Friday, December 25, 2015

SPAIN AND A MODERNIST JAPAN: KOTARO TAKAMURA & FEDERICO GARCIA LORCA
********************************************************************************

FEDERICO GARCIA LORCA
Sonnet of the sweet complaint 

Don’t let me lose the wondrous sight
of your sculpted eyes, or the way you have
of placing on my cheek at night
the solitary rose of your breath.
I fear being left like a limbless tree
on the shoreline; and even worse
not having for my worm of agony
wood pulp or potter’s clay or flowers.
If you are my buried treasure,
if you are my cross and wet tears,
if I am your dog and you my master,

then don’t let me lose what I’ve won
and adorn the branches of your river
with the leaves of my estranged autumn.
____________
TPB's notes: translated by Paul Archer from Lorca's Soneto de la dulce queja (Sonnets of Dark Love). "The sequence of poems were written in 1935, inspired by Lorca's love affair with Rafael Rodriguez Rapún." - PA

KOTARO TAKAMURA
Late At Night

The moon on this July night,

Look!, shivers with fever among the poplars.

The wafted scent of cyclamen

Whimpers on your lips,
T
he wood, the path, the grass, even the distant streets

Are troubled by a deep sadness

And breathe out a faint white mist like a long sigh.

A young couple walk side by side

Holding hands as they tramp over the black mud,

Invisible devils drinking saké

And the reverberations of the last train thundering into the hills

Seem to jeer at the fate of man.

Quietly your soul begins to spasm,

Your sash of Indian cotton becomes moist with sweat,

Like a Parsi you will yourself to suffer in silence.

Oh my heart, wake up!

Your heart too, wake up!

What's happening to us?

It seems so inexorable, excruciating,

We want to escape and yet

It seems so sweet, hard to leave, unbearable...

If only my heart

Could rise from its sickbed,

Break free from this hashish-like trance!

But everything I see is madly confused,

Even the moon on this July night,

Look!, shivers with fever among the poplars.

It's like an interminable disease!

My heart lies on the grass in a hot-house

Tortured by beautiful poisonous insects,

Oh my heart
Who can you cry out to?

Now that the midnight is in the thrall of silence.

_____________
TPB's notes: translated by Paul Archer from The Chieko Poems by Kotaro Takamura, published in 1941. "The Chieko Poems by Kotaro Takamura, published in 1941, have historical significance as they are regarded as some of the first Japanese poems to successfully break free from the conventional moulds of the haiku or tanka forms and embrace a free verse form where neither the content, vocabulary and expressions or syllabic count was fixed and formalised. " - Paul Archer

Friday, December 18, 2015

 JOHN PEPPER CLARK, ABU-L-QASIM Al-SHABBI
**************************************************************


J. P. Clark
Ibadan
  Ibadan
running splash of rust
and gold-flung and scattered
among seven hills like broken
china in the sun.

__________
TPB's notes: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/J._P._Clark


ABU-L-QASIM Al-SHABBI 
Beautiful Tunisia
  
I do not weep because night
is a tyrant
nor because destruction reigns
in the countryside.
I weep instead for the heavy calamity
now afflicting us
without relief.
Whenever a leader rises in the country,
vigorous with reform,
yearning to awaken his people,
they garb him in a shirt that curbs his intent.
They stifle his heavenly voice
and murder his music.
Never receptive, they prefer to follow
the ways of tyranny and coercion,
because those are the roads they know.
This is what happens to ones who are sincere!
Death shots are aimed at them easily.
Lo! Calamities have taken hold of us,
they have annihilated our land.

Beautiful Tunisia! I ride the crest of the waves
in my love for you,
My love for you is my covenant -
I have known its bittersweet taste
I'll never yield to the wayward winds
even if I should die,
even if I lose my youth.
I'll never yield, even if they spill
my blood.
The blood of lovers is always game for spilling.
The days, no matter how long,
will show you how true my love is,
will speel out my loyalty in a clear voice.
This is the age of darkness, but I've seen
morning rising behind it.
No matter what time has done to my people's
glory, life will spread your glorious
mantle once again.

__________
TPB's notes: Author: Abu-L-Qasim Al-Shabbi | Songs of Life | 1909-1934. Translated by Lena Jayyusi and Naomi Shihab Nye


Friday, December 11, 2015

TWO POEMS ON EVIDENCE AND DOUBT
************************************************** 

ODIA OFEIMUN
I am a writer

(Exactly ten years after the British High Commission denied me a visa to enjoy a facility provided by the British Council to see the London Book Fair, and then relented, only for General Abacha's goons to seize my passport, my visa application was rejected again, this time, with a sticker on my passport, which says "he claims to be a writer"…)

I do not claim to be, I am a writer
as my passport insists
across decades, and still counting,
drawing humus from Year Twelve
when school bells added my name
to the throng gambolling along
with the Pied Piper of Hamelin
and, the Ancient Mariner
whose magic, and the bamboo flutes
of Martin Carter in Guyana jail,
took me by hand to know Ogun,
when Okigbo's road was famished.

