Sustains our hopes.

Help me search the meaning

Written in my life,

Help me stand again

Tall and mighty.

.

Mi’kmaw I am;

Expect nothing else from me.

ZP_Panoramic view of part of Eskasoni First Nation_2012

Rita Joe, born Rita Bernard in 1932, was a poet, a writer, and a human rights activist.  Born in Whycocomagh, Nova Scotia, Canada, she was raised in foster homes after being orphaned in 1942.  She was educated at Shubenacadie Residential School where she learned English – and that experience was also the impetus for writing a good number of her poems.  (“I Lost My Talk” is about having her Mi’kmaq language denied at school.)  While identity-erasure was part of her Canadian upbringing, still she managed in her writing – and in her direct, in-person activism – to promote compassion and cooperation between Peoples.  Rita married Frank Joe in 1954 and together they raised ten children at their home in The Eskasoni First Nation, Cape Breton, Nova Scotia.  It was in her thirties, in the 1960s, that Joe began to write poetry so as to counteract the negative images of Native peoples found in the books that her children read.   The Poems of Rita Joe, from 1978, was the first published book of Mi’kmaq poetry by a Mi’kmaw author.   Rita Joe died in 2007, at the age of 75, after struggling with Parkinson’s Disease.  Her daughters found a revision of her last poem “October Song” on her typewriter.  The poem reads:  “On the day I am blue, I go again to the wood where the tree is swaying, arms touching you like a friend, and the sound of the wind so alone like I am;  whispers here,  whispers there,  come and just be my friend.”

.     .     .     .     .

ZP_The agony and the ecstasy_illustration for a short story in Arctic Dreams and Nightmares_Alootook Ipellie, 1993

Alootook Ipellie (1951-2007)

“It Was Not ‘Jajai-ja-jiijaaa‘ Anymore – But ‘Amen’”
.
It was in the guise of the Holy Spirit
That they swooped down on the tundra
Single-minded and determined
To change forever the face
Of ancient Spirituals

These lawless missionaries from places unknown
Became part of the landscape
Which was once the most sacred tomb
Of lives lived long ago

The last connection to the ancient Spirits
Of the most sacred land
Would be slowly severed
Never again to be sensed
Never again to be felt
Never again to be seen
Never again to be heard
Never again to be experienced
Sadness supreme for the ancient culture
Jubilation in the hearts of the converters

Where was justice to be found?

They said it was in salvation
From eternal fire
In life after death
And unto everlasting Life in Heaven

A simple life lived
On the sacred land was no more

The psalm book now replaced
The sacred songs of shamans

The Lord’s Prayer now ruled
Over the haunting chant of revival

It was not ‘Jajai-ja-jiijaaa’ anymore

But-

‘Amen’

.     .     .

“How noisy they seem”

.

I saw a picture today, in the pages of a book.
It spoke of many memories of when I was still a child:
Snow covered the ground,
And the rocky hills were cold and gray with frost.
The sun was shining from the west,
And the shadows were dark against the whiteness of the
Hardened snow.

.

My body felt a chill
Looking at two Inuit boys playing with their sleigh,
For the fur of their hoods was frosted under their chins,
From their breathing.
In the distance, I could see at least three dog teams going away,
But I didn’t know where they were going,
For it was only a photo.
I thought to myself that they were probably going hunting,
To where they would surely find some seals basking on the ice.
Seeing these things made me feel good inside,
And I was happy that I could still see the hidden beauty of the land,
And know the feeling of silence.

.     .     .

“Walking Both Sides of an Invisible Border”

.

It is never easy
Walking with an invisible border
Separating my left and right foot
I feel like an illegitimate child
Forsaken by my parents
At least I can claim innocence
Since I did not ask to come
Into this world

Walking on both sides of this
Invisible border
Each and everyday
And for the rest of my life
Is like having been
Sentenced to a torture chamber
Without having committed a crime

Understanding the history of humanity
I am not the least surprised
This is happening to me
A non-entity
During this population explosion
In a minuscule world

I did not ask to be born an Inuk
Nor did I ask to be forced
To learn an alien culture
With its alien language
But I lucked out on fate
Which I am unable to undo

I have resorted to fancy dancing
In order to survive each day
No wonder I have earned
The dubious reputation of being
The world’s premier choreographer

Of distinctive dance steps
That allow me to avoid
Potential personal paranoia
On both sides of this invisible border

Sometimes the border becomes so wide
That I am unable to take another step
My feet being too far apart
When my crotch begins to tear
I am forced to invent
A brand new dance step
The premier choreographer
Saving the day once more

Destiny acted itself out
Deciding for me where I would come from
And what I would become

So I am left to fend for myself
Walking in two different worlds
Trying my best to make sense
Of two opposing cultures
Which are unable to integrate
Lest they swallow one another whole

Each and everyday
Is a fighting day
A war of raw nerves
And to show for my efforts
I have a fair share of wins and losses
When will all this end
This senseless battle
Between my left and right foot

When will the invisible border
Cease to be.
.
(1996)

.     .     .     .     .

