translation

Eternity Shivers with a Coldness Translated from José Antonio Pamies’ “Toda la eternidad tiembla de frío” by Robin Ouzman Hislop

March 27, 2015October 19, 2013 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

Toda la eternidad tiembla de frío,

es un plan muerto antes de nacer,

porque la cáscara nutre el vacío

ahondando en el alma de las cosas.

Yo sé que tú no crees en lo baldío

de la flor siniestra sobre el café,

la tarde es para ti como un estío

abrasado de calor contra las rosas.

Traerá Mayo su trasnochado azul,

contemplarás bajo el color nevado

tallos ocres de cuando fuiste oro.

Raíz negra rugiendo en el baúl,

solar sin tregua, sexo desmayado

donde el calor despierta sueños de otro

José Antonio Pamies (España)

Eternity shivers with a coldness

from a plan dead before it is born

because the rind which feeds the emptiness

deepens in concerns of the soul its form.

But you don’t believe in the sinister

wasteland of this coffee’s wild flowers,

evening for you is seen as a summer,

a scorching heat burning against roses.

May will yet come in her outmoded blue,

you will watch beneath a snowy colour

before when you were gold, stems of ochre.

Black roots twisted in the wooden trunk scream

on a relentless ground of sex fainting

where the heat awakens another’s dream.

Translated from José Antonio Pamies’“Toda la eternidad tiembla de frío” by Robin Ouzman Hislop

José Antonio Pamies (Alicante, 1981―) Finalista del III Premio internacional de poesía 
Andrés Salom 2005 y del II Premio de la editorial poesia Eres Tu 2010 con Las Ruinas 
de la Aurora. Ha publicado Campos de hielo (Babilonia, Pliegos de la palabra nº 3, 2012) 
y Afonías (finalista del XXVI Premio Gerardo Diego de Poesía), así como poemas en revistas 
y numerosas antologías. Reside en Madrid, donde realiza estudia Teoría de la Literatura y 
Literatura Comparada.

José Antonio Pamies (Alicante, 1981―) His early poetry collection Las Ruinas de la Aurora was a runner up at the III Andres Salom International Poetry Award in 2005 and the II poesia Eres Tu Publisher Award in 2010. He has published Campos de hielo (Babilonia, Pliegos de la palabra nº 3) and Afonías― a runner up at the XXVI Gerardo Diego Poetry Award. He currently lives in Madrid, pursuing studies in Theory of Literature and Comparative Literature.

This sonnet together with its translation appeared in The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: Exciting new sonnet anthology edited by Richard Vallance now available on Barnes & Noble: http://bit.ly/1lIL0jF BN ID: 2940148833628 Publisher: FriesenPress Publication date: 11/20/2013 Sold by: Barnes & Noble

Robin Ouzman Hislop (UK) Co-editor of the 12 year running on line monthly poetry journal Poetry Life and Times. (See its Wikipedia entry at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poetry_Life_and_Times). He has made many appearances over the last years in the quarterly journals Canadian Zen Haiku, including In the Spotlight Winter 2010 & Sonnetto Poesia. Previously published in international magazines, recent publications include Voices without Borders Volume 1 (USA), Cold Mountain Review, Appalachian University N Carolina, Post Hoc installed at Bank Street Arts Centre, Sheffield (UK), Uroborus Journal, 2011-2012 (Sheffield, UK), The Poetic Bond II & 111, available at http://www.thepoeticbond.com and Phoenix Rising from the Ashes a recently published Anthology of Sonnets: http://bit.ly/1lIL0jF. He has recently completed a volume of poetry, The World at Large, for future publication. He is currently resident in Spain engaged in poetry translation projects.robin@artvilla.com and you can also visit Face Book site at www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

Le mystère d’amour. Love’s Mystery. Poem.Translation.Jo-Elle

September 23, 2013September 21, 2013 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

***

Le mystère d’amour

  Ils se parent de couleurs,
  de leurs plus beaux atours
  pour montrer leur valeur,
  se promènent alentour.

  Il semble que leur coeur,
  amoureux pour toujours,
  veut montrer sa vigueur
  en chantant ce beau jour.

  Avec quelque impudeur
  ils arborent leur amour,
  et affichent leur ardeur
  comme de vrais troubadours.

  Alors ils passent des heures
  à danser, faire la cour,
  sans soucis des rieurs
  vers leur but sans détour.