I do not claim to be, I am a writer
as the crow flies, thrillingly sure
though the syllabus of errors
at the British High Commission
may set no column for my stripe
after mourned deaths of the mother
my waify poems at eighteen
elevate siblings at the WAEC
stocking ten-legged thesis
on muses who bring the unborn
to quaking life before stamps
hit the pad at the Passport Office.

I do not claim to be, I am a writer
whose trip under African skies
took Sun-dance to Sadler's Well,
queen Elizabeth hall by the Thames,
and fleet street of glancing nods
with poesy of the body's rhythm
rounding the Cape of Good Hope
and toasting five hundred years
above visa-gripe and truth's fibre,
as art for life vouchsafes it,
setting navel closer to navel
to keep fellow-feeling in grace.

I do not claim to be, I am a writer
guerrilla-happy in unhappy times
pacing the common morality
of truth tougher than fear
and blood oaths segmenting worlds
and stalling the muse of spines
whose fist, raised in salute
to commonsense of hearts
to defeat spite and lucre
and the division of spoils
encumbering the earth with visas

I do not claim to be, I am a writer
beyond the prisonhouse of English
in which I wrest my djinns
I've crossed borders into Urdu,
and fished in the dialects of Rilke
world-round to tip my lagoon
in homage to Neruda's Spanish
I've returned gifts to Montale
wherever my English envy
denies a tongue its entry,
I'm happy, beyond mere fashion
For trips that visas can't deny
________ 
TPB's notes: Listen to poet reading poem here: http://badilishapoetry.com/radio/odia-ofeimun/ Top note is poet's own note provided on the badilisha page: (Exactly ten years after the British High Commission denied me a visa to enjoy a facility provided by the British Council to see the London Book Fair, and then relented, only for General Abachaís goons to seize my passport, my visa application was rejected again, this time, with a sticker on my passport, which says "he claims to be a writer"…) To order Odia Ofeimun's book: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/3879732-the-poet-lied-and-other-poems

FERNANDOA PESSOA
The Uncollected Poems of Alberto Caeiro

All theories, all poems
Last longer than this flower.
But that's like mist, which is uncomfortable and damp,
And larger than this flower...
The size and lastingness aren't important...
They're only size and lastingness...
What matters is that the flower lasts and has size
(If reality is the true dimension of things)...
Being real is the only true thing in the world.

Does my verse make sense if the universe doesn't make sense?
In geometry does a part exceed the whole?
In biology does the function of the organs
Have more life than the body?

From afar I see a ship go by...
Drift indifferently down the river Tagus.
Indifferent not for paying me no attention,
I don't feel distressed by that...
It's indifferent because it has no sense at all
Outside of the simple nautical fact
Of its going downriver with no reference to anything beyond that...
Downriver toward the reality of the sea.

Truth, untruth, certainty, uncertainty...
That blind man there in the road also knows these words.
I sit on a high step and have placed my hands
On top of my knee which I've crossed over the other.
So then: truth, untruth, certainty, uncertainty, what are they?
The blind man stops in the road,
I remove my hands from the top of my knee.
Truth, untruth, certainty, uncertainty, are they the same?
Something changed in one part of reality – my knees and my hands.
Which science has an understanding of this?
The blind man continues on his way and I make no more gestures.
Already time is not the same, nor people the same, nor anything the same.
Being real is this.

So I pass cleanly to Matter
To restore in its rightful place what mankind has disarranged
For its true purpose wasn't noticed.
I straighten out, like Reality's good housewife,
The curtains in the windows of Sensation
The doormats at the doors of Perception
And sweep the rooms of observation
Cleaning the dust off of simple ideas...
This is my life, from verse to verse.

I take joy in the fields without looking at them.
You ask me why I take joy in them.
Because I take joy in them, I answer.
To take joy in a flower is to be beside it unconsciously
And have a notion of its scent in our vaguest thoughts.
When I look, I don't take joy: I see.
I close my eyes, and my body, that's on the grass,
Belongs completely to the outside of someone who closes their eyes –
Before the firm freshness of the fragrant and uneven earth;
And to some of the indistinct sounds of things that exist,
And only a shadow formed of light pulses gently on my lids,
And only a trace of life is heard.
________ 
TPB's notes: The 1st of today's 'long poem' day - in no particular order.
To be honest, we have not read this poem through-. let us know what you think? 
_________________