ZP_Inverse Ten Commandments_Alootook Ipellie_1993

ZP_Sedna by Alootook Ipellie_1993

ZP_I, Crucified_Alootook Ipellie_1993

Alootook Ipellie

“Self-Portrait: Inverse Ten Commandments” (1993)

.

I woke up snuggled in the warmth of a caribou-skin blanket during a vicious storm. The wind was howling like a mad dog, whistling whenever it hit a chink in my igloo. I was exhausted from a long, hard day of sledding with my dogteam on one of the roughest terrains I had yet encountered on this particular trip.

.

I tried going back to sleep, but the wind kept waking me as it got stronger and even louder. I resigned myself to just lying there in the moonless night, eyes open, looking into the dense darkness. I felt as if I was inside a black hole somewhere in the universe. It didn’t seem to make any difference whether my eyes were opened or closed.

.

The pitch darkness and the whistling wind began playing games with my equilibrium. I seemed to be going in and out of consciousness, not knowing whether I was still wide awake or had gone back to sleep. I also felt weightless, as if I had been sucked in by a whirlwind vortex.

.

My conscious mind failed me when an image of a man’s face appeared in front of me. What was I to make of his stony stare – his piercing eyes coloured like a snowy owl’s, and bloodshot, like that of a walrus?

.

He drew his clenched fists in front of me. Then, one by one, starting with the thumbs, he spread out his fingers. Each finger and thumb revealed a tiny, agonized face, with protruding eyes moving snake-like, slithering in and out of their sockets! Their tongues wagged like tails, trying to say something, but only mumbled, since they were sticking too far out of their mouths to be legible. The pitch of their collective squeal became higher and higher and I had to cover my ears to prevent my eardrums from being punctured. When the high pitched squeal became unbearable, I screamed like a tortured man.

.

I reached out frantically with both hands to muffle the squalid mouths. Just moments before I grabbed them, they faded into thin air, reappearing immediately when I drew my hands back.

.

Then there was perfect silence.

I looked at the face, studying its features more closely, trying to figure out who it was. To my astonishment, I realized the face was that of a man I knew well. The devilish face, with its eyes planted upside down, was really some form of an incarnation of myself! This realization threw me into a psychological spin.

.

What did this all mean? Did the positioning of his eyes indicate my devilish image saw everything upside down? Why the panic-stricken faces on the tips of his thumbs and fingers? Why were they in such fits of agony? Had I indeed arrived at Hell’s front door and Satan had answered my call?

.

The crimson sheen reflecting from his jet-black hair convinced me I had arrived at the birthplace of all human fears. His satanic eyes were so intense that I could not look away from them even though I tried. They pulled my mind into a hypnotic state. After some moments, communicating through telepathy, the image began telling me horrific tales of unfortunate souls experiencing apocalyptic terror in Hell’s Garden of Nede.

.

The only way I could deal with this supernatural experience was to fight to retain my sanity, as fear began overwhelming me. I knew it would be impossible for me to return to the natural, physical world if I did not fight back.

.

This experience made my memory flash back to the priestly eyes of our local minister of Christianity. He had told us how all human beings, after their physical death, were bound by the doctrine of the Christian Church that they would be sent to either Heaven or Hell. The so-called Christian minister had led me to believe that if I retained my good-humoured personality toward all mankind, I would be assured a place in God’s Heaven. But here I was, literally shrivelling in front of an image of myself as Satan incarnate!

.

I couldn’t quite believe what my mind telepathically heard next from this devilish man. As it turned out, the ten squalid heads represented the Inverse Ten Commandments in Hell’s Garden of Nede. To reinforce this, the little mouths immediately began squealing acidic shrills. They finally managed to make sense with the motion of their wagging tongues. Two words sprang out thrice from ten mouths in unison: “Thou Shalt! Thou Shalt! Thou Shalt!” I could not believe I was hearing those two words. Why was I the object of Satan’s wrath? Had I been condemned to Hell’s Hole?

.

My mind flashed back to the solemn interior of our local church once more where these words had been spoken by the minister: “God made man in His own image.” In which case, the Satan could also have made man in his own image. So I was almost sure that I was face to face with my own image as the Satan of Hell!