  Pourquoi vont-ils sans peur,
  comment savent-ils toujours
  où trouver le bonheur,
  c’est le mystère d’amour.

***

Love’s mystery

They dress in colour,
in their best finery,
to show their valour,
and walk without hurry.
 
It’s their heart’s nature
to be in love always.
To show their vigour
they sing throughout the days.
 
Like real troubadours
they display their feelings,
express their ardour,
immodest little things.
 
That’s why they spend hours
court without any shame,
coloured like flowers,
flying straight to their aim.
 
Why they go fearless,
in complete liberty,
how they find happiness,
that is love’s mystery.

***

Jo-Elle (re-)discovered writing very recently, when an accident put her professional career on hold for two months. She has been writing poems since, mostly to learn English as a member of AllPoetry.com, but her best poems are in her mother tongue.

An analytical mind and an eternal learner, she writes about any subject, from nature to the human condition, which she observes from a detached point of view, and even more so when the subject is close to her heart.

***

editor@artvilla.com
robin@artvilla.com

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Francisca Aguirre Nana del desperdicio de la tristeza Lullaby for Sadness Amparo Arrospide Robin Ouzman Hislop Translated Poem

March 27, 2015June 10, 2013 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

Nana del desperdicio de la tristeza

Al abrigo de la arboleda de Soto del Real

y cerca de María Fernanda y Emilio Barrachina

Tengo delante de los ojos

el asombro de la arboleda

que me abraza.

Miro los fresnos susurrantes,

los callados abetos,

los sauces melancólicos

y no sé bien qué hacer

con el desperdicio intangible

que llamamos tristeza.

La tristeza es quizás

el mejor animal de compañía,

la fiera más doméstica,

pero también la más hambrienta.

La tristeza es un hueco que nos sigue

y que al menor descuido nos alcanza,

se sitúa delante de nosotros

y nos canta su nana de desdichas,

su lamento de fiera abandonada,

su machacona relación de oprobios,

su quejido de bicho que se empeña

en pegarse a nosotros

y decirnos

que no la abandonemos

a su suerte,

que nuestra obligación es adoptarla.

El viejo desperdicio de la pena,

tan opaco y radiante a un mismo tiempo,

nos va reconociendo con su hocico

y nos lame las manos con su lengua

y se acurruca manso a nuestro lado:

conoce palmo a palmo

el territorio.

Sus lágrimas nos lavan con modestia,

mientras el animal nos sigue terco,

con la amable seguridad

que da el abismo.

***

LULLABY FOR SADNESS

Sheltered by the Soto del Real grove

and close to María Fernanda y Emilio Barrachina

Before my eyes stands

the sheltering grove´s amazement

which embraces me.

I look at the whispering ash trees,

the still firs,

the melancholic willows

and am at a loss

with the intangible remains

we call sadness.

Sadness is perhaps

the best pet to keep you company,

the most domestic beast,

but also the most ravenous.

Sadness is a vacuum that pursues us

that leaps out on us unawares

to confront us

to lull us with its lullaby of wretchedness,

its lament of a forsaken beast,

and its monotonous list of injuries,

its plaintive creature´s groan insisting

in attaching itself to us

and imploring us

not to abandon it

to its fate,

that it is our duty to adopt it.

The old remnant of sorrow,

so opaque and bright at the same time

that starts by recognition through nose

then the licking of hands with tongue

tamely curling up at our side:

bit by bit it takes hold

of the land.

Meekly its tears wash us

whilst the beast pursues us stubbornly,

with that gentle assurance

offered to us by the abyss.

***

Translated by Robin Ouzman Hislop & Amparo Arrospide

***

Francisca Aguirre was born in 1930 in Alicante, Spain, and fled with her family to France at the end of the Spanish Civil War, where they lived in political exile. When the Germans invaded Paris in 1942, her family was forced to return to Spain, where her father, painter Lorenzo Aguirre, was subsequently murdered by Francisco Franco’s regime. Aguirre published Ítaca (1972), currently available in English (Ithaca [2004]), when she was 42 years old. Her work has garnered much critical success, winning the Leopoldo Panero, Premio Ciudad de Irún, and Premio Galliana, among other literary prizes. Aguirre is married to the poet Félix Grande and is the mother of poet Guadalupe Grande.