Friday, December 4, 2015

NEW AFRICAN VERSE: DAMBUDZO MARECHERA & ISOJE CHOU
******************************************************************************

ISOJE CHOU
The Precision of Living

If we fear owls, it is because they eat those
in their own image. Killer birds however small are natural
enemies of other birds, big and small. I look at
the furniture in my apartment to see instead
the elementary particles. They swirl their intrinsic spin, conspire
my human comforts plotting my ultimate demise
and I who exists congregate mountain of their image is
prey of the gods. I see the gods atomic flee sideways as knife plows
through orange, teeth sink into apple, the congealed leg of a table indifferent to
the constrictions of human heart, the quarrels of human time,
these killer birds, these makers of me, the gods molecular;
the ecstasia of illustrious photons simmer around a bulb
to cause momentary blindness and I lose after all what it means to be
accepted or rejected, tribe or country or not, to have or not have
the absurdities of these fears in the face of the precision of
a crueler joke! With headphones on, I have
walked to your non-sense beauty, I have heard
the terror of fizzing particles the
nonbodies floating in aural waves; I,
who submits this single will
called my body
called my being,
which you shall crush soon enough
as you transform
into new forms,
walking in this borrowed body,
I begin to hear your impatience:
In the middle of a war, the failing warrior heard the following:
With a single fragment of myself I pervade and support the universe.
Life or death,
Antimatter, that brutal article, destroys matter destroys mirrors of itself
Killer atoms perform the origins of an end. The end of problems.
The end of dying. And I reach this place of mind 
Matter devoured antimatter lives on in the insides
Of my head and I dream the night skies electrons
I dream the nearness and the distance
These precisions of living.
___________
TPB's notes: published in Contemporary Africa Poetshttp://www.centreforafricanpoetry.org

DAMBUDZO MARECHERA
I Used To Like Tomatoes

I get tired of the blood
And the coughing
and more blood
I get out of that flat real fast
to some cool quarrelling bar
and talk big to bigger comrades
washing down the blood with Castle an’ Label
shaking hands about Tsitsi bombed to heaven
trying to forget I don’t like cooking in dead people’s
pots and pans
I don’t like wearing and looking smart-arse in dead
people’s shirts an’ pants
(They said yoh mama an’ bra been for you
said these are your inheritance)
I’m soon tight as a drum can’t drink no more
It’s back at the flat on my back
swallowing it all red back hard down
I woke up too tired to break out so bright red a bubble.
__________
TPB's notes: Dambudzo Marechera, Cemetery of Mind, Which of you Bastards is Death?

ISOJE CHOU 

Hell, or A short survey of comments read wide-awake at 3:45am 


i. 

Hunger,
Said one commenter to another 

Is always a way to prolong life

I take the subway whenever I can

Came the original wall poster

LMAO replies another
Lolling in five exclamations


So I think my fb friends, said another

At 3:04, can do simple additions
You’re trying too hard to be

Attractive here, came the response

At 3:05. All my modest life I’ve been

Looking for reaches of time to know

Who I am said a non-sequitor
Maybe I’m trying to manage 

Your expectations, came original poster

Lolling in seven exclamation marks


ii. 

Little twists inserted here and there

Hell is a place allowed its own hounds

From ogun’s unheeding dogs of vexations

Right through trolls of europa’s tribes

A good balance between IQ-EQ-SQ

But the directions are never really clear.

Once death goddess of old norse tribes 

Hell sits today mistress of the lighted 

Screen, chthonic daughter of Looking 

___________
TPB's notes: published in CounterPunch Online 2013-02-15 Replaced an earlier poem at request of the poet. 

DAMBUDZO MARECHERA
Smash, Grab, Run

Let the minutes unleash
The bullets Brixton wishes
Barbed wire is the ivy on my walls
Acrid cordite like mist in autumn
Dissolves the harsh street into pellucid cameos
Think how the striking truncheon outpaces thought
How the burgeoning Molotov cancels discussion
And for just this once in my black British life
Exploded the atoms in me into atoms of power
Let each viewfinder’s instant exorcise
The pictorial myths complacency devises
Each hurtling brick aimed to smash this enchanter’s glass
Aimed to loot the truths for so long packaged in lies
I am the hundreds of putrid meat in English prisons
In derelict houses, in borstals, the millions of condemned meat
Who let the grim minutes unleash their canned grime.
___________
TPB's notes: first published in Dambudzo Marechera, Cemetery of Mind.