.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome,” the image said, his hands reaching for mine. “Welcome to the Garden of Nede.”

.

I found his greeting repulsive, more so when he wrapped his squalid fingertips around my hands. The slithering eyes retreated into their sockets, closing their eyelids. The wagging tongues began slurping and licking my hands like hungry tundra wolves. I pulled my hands away as hard as I could but wasn’t able to budge them.

.

The rapid motion of their sharp tongues cut through my skin. The cruelty inflicted on me was unbearable! Blood was splattering all over my face and body. I screamed in dire pain. As if by divine intervention, I instinctively looked down between the legs of my Satanic image. I bolted my right knee upward as hard as I could muster toward his triple bulge. My human missile hit its target, instantly freeing my hands. In the same violent moment, the image of myself as the Satan of Hell’s Garden of Nede disappeared into thin air. Only a wispy odour of burned flesh remained.

.

Pitch darkness once again descended all around. Total silence. Calm. Then, peace of mind…

.

Some days later, when I had arrived back in my camp, I was able to analyze what I had experienced that night. As it turned out, my soul had gone through time and space to visit the dark side of myself as the Satan incarnate. My soul had gone out to scout my safe passage to the cosmos. The only way any soul is freed is for it to get rid of its Satan incarnate at the doorstep of Hell’s Garden of Nede. If my soul had not done what it did, it would have remained mired in Hell’s Garden of Nede for an eternity after my physical death. This was a revelation that I did not quite know how to deal with. But it was an essential element of my successful passage to the cosmos as a soul and therefore, the secret to my happiness in afterlife!

ZP_The Idiot Box is Here_Illustration by Alootook Ipellie, 1975, for Inuit Today magazine

ZP_Political illustration about the struggle to create Nunavut_Alootook Ipellie, 1980

When Inuk illustrator and writer Alootook Ipellie died of heart attack at the age of 56 in 2007 he had only just unveiled a series of new drawings at an Ottawa exhibition – this, after a decade of artistic silence. Paul Gessell of The Ottawa Citizen wrote: “Ipellie’s technical skills are unbeatable. His content ranges from playfully innocent to devilishly searing. These pen-and-ink drawings, although often minimal, carry a wallop.”

Born in 1951 to Napatchie and Joanassie at a nomadic hunting camp on Baffin Island, Ipellie’s family moved to Frobisher Bay (later Iqaluit) when Alootook was a little boy. As an adult the shy and thoughtful Ipellie lived in Ottawa for most of his life, and that was where he completed high school in the late 1960s. Although he enrolled in a lithography course at West Baffin Co-op, he dropped out of it in 1972 and took a job as both typist and translator for Inuit Today magazine. He also began to do one-box cartoons for the magazine, commenting on social issues with a wry humour that Inuit readers appreciated. He would wear many hats at Inuit Today, eventually becoming editor. In the early 1990s he drew a popular comic called “Nuna and Vut” for Nunatsiaq newspaper where he also penned a column called “Ipellie’s Shadow”.

Not one to travel – although he did plan to return to Nunavut in 2008, having grown tired of southern life – still, Ipellie had ventured as far as Germany and Australia to tour with his pen-and-ink drawings which were slowly gaining recognition – slowly very slowly, because the art collectors’ preference continues to be for the beautiful bird images of Kenojuak Ashevak (bless her!) over those of Annie Pootoogook – where the here-and-now ‘real-ness’ factor is paramount.

A poet and short-story writer as well, Ipellie explored a vividly creative imagination in his 1993 story-book with illustrations: Arctic Dreams and Nightmares.

In the preface he wrote: “This is a story of an Inuk who has been dead for a thousand years and who then recalls the events of his former life through the eyes of his living soul. It’s also a story about a powerful shaman who learned his shamanic trade as an ordinary Inuk. He was determined to overcome his personal weaknesses, first by dealing with his own mind and, then, with the forces out of his reach or control.”

In Arctic Dreams and Nightmares bawdy humour and frank descriptions of sex and violence give Ipellie’s stories much in common with the Inuit people’s stories from olden times. Ipellie writes of his main character’s encounter with his Satanic other self; of his crucifixion, too, complete with hungry wolves; of Sedna, the Inuit Mother of Sea Beasts’ sexual frustration and how shamans came up with a plan to help satisfy Her so that she would release walrus and seal once again for the starving ice fishermen and their families; a hermaphrodite shaman who is executed via harpoon plus bow-and-arrow; and a sealskin blanket-toss game for the purpose of throwing a man all the way up to ‘heaven’.