Amparo Arrospide (Argentina) is a Spanish poet and translator. She has published four poetry collections, Mosaicos bajo la hiedra, Alucinación en dos actos y algunos poemas, Pañuelos de usar y tirar and Presencia en el Misterio as well as poems, short stories and articles on literary and film criticism in anthologies and both national and foreign magazines. She has received numerous awards. Together with Robin Ouzman Hislop, she worked as co-editor of Poetry Life and Times, an E-zine.

EL ANGEL PROMETIDO. THE PROMISED ANGEL (Extract)Poem.Javier Diaz Gil.Translated Robin Ouzman Hislop & Amparo Arrospide

March 27, 2015June 7, 2013 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

(i)

Creyó que era un ángel.

Tuvo suerte.

Resulté

ser un fantasma.

****

He believed I was an angel.

He was lucky.

I happened

to be a ghost.

****

(ii)

Terminarás aprendiendo

–yo te enseñaré–:

Lo más difícil

de todo

es desaparecer.

****

You will end up learning

— I will teach you–:

Most difficult

of all

is to vanish.

****

(iii)

A plena luz

los fantasmas

son más visibles.

Sólo los ángeles

buscan la noche.

****

In broad daylight

ghosts

are most visible.

Only angels

seek the night.

****

(iv)

¡Aprovéchate!

Los fantasmas

sí

tenemos

sexo.

****

Be cool!

As yes,

we ghosts

have

sex.

****

(v)

Te asustarás

si ves un fantasma.

Pero preocúpate

si es

un ángel

lo que ves.

****

You’ll be scared

should you see a ghost.

But you should worry

if it´s

an angel

you see.

****

(vi)

En caso de duda

levanta la sábana

del fantasma.

A veces debajo

se esconde

un ángel.

****

In case of doubt

lift the sheet

from the ghost.

At times beneath

hides

an angel.

****

(vii)

Los ángeles

siempre

regresan

lugar

del

crimen.

****

Angels

always

return

the scene

the crime.

****

Javier Díaz Gil, Madrid, 1964. A Bachelor in Geography & History, with a diploma in General Education Teaching. Until 2006, co-founder and director of the literary magazine Rascamán. For over ten years he has supervised Creative Literature Workshops. Director and moderator of the cycles Escritores en la Biblioteca (“María Moliner” Library). He has published the poetry books Humo, granted the Humberto Tenedor award, Abarán, 2000; Hallazgo de la visión, granted the Nicolás del Hierro award, Piedrabuena, 2000. In 2006 at Santiago de Chile he took part in the Latin American poetry meeting “Poquita Fe” and in 2007 at São Paulo (Brazil) in the “Festival de Tordesilhas”. His poems have been published in literary anthologies and magazines such as Poeta de ©abra (Madrid), Luces y sombras (Tafalla), sèrieAlfa (Valencia), Cuadernos del Matemático (Madrid) o Celuzlose (São Paulo). He was selected at the “Diputación de Badajoz” 2008 Experimental Poetry Award, nominated for the 2010 Addison de Witt Poetry Award and awarded the 2013 “Manzanares el Real” Poetry Award. His poems have been translated into English, Portuguese and Catalan. A member of the Society of Spanish Writers & Artists, since 2006 he chairs the weekly literary gathering Rascamán held at the Café Ruiz in Madrid. His blog can be found at http://javierdiazgil.blogspot.com

***

Abandoned Church(Ballad of The Great War)Poem.Torre A. DeVito Translated from Iglesia Abandonada.Federico García Lorca

March 31, 2013March 31, 2013 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

IGLESIA ABANDONADA
(BALADA DE LA GRAN GUERRA)