Friday, November 27, 2015

 Mother as a case of lost and found: Blake, Angelou and Diop
************************************************************************* 


DAVID DIOP
Africa

Africa, my Africa
Africa of proud warriors in ancestral savannahs
Africa of whom my grandmother sings
On the banks of the distant river
I have never known you
But your blood flows in my veins
Your beautiful black blood that irrigates the fields
The blood of your sweat
The sweat of your work
The work of your slavery
Africa, tell me Africa
Is this you, this back that is bent
This back that breaks
Under the weight of humiliation
This back trembling with red scars
And saying yes to the whip under the midday sun
But a grave voice answers me
Impetuous child that tree, young and strong
That tree over there
Splendidly alone amidst white and faded flowers
That is your Africa springing up anew
Springing up patiently, obstinately
Whose fruit bit by bit acquires
The bitter taste of liberty.

Original language version:

Afrique mon Afrique
Afrique des fiers guerriers dans les savanes ancestrales
Afrique que me chantait ma grand-mère
Au bord de son fleuve lointain
Je ne t’ai jamais connue
Mais mon regard est plein de ton sang
Ton beau sang noir à travers les champs répandu
Le sang de ta sueur
La sueur de ton travail
Le travail de l’esclavage
L’esclavage de tes enfants
Afrique dis-moi Afrique
Est-ce donc toi ce dos qui se courbe
Et se couche sous le poids de l’humilité
Ce dos tremblant à zébrures rouges
Qui dit oui au fouet sur les routes de midi
Alors gravement une voix me répondit
Fils impétueux cet arbre robuste et jeune
Cet arbre là -bas
Splendidement seul au milieu de fleurs blanches et fanées
C’est l’Afrique ton Afrique qui repousse
Qui repousse patiemment obstinément
Et dont les fruits ont peu à peu
L’amère saveur de la liberté.
____________
TPB's note: David Diop (July 9, 1927 – August 29, 1960) was one of the French West African poets known for the Négritude movement.



MAYA ANGELOU
The Mothering Blackness

She came home running
back to the mothering blackness
deep in the smothering blackness
white tears icicle gold plains of her face
She came home running

She came down creeping
here to the black arms waiting
now to the warm heart waiting
rime of alien dreams befrosts her rich brown face
She came down creeping

She came home blameless
black yet as Hagar’s daughter
tall as was Sheba’s daughter
threats of northern winds die on the desert’s face
She came home blameless
____________
TPB's note: “The Mothering Blackness” from Just Give Me a Cool Drink of Water Fore I Die. Copyright © 1971 by Maya Angelou. This poems seems to have borrowed from another (famous) poet's style. True or False?


WILLIAM BLAKE
The Little Boy Found

The little boy lost in the lonely fen,
Led by the wand'ring light,
Began to cry, but God ever nigh,
Appeared like his father in white.

He kissed the child & by the hand led
And to his mother brought,
Who in sorrow pale, thro' the lonely dale
Her little boy weeping sought.
____________
TPB's note: William Blake (1757–1827).  The Poetical Works.  1908. from THE SONGS OF INNOCENCE

Friday, November 20, 2015

POETRY OF RESISTANCE IN OCCUPIED PALESTINE
***********************************************
translated by Sulafa Hijjawi

Tawfiq Zayyad
The Olive Tree

Because I do not knit wool*
Because I am always hunted
And my house is always raided.
Because I cannot own a piece of paper,
I shall carve my memoirs
On the home yard olive tree.
I shall carve bitter reflections,
Scenes of love and yearnings,
For my stolen orange grove
And the lost tombs of my dead.
I shall carve all my strivings
For the sake of remembrance
For the time when I’ll drown them
In the avalanche of triumph
I shall carve the serial number
Of every stolen piece of land
The place of my village on the map
And the blown up houses,
And the uprooted trees
And every bloom that was crushed
And all the names of the experts in torture
The names of the prisons.....
I shall carve dedications
To memories threading down to eternity
To the blooded soil of Deir Yasin
And Kufur Qassem.
I shall carve the sun’s beckoning
And the moon’s whisperings
And what a skylark recalls
At a love deserted well.
For the sake of remembrance,
I shall continue to carve
All the chapters of my tragedy
And all the stages of Al- Nakbah
On the home yard olive tree!
_________
TPB's note: from translator: * Reference to Madame Lafarge, who used to knit the names of the traitors and send them to the French revolutionaries during the French Revolution. Source: http://www.sulafahijjawi.ps/PoetryOfResistance_Sulafa_Hijjawi.pdf