Alootook Ipellie’s perspective on his life as an Inuk was this:

“In some ways, I think I am fortunate to have been part and parcel of an era when cultural change pointed its ugly head to so many Inuit who eventually became victims of this transitional change. It is to our credit that, as a distinct culture, we have kept our eyes and intuition on both sides of the cultural tide, aspiring, as always, to win the battle as well as the war. Today, we are still mired in the battle but the war is finally ending.”

.

We thank John Thompson of the Iqaluit weekly Nunatsiaq News for biographical details of Alootook Ipellie’s life.

.     .     .     .     .

ZP_El Adán reconsiderado…¡Piense en él dos veces!_Adam reconsidered…Give him a second thought!

.

“No Eva…Solo era una cantidad excesiva del Amor, su Culpa.”

(Aemilia Lanyer, poetisa inglés, 1569 – 1645, en su obra Salve Deus Rex Judaeorum:  La Apología de Eva por La Mujer, 1611)

.

Jee Leong Koh

“Eva, La Culpable”

.

Aunque se ha ido del jardín, no se para de amarles…

Dios le convenció cuando sacó rápidamente de su manga planetaría

un ramo de luz.   Miraron pasar el desfile de animales.

Le contó el chiste sobre el Arqueópterix, y se dio cuenta de

las plumas y las garras brutales – un poema – el primero de su tipo.

En una playa, alzado del océano con un grito, él entró en ella;

y ella, en olas onduladas, notó que el amor une y separa.

.

El serpiente fue un tipo más callado.  Llegaba durante el otoño al caer la tarde,

viniendo a través de la hierba alta, y apenas sus pasos dividió las briznas.

Cada vez él le mostró una vereda diferente.  Mientras que vagaban,

hablaron de la belleza de la luz golpeando en el árbol abedul;

el comportamiento raro de las hormigas;   la manera más justa de

partir en dos una manzana.

Cuando apareció Adán, el serpiente se rindió a la felicidad la mujer Eva.

.

…Porque ella era feliz cuando encontró a Adán bajo del árbol de la Vida

– y aún está feliz – y Adán permanece como Adán:   inarticulado, hombre de mala ortografía;

su cuerpo estando centrado precariamente en sus pies;  firme en su mente que

Eva es la mujer pristina y que él es el hombre original.   Necesitó a ella

y por eso rasguñó en el suelo – y creyó en el cuento de la costilla.

Eva necesitó a la necesidad de Adán – algo tan diferente de Dios y el Serpiente,

Y después de éso ella se encontró a sí misma afuera del jardín.

.     .     .

“Not Eve, whose Fault was only too much Love.”
(Aemilia Lanyer, English poetess, 1569 – 1645, in Salve Deus Rex Judaeorum:  Eve’s Apologie in Defence of Women, 1611)

.

Jee Leong Koh

“Eve’s Fault”

.
Though she has left the garden, she does not stop loving them.
God won her when he whipped out from his planetary sleeve
a bouquet of light. They watched the parade of animals pass.
He told her the joke about the Archaeopteryx, and she noted
the feathers and the killing claws, a poem, the first of its kind.
On a beach, raised from the ocean with a shout, he entered her
and she realized, in rolling waves, that love joins and separates.
.
The snake was a quieter fellow. He came in the fall evenings
through the long grass, his steps barely parting the blades.
Each time he showed her a different path. As they wandered,
they talked about the beauty of the light striking the birch,
the odd behavior of the ants, the fairest way to split an apple.
When Adam appeared, the serpent gave her up to happiness.
.
For happy she was when she met Adam under the tree of life,
still is, and Adam is still Adam, inarticulate, a terrible speller,
his body precariously balanced on his feet, his mind made up
that she is the first woman and he the first man. He needed
her and so scratched down and believed the story of the rib.
She needed Adam’s need, so different from God and the snake
– and that was when she discovered herself outside the garden.

.     .     .     .     .

Jee Leong Koh nació en Singapur y vive en Nueva York.   Es profesor, también autor de cuatro poemarios.

Jee Leong Koh was born in Singapore and now lives in New York City where he is a teacher.

He is the author of four poetry collections: Payday Loans, Equal to the Earth, Seven Studies for a Self Portrait and The Pillow Book.

.     .     .

Traducción en español  /  Translation into Spanish:  Alexander Best

.     .     .     .     .

ZP_Maria Bethânia (born 1946), shown here at the age of 21, is a Brazilian singer and sister of Caetano Veloso

.

“Sin” / “Pecado”
Composer / Compositor:  Carlos Bahr (Tango lyricist / Letrista de tango, 1902-1984, Buenos Aires, Argentina), with / con: Armando Pontier & Enrique Francini

As sung by / Cantada por:  Maria Bethânia (from her album / de su álbum Pássaro Proibido, 1976)

.