Yo tenía un hijo que se llamaba Juan.
Yo tenía un hijo.
Se perdió por los arcos un viernes de todos los muertos.
Lo vi jugar en las últimas escaleras de la misa
y echaba un cubito de hojalata en el corazón del sacerdote.
He golpeado los ataúdes. ¡Mi hijo! ¡Mi hijo! ¡Mi hijo!
Saqué una pata de gallina por detrás de la luna y luego
comprendí que mi niña era un pez
por donde se alejan las carretas.
Yo tenía una niña.
Yo tenía un pez muerto bajo la ceniza de los incensarios.
Yo tenía un mar. ¿De qué? ¡Dios mío! ¡Un mar!
Subí a tocar las campanas, pero las frutas tenían gusanos
y las cerillas apagadas
se comían los trigos de la primavera.
Yo vi la transparente cigüeña de alcohol
mondar las negras cabezas de los soldados agonizantes
y vi las cabañas de goma
donde giraban las copas llenas de lágrimas.
En las anémonas del ofertorio to encontraré, ¡corazón mío!,
cuando el sacerdote levante la mula y el buey con sus fuertes brazos
para espantar los sapos nocturnos que rondan los helados paisajes del cáliz.
Yo tenía un hijo que era un gigante,
pero los muertos son más fuertes y saben devorar pedazos de cielo.
Si mi niño hubiera sido un oso,
yo no temería el siglo de los caimanes,
ni hubiese visto el mar amarrado a los árboles
para ser fornicado y herido por el tropel de los regimientos.
¡Si mi niño hubiera sido un oso!
Me envolveré sobre esta lona dura para no sentir el frío de los musgos.
Sé muy bien que me darán una manga o la corbata;
pero en el centro de la misa yo rompere el timón y entonces
vendrá a la piedra la locura de pingüinos y gaviotas
que harán decir a los que duermen y a los que cantan por las esquinas:
él tenía un hijo.
¡Un hijo! ¡Un hijo! ¡Un hijo
que no era más que suyo. porque era su hijo!
¡Su hijo! ¡Su hijo! ¡Su híjo!

***

The Abandoned Church
(A Ballad of The Great War)

Translated and further interpreted by Torre DeVito
from “IGLESIA ABANDONADA” by Federico García Lorca

I had a son who was named John.
I lost a son whom I look for in
the ruins of the church one All-Hallows eve.
I see him playing on the steps during a mass long since ended,
Dipping his little tin pail into the well of the priest’s heart.
I beat the coffins for my son (My son!) and cast
chicken bones during a full moon to try and understand

I had a vision that my little child was a fish
left where they move the vendor’s carts away.
I had a little child, a fish that died
in the ashes of incense burners.
And in my vision I was the sea. What? My God! A vast sea!

During his funeral I rang the bells,
but the bells have decayed like wormy fruit.
and I lit the candles, now devoured:
eaten like the spring wheat.

And in the wine, I saw the invisible reaper which
plucks the black heads of anguished soldiers:
in those trays with rubber housings
in which they pass around cups filled with tears.

Amongst the holy flowers of the offertory you will find my heart
when the priest raises the host like one who lifts
a mule or an ox with his strong arms. He does this to
scare away the toads that come out at night to haunt
the frozen landscape of the chalice.

I had a son who was a giant,
but the dead are stronger than the living
and they know how to devour pieces of heaven.

If my child was a bear,
I would not be afraid of the alligator’s stealth,
nor would I have seen the sea tied to the trees
to be ravished and trampled by regiments.
If my child was a bear!

I wrap my child in stiff fabric to dispel the cold of the mosses.
I know very well that I will get a sleeve or an armband;
but in the middle of the funeral I will break the rudder
we will drift to a rock in the sea – full of the madness of
penguins and seagulls, and it will cause those who sleep and
those who sing from the street-corners to cry:
He had a son. A son! A son!

I had a son! Not that he was more than my son,
but because he belongs to us all now, they cry:
Our son, our son, our son…

***

( http://www.tdevito.com )

W.S.Sonnet 53.French Translation Richard Vallance

February 11, 2019March 29, 2013 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

Tiré de = from:The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes: 
Anthology of sonnets of the early third millennium 
= Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendres : 
Anthologie de sonnets au début du troisième millénaire.
Victoria, British Columbia: Friesen Press, © 2013 / 

Chapitre 2 : sonnets en français

Sonnet 53

d’après le Sonnet LIII (53) de William Shakespeare

Alexandrin

Laquelle serait l’essentielle à te définir,
Des ténèbres innombrables qui te poursuivent ?
Parmi ces pénombres qui veulent se réunir
À toi, à qui est la mine plus inexpressive ?
Décrire Adonis, et son image dans la glace
Veut te contrefaire aussi bien qu’il t’affaiblit ;
Les beaux-arts, auraient-ils, Hélène, autant de grâce,
Que la frise hellénique, elle qui t’embellit ?
L’on voit au beau printemps s’épanouir l’année,
Dont la foison est trop exquise et un atout,
Mais elle a moins d’abondance que ta Beauté ;
Te voilà donc bénie et reconnue partout.
   Qu’elle soit prévisible, la grâce t’appartient,
   Et la constance imprévisible aussi bien.