Mahmoud Darwish
Identity Card

Write down
I am an Arab
My card number is 50,000
I have eight children
The ninth will come next summer
Are you angry?
Write down
I am an Arab
I cut stone with comrade laborers
My children are eight
I squeeze the rock
To get a loaf,
A dress and a book
For them.
But I do not plead for charity at your door
And do not feel small
In front of your mansion
Are you angry?
Write down
I am an Arab
I am a name without a title
Patient, in a country
Where every body else is very angry
My roots sink deep before the birth of time
And before the beginning of the ages,
Before the time of Cypress and olives
Before the beginnings of grass,
My father belonged to the family of the plough
Was not of grand stock
My grand father was a farmer, without a pedigree
He taught me the grandeur of the sun
Before reading books
My house is a hut
Made of reed and stalk
Are you satisfied with my rank?
I am a name without a title!
Write down
I have been robbed of my ancestral vines
And the piece of land I used to farm with all my children
Nothing remained for us and for my grand children
Except these rocks
Will your government take them?
So it is
Write down
At the top of the first page
I hate nobody
I do not steel any thing
But when I become hungry
I eat the flesh of my marauders
So beware....beware
My hunger and fury!
Write down
At the top of the first page
I hate nobody
I do not steel any thing
But when I become hungry
I eat the flesh of my marauders
So beware....beware
My hunger and fury!
_________
TPB's note: Source: http://www.sulafahijjawi.ps/PoetryOfResistance_Sulafa_Hijjawi.pdf


Sameeh Al Qassem
A Letter From Prison

It pains me, Mother
That you burst in tears
When my friends come
Asking about me
But I believe, mother
That the splendor of life
Is born in my prison
And I believe that my last visitor
Will not be an eyeless bat
Coming at midnight.
My last visitor must be daylight.
_________
TPB's note: Source: http://www.sulafahijjawi.ps/PoetryOfResistance_Sulafa_Hijjawi.pdf

Friday, November 13, 2015

VIETNAMESE FOLK POEMS written from a feminine perspective
******************************************************
(translated by Linh Dinh)

Wobbly, like a hat without a strap,
Like a boat without a rudder,
Like a woman without a husband.
A married woman, like a shackle around the neck.
An unmarried woman, like a board with a loose nail.
A board with a loose nail a man can fix.
The unmarried woman runs this way, runs that way.
It is miserable to be without a husband, Sisters!

Tròng trành như nón không quai,
Như thuyền không lái, như ai không chồng.
Gái có chồng như gông đeo cổ,
Gái không chồng như phản gỗ long đanh.
Phản long đanh anh còn chữa được,
Gái không chồng chạy ngược chạy xuôi.
Không chồng khốn lắm chị em ơi!

*

I come from a rich family.
To marry me, my parents will demand
That you bring a hundred bolts of embroidered silk,
One hundred rubies, twenty eight stars,
Two hundred bamboo trunks,
A gold pillbox, a silver pipe,
A carriage with four horses
For the bride’s magistrate to ride in,
Three hundred Nghe hats,
A pair of fine Chinese fans for the two of us,
Crepe from Nghi Dinh,
A wide blanket to cover our bodies,
Nine vats of honey,
Ten baskets of rolled rice, ten hampers of sticky rice,
Water buffaloes and cows, eighty thousand of them,
Seventy thousand goats, nine jugs of bubbly wine,
Banyan leaves plucked under a full-moon,
Cuoi’s canine tooth, Thien Loi’s whiskers,*
Fresh fly livers, mosquito fat and ninety widowed bats.
These are the conditions that will satisfy my heart,
And you must meet them before I can follow you home.

Em là con gái nhà giàu,
Mẹ cha thách cưới ra mầu xinh sao.
Cưới em trăm tấm gấm đào,
Một trăm hòn ngọc, hai mươi tám ông sao trên trời,
Tráp tròn dẫn đủ trăm đôi,
Ống thuốc bằng bạc, ống vôi bằng vàng,
Sắm xe tứ mã đem sang,
Để quan viên họ nhà nàng đưa dâu.
Ba trăm nón Nghệ đội đầu,
Mỗi người một cái quạt Tàu thật xinh.
Anh về xắm nhiễu Nghi Đình,
May chăn cho rộng ta mình đắp chung.
Cưới em chín chĩnh mật ong,
Mười cót xôi trắng, mười nong xôi vò.
Cưới em tám vạn trâu bò,
Bảy vạn dê lợn, chín vò rượu tăm,
Lá đa mặt nguyệt hôm rằm,
Răng nanh thằng Cuội, râu cằm Thiên Lôi,
Gan ruồi mỡ muỗi cho tươi,
Xin chàng chín chục con dơi góa chồng.
Thách thế mới thỏa trong lòng,
Chàng mà theo được, thiếp cùng theo chân.

*Cuội: a mythical figure who lives on the moon.
Thiên Lôi: the God of thunder.

*

I married at fifteen. My husband complained
That I was too small, and wouldn’t lie with me.
Then I was eighteen, then I was twenty.
I was lying on the floor, he yanked me onto bed.
Love me once, then love me twice,
There’s only three legs left to the bed.
Whoever is going to my parents’ village,
Let them know that he and I are reconciled.

