Tags: poetry, translation
Translation of poetry always raises difficult questions. Because the sound and movement in the language is an integral part of poetry, I believe that the translation is always a new poem, a variation on the original not a replication.
There is a sense in which all communication is a form of translation, of course, a process of encoding thought events into signs and signifiers which are translated or disencoded by the listener. And in a broader arc, there is a way of seeing the world in which it is a subtle and mysterious process of translation. Consciousness translates experience through the mediating filters of the mind which constructs waterfalls and sunsets in a delicate spiraling interplay between perception and conception…
When Ana asked if she could translate one of my poems into Romanian I was thrilled. This is the poem she chose…
different senses, different shoes
unless you are a practioner of the dark arts emerging
schmooze leadened sense
from Bowen Hills
highhat bass and most important
perhaps in sullen sluggish chains led
regretful wriggling uncomfortable on its claws
look for two most
then be gone
and here is the translation…
alte simţuri, alţi papuci
De nu eşti un practicant al actelor oculte originar
zvonite plumburiu (re)simţite
din Bowen Hills
chimval în timbru grav şi foarte important
o referinţǎ ejotericǎ
probabil cǎ îţi târşâi mohorât înlǎnţuitele
regrete furişate incomod pe gheare
te uitǎ dupǎ douǎ
ajunse pe neaşteptate
şi te du.
(Thank you, Ana. You can hear Ana reading the poem in Romanian here.)
Tags: extempore, poetry, writing. Moondog
“The only one who knows this ounce of words is just a token,
is he who has a tongue to tell that must remain unspoken.”
Moondog. (from Bird’s Lament)
Moondog was a jazz composure who lived homeless on the streets of New York for twenty years. He dressed as a Viking and invented his own instruments which is very cool. I am trying to write a poem about or based on him for the Extempore Jazz Writing competition. But it is proving difficult. My brain is geometric and I seemed to have lost that instinctive feeling for the architecture of water which is so much a part of jazz. Still, I have one verse, so we’ll see.
Tags: Brad Frederiksen, easter, Kiersty Boon
The world is full of eggs and rabbits. Fertility abounds. Spring is sprung in the North. Bring on the original celebration, a pagan festival of fucking. (Sorry, my Christian friends, but we were here first.)
Here is my favourite Easter poem. Eostra by Kiersty Boon (from her book which you should own, The Poet Busker).
And in more good news, Brad (of Maekitso’s Cafe fame) arrives today for a visit. It will be the first time we’ve met in person and we shall be experimenting with the video camera, so look out for some video poetry performance madness soon.
Tags: dream on squires, lapsed into blogging, sorry
At some point you have to pick a true allegiance to something, and often it is already a lost cause. In the end though, you are not dead, you are sitting around on a beach watching children led by their mothers into the sea for the first time and thinking cool, The World Cup in Australia would be a nice thing,
I might write another football poem, should be a breeze,
Tags: overcoming performance anxiety, radio play, writing for fun
(character voice) – Why must you ignore the rules of grammar? I will have to argue with you about every single one and I already know you will never give up. Stalemate. And stop messing with the tenses leashes and start barking mad giving the characters names so we know who you are talking about.
(another character voice) – Holey mackeral, sorry. Grammar is a boojwah affectation. So which was the first red mark again,
Tags: australian sentences, memoirs, Pam Brown