I know not

whether this is forbidden;

if there’ll be forgiveness;

or if I’ll be carried to the brink of the abyss.

All that I know:

This is Love.

.

I know not

whether this Love is a sin;

if punishment awaits;

or if it disrespects all the decent laws

of humankind and of God.

.

All that I know:  it’s a Love which stuns my Life

like a whirlwind;   and

that I crawl, yes crawl, straight to your arms

in a blind passion.

.

And This is stronger than I am, than my Life,

my beliefs, my sense of duty.

It’s even stronger within me than

the fear of God.

.

Though it may be sin – how I want you,

yes, I want you all the same.

And even if everyone denies me that right,

I will seize hold of this Love.

.     .     .

Yo no sé
Si es prohibido
Si no tiene perdón
Si me lleva al abismo
Sólo se que es amor
.
Yo no sé
Si este amor es pecado
Si tiene castigo
Si es faltar a las leyes honradas
Del hombre y de Dios
.
Sólo sé que me aturde la vida
Como un torbellino
Que me arrastra y me arrastra a tus brazos
En ciega pasión
.
Es más fuerte que yo que mi vida
Mi credo y mi sino
Es más fuerte que todo el respeto
Y el temor a Dios
.
Aunque sea pecado te quiero
Te quiero lo mismo
Aunque todo me niegue el derecho
Me aferro a este amor.

.     .     .

“After having you” / “Depois de ter você ”

Composer / Composição:  Adriana Calcanhotto (born in / nascida em 1965, Porto Alegre, Brasil)

As sung by / Cantada por:   Maria Bethânia (from her album / em seu álbum Maricotinha, 2001)

.

After having you,

What reason is there to think of time,

how many hours have passed or remain?

If it’s night or if it’s warm out,

If we’re in summertime;

If the sun will show its face or not?

Or even what reason might a song like this serve?

After knowing you

– Poets? what’s the use of them?

Or of Gods – What purpose Doubts?

– Almond trees along the streets,

even the very streets themselves –

After having had You?

.     .     .

Depois de ter você,
Para que querer saber que horas são?
Se é noite ou faz calor,
Se estamos no verão,
Se o sol virá ou não,
Ou pra que é que serve uma canção como essa?
Depois de ter você, poetas para quê?
Os deuses, as dúvidas,
Para que amendoeiras pelas ruas?
Para que servem as ruas?
Depois de ter você.

 
.     .     .

Traducción/interpretación en inglés / Translation-interpretation from Spanish into English:   Alexander Best

Tradução/interpretação em inglês / Translation-interpretation from Portuguese into English:  Alexander Best

.     .     .

ZP_Maria Bethânia in 2010

.     .     .     .     .

ZP_Romare Bearden (1911-1988)_Morning of the Rooster_1980

.

Gregory Porter (Cantante/compositor de jazz, nacido en 1971, EE.UU.)

“Somos pintados sobre un lienzo ”

.

Somos como niños

Somos pintados sobre un lienzo

logrando los tonos mientras pasamos

Empezamos con el “gesso”

puesto con pinteles por la gente que conocemos

Sea esmerado con la técnica mientras avanza

Se aleja para admirar mi vista

¿Puedo usar los colores que yo elijo?

¿Tengo algo que decir sobre lo que usted usa?

¿Puedo conseguir colores verde y colores azul?

.

Somos hechos del pigmento de pintura que se aplica

Nuestras historias son dichos por nuestros tonos

Como Motley y Bearden

Estos maestros de la paz, de la vida,

Hay capas de colores, del tiempo

Se aleja para admirar mi vista

¿Puedo usar los colores que yo elijo?

¿Tengo algo que decir sobre lo que usted usa?

¿Puedo conseguir unos verde y unos azul?

.

Somos como niños

Somos pintados sobre una gama de lienzos…

ZP_Archibald John Motley (1891-1981)_Self Portrait_1933

.

Gregory Porter (born 1971, American jazz vocalist/songwriter)

“Painted on canvases”

.

We are like children
we’re painted on canvases
picking up shades as we go
We start off with “gesso”
brushed on by people we know
Watch your technique as you go
Step back and admire my view
Can I use the colours I choose?
Do I have some say what you use?
Can I get some greens and some blues?

.

We’re made by the pigment of paint that is put upon
Our stories are told by our hues
Like Motley and Bearden
these masters of peace and life
layers of colours and time
Step back and admire my view
Can I use the colours I choose?
Do I have some say what you use?
Can I get some greens and some blues?

.
We are like children
We’re painted on canvases…

.     .     .     .     .