Lấy chồng từ thuở mười lăm,
Chồng chê tôi bé chẳng nằm với tôi.
Đến năm mười tám, đôi mươi,
Tôi nằm dưới đất, chông lôi lên giường.
Một rằng thương, hai rằng thương,
Có bốn chân giường gẫy một còn ba.
Ai về nhắn nhủ mẹ cha,
Chồng tôi nay đã giao hòa với tôi.


*
The little palm nuts are streaked by veins.
You are studying close to home now, but soon,
You’ll be studying far away.
I married you when I was thirteen.
By eighteen, I already had five children.
On the street, people think I’m a single woman,
But at home, I already have five children with you.

Quả cau nho nhỏ?,
Cái vỏ vân vân,
Nay anh học gần,
Mai anh học xa.
Anh lấy em từ thuở mười ba,
Đến năm mười tám thiếp đã năm con.
Ra đường người tưởng còn son,
Về nhà thiếp đã năm con cùng chàng.

*

Young hen stir-fried with old loofah.
Wife twenty one, husband sixty.
On the streets, women joke, girls giggle.
Granddad, granddaughter a married pair.
At night, a cotton-stuffed pillow I’m hugging
Turns out to be my bearded husband.
Sniffling, I feel sorry for myself, curse my fate,
Curse my greedy parents who sold their daughter.

Gà tơ xào với mướp già.
Vợ hai mươi mốt, chồng đã sáu mươi.
Ra đường, chị giễu em cười.
Rằng hai ông cháu kết đôi vợ chồng.
Đêm nằm, tưởng cái gối bông,
Giật mình gối phải râu chồng nằm bên.
Sụt sùi tủi phận hôn duyên,
Oán cha, trách mẹ tham tiền bán con.

*

If you must go into the army, go.
I can take care of business at home.
The twelfth month is for planting sweet potatoes.
The first month is for planting mung beans.
The second month is for planting eggplants.
The third month is for plowing the field.
The fourth month is for sowing rice seeds.
Everything is fine.
The fifth month is for harvesting.
Rain pours down, flooding the rice paddies.
Go perform your public duties,
Leave me alone to work the field.

Anh ơi! phải lính thì đi,
Cửa nhà đơn chếch đã thì có tôi.
Tháng chạp là tiết trồng khoai,
Tháng giêng trồng đậu, tháng hai trồng cà.
Tháng ba cày bở ruộng ra,
Tháng tư gieo mạ thuận hòa mọi nơi.
Tháng năm gặt hái vừa rồi,
Trời đổ mưa xuống, nước trôi đầy đồng.
Anh ơi! giữ lấy việc công,
Để đây em cấy mặc lòng em đây.

*

Eighteen baskets of hair in my nose.
My husband said: “Whiskers from a dragon, a godsend.”
At night I snore, “Aww! Aww!”
My husband said: “Snoring cheers up the house.”
I often snack while shopping.
My husband said: “You’ll eat less at home.”
Trash and straw on my head.
My husband said: “Fragrant flowers in your hair.”

Lỗ mũi em mười tám gánh lông,
Chồng yêu chồng bảo: “Râu rồng trời cho”
Đêm nằm thì ngáy o o…
Chồng yêu chồng bảo: “Ngáy cho vui nhà.”
Đi chợ thì hay ăn quà,
Chồng yêu chồng bảo: “Về nhà đỡ cơm.”
Trên đầu những rác với rơm,
Chồng yêu chồng bảo: “Hoa thơm trên đầu.”

*
As a concubine, I get nothing. Although
As endowed as the mistress, I’m laid aside.
Each night she claims the bedroom, giving me
A straw mat, to lie alone in the outer room.
At dawn she yells, “Hey, servant, get up!”
I wake to slice sweet potatoes, chop water fern.
It’s all because my parents are poor.
That’s why I must slice potatoes, chop water fern.

Thân em lấy lẽ chả hề,
Có như chính thất mà lê giữa giường.
Tối tối chị giữ mất buồng,
Cho em mảnh chiếu nằm suông nhà ngoài.
Sáng sáng chị gọi: “Ở Hai!”
Bây giờ mới dậy, thái khoai, đâm bèo.
Vì chưng bác mẹ tôi nghèo,
Cho nên tôi phải đâm bèo, thái khoai.

*

Chastity is worth more than gold.
From my ex-husband to you, that’s five men.
As for my history of furtive love,
A hundred have lain upon my belly.
Chữ trinh đáng giá nghìn vàng,
Từ anh chồng cũ đến chàng là năm.
Còn như yêu vụng dấu thầm,
Họp chợ trên bụng hàng trăm con người.