Richard Vallance

Le Sonnet 53 de Richard Vallance a été publié dans le vol. 7, numéro 3, été 2007, page 18 de Sonnetto Poesia ISSN1705-4524= was previously published in Sonnetto Poesia ISSN 1705-4524.Vol. 7 No. 3 summer 2007, page 18

Dit-il : Cette nouvelle version du sonnet que j’ai composé en français ne constitue
pas du tout une simple traduction. C’est en effet ma création originale du sonnet 53
de William Shakespeare (1564-1616). My version of William Shakespeare's Sonnet
53 is simply not to be construed as a running translation of the original. It is in fact
my own original creation.

Sonnet LIII

What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one hath, every one, one shade,
And you, but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;
On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new:
Speak of the spring and foison of the year;
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear;
And you in every blessed shape we know.
In all external grace you have some part,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

Commentaires sur la recréation du sonnet 53 de William Shakespeare par Richard Vallance =

Comments on Richard Vallance’s recreation of William Shakespeare’s Sonnet 53 into French:

Ta recréation du sonnet de Shakespeare, fort réussie, me touche d’autant plus que...
passim... [j]e viens de comparer d’un peu plus près ton sonnet 53 avec l’original...
passim... et les traductions d’Henri Thomas et Armel Guerne. Si tu t’éloignes parfois
délibérément de la lettre, tu saisis l’esprit des Sonnets de Shakespeare, en particulier
la musicalité et les antithèses, dont celle de la chute. (Thierry Guinhut, France.)
http://www.thierry-guinhut-litteratures.com/)

Translated: Your recreation of Shakespeare’s sonnet, a success in itself, affects me all
the more when I compare it with the translations of Henri Thomas and Armel Guerne.
If you occasionally stray from the letter, you never stray from the spirit of Shakespeare’s
sonnets. Your French faithfully reflects the musicality, the play on antithesis and the
surprising twist of his rhyming couplet.

Had Richard Vallance only carried the images of Sonnet 53 safely across the pond to lay
them down in new Alexandrine accommodations, his achievement would have been notable;
but he has done something rarer... by reminding us of the Sonnet’s intentions. He has given
us a love poem: one that no Dark Lady would easily resist. (Becca Menon, Becca Books, NYC)

I read your translation/adaptation of sonnet 53 and enjoyed it ― a strange effect of translations
is sometimes one understands an aspect of the original better in the translation; Shakespeare’s
already moderately remote from us, that is our use of the English. So your translation brings
several aspects of the original to light which are perhaps a bit opaque in the original.
(Howard Giskin, Department of Modern and Classical Languages, University of Connecticut, Storrs)

Vraiment la traduction du sonnet 53 de W.S. est excellent. Je peux te dire qu’en français ça coule avec une douceur infinie. C’est de toute beauté. Gilles Le Chasseur (Rimouski, Québec, Canada)

Translated: Your translation of W.S.'s Sonnet 53 is excellent.  I can honestly say
 that it flows with infinite grace in French. It is a thing of beauty.

We urge readers of these sonnets in Poetry Life & Times pre-published 
from The Phoenix Rising from the Ashes = Le Phénix renaissant de ses cendes. 
Victoria, B.C., Canada, Friesen Press, © June 2013  300 sonnets in English, 
French, German, Chinese & Farsi, http://vallance22.hpage.com/, to visit the
site. Readers may also contact Richard  Vallance, Editor-in-Chief, at:
vallance22@gmx.com for further information.

Translated Poems by Michael R Burch. (Basho,Sappho,Shugyo.)

March 27, 2015December 27, 2012 by Robin Ouzman Hislop

(i.)

Epitaph for a Palestinian Child
―for the children of Gaza

I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.

Michael R Burch

(ii.)

Eros shakes my soul:
a wind on desolate mountains
leveling oaks.

―Sappho, fragment 42, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

(iii.)

The butterfly
perfuming its wings
fans the orchid

― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

(iv.)

Oh, fallen camellias,
if I were you,
I’d leap into the torrent!

― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Michael R. Burch’s poems, translations, essays, articles and letters have appeared more than 2,000 times in publications which include TIME, USA Today, Writer’s Digest and hundreds of literary journals and websites. His poetry has been translated into Arabic, Czech, Farsi, Gjuha Shqipe, Italian, Macedonian, Russian, Turkish and Vietnamese. He also edits www.thehypertexts.com.

*Translator’s note: I consult a wide range of sources before I do a translation, since I’m not an expert on other languages. For instance, before doing my translations of Basho and Sappho, I studied hundreds of translations and comments about their work by various experts.

robin@artvilla.com
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes

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