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A Portrait of Antonio Machado (Edit) (Other) by Sasha
My boyhood is all memories of a patio in Sevilla,
And how an orchard bore its share of lemons come the fall,
My growing up: some twenty years in regions of Castilla
The rest of it's a thing or two I'd rather not recall.
I'm not a playboy, never been Don Juan or gone for Juliet.
-You know I'd never fit the part. My style is dull and old-
Yet Cupid had an arrow with my name and I endured it
But only loved the girls I knew would have a friendly soul.
Although my veins are pulsing blood enough for revolution
My poetry comes flowing from some from a well that's calm and pure,
And more than any guy around who knows the catichism,
I'm truly "good" at heart in every good sense of the word.
Itâs beauty I aspire to. With the sheers of new asthetics
I've cut some ancient roses from the garden of Ronsard,
But I disdain that modernistic dappling of cosmetics,
I'm not a fan of muses singing latest avant-garde.
But hell with lovey-dovey tunes of certain hollow tenors,
The choirs of unceasing crickets crooning at the moon.
I quiet down to try and tell the voices from the echos,
And out of all the voices heard I listen for just one.
Am I romantic, or a classic? Donât know. But I rather
Would leave my poems somewhat as a captain leaves his blade:
Famed for the manly hand whose fingers brandished it in battle
And not the learned forgerâs fist that had the metal made.
I hold a conversation with a guy who's always with me
-The man that talks alone may talk with God someday in grace-
What I soliloquize is only chatting with this fellow
Who taught me all the secret things of how to love my race.
I don't owe you a thing, you see, you owe me for my writings.
I go about my work with care. I scrimp and save to buy
The clothes and suit that warm me up, the roof to bar the weather,
The bread that helps me stay alive, the bed in which I lie.
And when the day arrives when I must make the final voyage,
The ship that never comes again will lift the anchor free.
You'll find me boarded with the crew, with very little luggage
With scarce a rag upon my back, like children of the sea.
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Arithmetic Mean: 4.0
Weighted score: 4.9525743
Overall Rank: 8829
Posted: May 10, 2004 12:12 PM PDT; Last modified: August 22, 2005 10:08 AM PDT
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mk32
Comments:
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I think that sort of stuff might be more at home in the upcoming "Still More Chickensoup for the Teenage Soul XXVII"
Sasha - Don't you read any of these poems before translating them?
Don't you leave me now,
Now we must forget
All we can forget
All that's left us now;
To forget about
All the times we fought
And the time we lost
Trying to figure out
How we might forget
When attacks of "why?"
Helped our hearts kill time,
How it thrills me! yet
Donât leave me now...
I will offer you
Beads and rain-made pearls
That come from a world
Where it never rains.
Roam the land and sea
Till I gasp and die,
With a golden gleam,
And a sheen of jewels
Build your realm to be
Where loveâs everything
Where love is the king
Where you'll be the queen
Donât you leave me now
Donât you leave me now
I will recreate
Words and what they state,
Things you'll know about,
Tales of lovers who
Fell away and then
Fell in love again
As their love stayed true
Thereâs a story too
That I must describe
Of this king who died
Of not meeting you
Donât you leave me now
And itâs true that new
Flames can burst and blaze
From a peak thought done
With volcanic days.
Seems a burning field
Scorched in blasts of heat
Could give us more wheat
Than April's best yield
When the night is nigh
Burning overhead,
Can't the black and red
Twine across the sky?
Donât you leave me now
Donât you leave me now
Now I'll cry no more
And I'll sigh no more
Hide myself somehow:
See your dance anew,
Hear the song you sing
Hear your laughter ring,
Watch you smiling too
Let me be for you:
Shadow of your shadow
Shadow of your hand
Dog at your command
Do you have Nina Simone's version? It's totally great, but you'd probably get a chuckle out of her French.
So this translation, at least, is not of a dull poem?
Interestingly, I only translate poems that I find worth the effort of translating. So what sort of poems, if not Machado and Lorca, are to your taste?
It's hard for me to say, because of course there is and always will be a high market value for good translations of old poems. And besides that, pretty much my only experience with untranslated poetry is as a stoned undergrad Spanish major about three years ago. I did a lot of work with Nicolas Guillen, Armonia Somers (not a poet), Luis Garcia Montero, Juana de Ibarbourou, Emilia Bernal, Alfonsina Storni, and some assorted Catalan and Spanish speakers whose names escape me now, but I find I've forgotten almost all of it. When I looked into translating at the time, I found there were no English translations of any of the above (besides Langston Hughes' famous translation of Guillen,) though there is some interest in it in America. But again, I can't say. I would recommend you find something that appeals to a modern aesthetic, something a little ambiguous, showing more than telling, etc etc etc. There's stuff like that going back ages in any language. That's what would interest me, at any rate.
PS-Do you know a poem that begins something like:
"Traeme otra copa
y veremos"?
I've been looking for it all day.