*

I was not the only loose girl. There were two or three
In Thanh Lam, Dong Som. It’s hard to admit, Sisters,
Lest you laugh. I was married in September,
Had my baby in October.
Lẳng lơ chả một mình tôi.
Thanh Lâm, Đồng Sớm, cũng đôi ba người.
Nói ra sợ chị em cười,
Lấy chồng tháng chín, tháng mười có con.

*

My husband is useless, Sisters. He gambles
All day long, goes berserk
When I complain. It is embarrassing
Even to talk about it. To settle his debts,
I’ll have to sell four or five baskets
Of threshed rice, kilos of cotton.
We’ll eat less. This bitter berry
I’ll suck without complaints, lest everyone laughs.
Confucian-trained, yet I live with a fool.
A dragon in a pool of mud.
A smart wife with a stupid husband.

Chồng em nó chẳng ra gì,
Tổ tôm sóc đĩa nó thì chơi hoang.
Nói ra xấu thiếp, hổ chàng,
Nó giận nó phá tan hoang cửa nhà.
Nói đây thôi có chị em nhà.
Còn năm ba thúng thóc với một vài cân bông.
Em bán đi trả nợ cho chồng.
Còn ăn hết nhịn cho hả lòng chồng con.
Đắng cay ngậm quả bồ hòn.
Cửa nhà ra thế, chồng con kém người.
Nói ra sợ chị em cười.
Con nhà nho giáo lấy phải người đần ngu.
Rồng vàng tắm nước ao tù,
Người khôn ở với người ngu nặng mình.

*

Gambling does not agree with you.
Having sold your shirt and your pants,
You don’t even have a piece of rag left.
A gust of cold wind, and you duck into a pile of stubbles,
With your ass sticking out, for the crows to pick.

Cờ bạc nó đã khinh anh,
Áo quần bán hết một manh chẳng còn.
Gió đông chui vào đống rạ,
Hở mông ra cho quạ nó lôi.
Anh còn cờ bạc nữa thôi?
 ____________
TPB's note:source: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2008/05/h%E1%BB%93-xuan-h%C6%B0%C6%A1ng/

Friday, November 6, 2015

VIETNAMESE POETRY: one classical and one modernist
************************************************

Hồ Xuân Hương
On Sharing A Husband


Screw the fate that makes you share a man.
One cuddles under cotton blankets; the other's cold.
Every now and then, well, maybe or maybe not,
once or twice a month, oh, it's like nothing.
You try to stick to it like a fly on rice
but the rice is rotten. You slave like the maid,
but without pay. If I had known how it would go
I think I would have lived alone

translated by Tony Nyen

in the Vietnamese:

Hồ Xuân Hương
Lấy Chồng Chung

Kẻ đắp chăn bông kẻ lạnh lùng,
Chém cha cái kiếp lấy chồng chung.
Năm thì mười họa chăng hay chớ,
Môt tháng đôi lần có cũng không.
Cố đấm ăn xôi, xôi lại hẩm,
Cầm bằng làm mướn, mướn không công.
Thân này ví biết dường này nhỉ,
Thà trước thôi đành ở vậy xong.
 ____________
TPB's note: from wiki: Hồ Xuân Hương (胡春香; 1772–1822) was a Vietnamese poet born at the end of the Lê Dynasty. She grew up in an era of political and social turmoil – the time of the Tây Sơn rebellion and a three-decade civil war that led to Nguyễn Ánh seizing power as Emperor Gia Long and starting the Nguyen Dynasty. She wrote poetry using Chữ Nôm (Southern Script), which adapts Chinese characters for writing demotic Vietnamese. She is considered to be one of Vietnam's greatest classical poet. Xuân Diệu, a prominent modern poet, dubbed her "The Queen of Nôm poetry". https://en.wikipedia.org/…/H%E1%BB%93_Xu%C3%A2n_H%C6%B0%C6%…


Xuân Diệu
Boys' Love


I still remember Rimbaud and Verlaine,
The two besotted men of poetry
Drunk with exotic verse and with passion,
Defying worn paths and old ways.
They walked in lock step on their way,
Their souls steeped in the fragrant air;
Weak in strong their arms enlaced fore'er;
In all weather, singing their love song gay.
Nothing matters, future or past,
Who wears makeup or colored dress.
Who cares about heaven or hell?
They are simply in love; that's swell.

Translated from the Vietnamese by Thomas D. Le
 ____________
TPB's note: from wiki: Ngô Xuân Diệu (February 2, 1916 – December 18, 1985) more commonly known by the pen name Xuân Diệu, was a prominent Vietnamese poet. A colossal figure in modern Vietnamese literature, he wrote about 450 poems (largely in posthumous manuscripts) especially love poems, several short stories, and many notes, essays, and literary criticisms. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Xu%C3%A2n_Di%E1%BB%87u


Hồ Xuân Hương
A Roadside Teahouse


Aslant, staring at a trembling landscape:
A twining road, a tottering teahouse,
A hut with a thatch roof, ragged, pathetic,
A slitted, scrawny bamboo beam,
Three tree clumps, bending, coquettish,
An emerald green stream, scanty grass.
Pleasured, I forget my old worries.
Look: someone’s kite’s spiralling.

translated by Linh Dinh

in the Vietnamese:

Hồ Xuân Hương
Quán Khánh

Đứng tréo trông theo cảnh hắt heo,
Đường đi thiên thẹo, quán cheo leo.
Lợp lều, mái cỏ tranh xơ xác,
Xỏ kẽ, kèo tre đốt khẳng kheo.
Ba chạc cây xanh hình uốn éo.
Một dòng nước biếc, cỏ leo teo.
Thú vui quên cả niềm lo cũ,
Kìa cái diều ai gió lộn lèo.
 ____________
TPB's note: see: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/…/h%E1%BB%93-xuan-h%C6%B0%…/
J P CLARK, WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS, & EZRA POUND
************************************************************************
three poems about cities.

JOHN PEPPER CLARK BEKEDEREMO 
Ibadan

Ibadan,
running splash of rust
and gold – flung and scattered
among seven hills like broken
china in the sun.
 _____________
TPB's note:  published in 1962, along with 'Night Rain'(?); found online. 

_____________________


WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS
Paterson

Paterson lies in the valley under the Passaic Falls
its spent waters forming the outline of his back. He
lies on his right side, head near the thunder
of the waters filling his dreams! Eternally asleep,
his dreams walk about the city where he persists
incognito. Butterflies settle on his stone ear.
Immortal he neither moves nor rouses and is seldom
seen, though he breathes and the subtleties of his machinations
drawing their substance from the noise of the pouring river
animate a thousand automations. Who because they
neither know their sources nor the sills of their
disappointments walk outside their bodies aimlessly
for the most part,
locked and forgot in their desires-unroused.

—Say it, no ideas but in things—
nothing but the blank faces of the houses
and cylindrical trees
bent, forked by preconception and accident—
split, furrowed, creased, mottled, stained—
secret—into the body of the light!

From above, higher than the spires, higher
even than the office towers, from oozy fields
abandoned to gray beds of dead grass,
black sumac, withered weed-stalks,
mud and thickets cluttered with dead leaves-
the river comes pouring in above the city
and crashes from the edge of the gorge
in a recoil of spray and rainbow mists-

(What common language to unravel?
. . .combed into straight lines
from that rafter of a rock's
lip.)

A man like a city and a woman like a flower
—who are in love. Two women. Three women.
Innumerable women, each like a flower.

But
only one man—like a city.
 _____________
TPB's note:n/a
_____________________


EZRA POUND
The Garden

Like a skein of loose silk blown against a wall
She walks by the railing of a path in Kensington Gardens, And she is dying piece-meal
of a sort of emotional anemia.

And round about there is a rabble
Of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor. They shall inherit the earth.

In her is the end of breeding.
Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.

She would like some one to speak to her,
And is almost afraid that I
will commit that indiscretion.

_______ 
TPB's note: a poem about a city or of a woman of a certain city - or
a certain city and this particular woman in it?

Friday, October 30, 2015

MNCEDISI MASHIGOANE, NIYI OSUNDARE, & HARRY GARUBA 
*****************************************************

MNCEDISI MASHIGOANE 
Section 29

your hands left spots on my body
section 50 had pooed and passed

when i `mumbled'
in those induced trips to the other world
you yourself observed
you yourself noted
flesh retreating to the bones
solid trouble in the eyes
such as make you think of Dingane ka Zulu!

 _____________
TPB's note:  from the www.african-writing.com

NIYI OSUNDARE 
Heart’s Eye View


Left Paris
Several heartthrobs ago
Past Madrid
Now flying over Marrakech
One fast sweep
Over the sprawling Sahara
And on to the angel
Waiting by the sea
Every wingstep brings me
Closer to your wondrous arms
 _____________
TPB's note:  from the www.african-writing.com

HARRY GARUBA 
Monkey Love

hanging from the branches of your arms
dreaming of bananas,
I long only for things prosaic
things without poetry or fire
like bread and flesh and earth
like soil and seed and water
like the body evidence of sweat,
undeodorized, fresh with odour,
neither seas nor sunsets will serve this need
I long only…
to clasp the trunk of your body
and hug you like the monkey hugs the tree
a hairy love in an embrace of leaves
 _____________
TPB's note:  from the www.african-writing.com