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Archive for જૂન, 2016

ઓગણીસમું ઘડિયાળ કાવ્ય,જેમાં લુગડાં વિશે યત્ન હશે

૧૮ઃ૩૦ મેં એક બખું શોધ્યું છે

નેવુના હાર્દમાં

જેમાં હું,જીવંત હોઉં,

તો જડબેસલાક બંધબેસત.

૧૮ઃ૩૪ આપણા સાંપ્રતનો કૂદકો

આ અનંત દૄશ્ય.

૧૮ઃ૩૬ ધરતીમાં એમની સાથે હું સૂઇ જઈશ,

મારાં પશુ સાથે,મારી લુપ્તતાના પશુ.

મને ડર છે કે મારી

૧૮ઃ૩૭ પ્રતીયમાન-દૄષ્ટિ

કોઈના મૃત્યુનું કારણ બનશે.

૧૮ઃ૩૮ સૂક્ષ્મદર્શક લખાણ,આંતરિક

નજરોનજર સમય.

હવે કોઈ આકાર બાકી નથી

હું વરાળિયા ભૂત સમ બોલું છું.

૧૮ઃ૩૯ કોણ લખી શકે સમય

મારા જેટલો આભાસાત્મક?

કોણ આવી લાંબી ભૂલ કરે

અને એનો ફેરવિચાર ના કરે

પ્રકાશ સામે મિચકારો

અને અંધકારમાં લુપ્ત?

જીવ્યા કરો અને ખરીદ્યા કરો.મારે ખરીદી કરી

માણસ શું તે અનુભવવું છે.

૧૮ઃ૪૩ હું મારફતિયો છું અને કપડાં અજમાવી જોઊં.

હું અઢળક ઉનના કપડાં પહેરું

અભિરૂચિત પ્રકાશમય ફિટિંગ રુમમાં.

મારું શરીર ચપળ જાણકાર છે.

૧૮ઃ૪૬ આ લુગડાં .આ ઓરડો.

૧૮ઃ૪૭ હું પેટ પર તબલાં વગાડું

અને જાણું કે મારાં અવયવ હયાત છે.

ખરીદેલાં કપડાંમાં

હું મારાં અવયવ હુંફાળા રાખું.

આવું સ્વપ્નશીલ વેચવાલી હયાત છે.

૧૮ઃ૪૯ હું બરાડ્યો હતો.મેં કશું સાંભળ્યું.

આગ ફેલાશે

કોઈ પણ ક્ષણૅ અને બાકોરું પાડશે

જેમાં હું મને મૂકીશ.

૧૮ઃ૫૧ ઊંચાઈ ઢસડાઈ પડી

એ શષકત, ગૂઢ ચમત્કારિક ભાષા છે

કે મારું યૌવન એનાથી

વ્યાપ્ત હશે.

મને યાદ છે દાણાદાર આકૃતિ,

પણ જોઊં છું મારી મા સંગાથે

રોઝેન્ડાલના શોપિંગ મોલમાં

વા મારી શાળા સામે ઊભેલો.

શાળામાં મારો અધમૂઓ કાળ.

બજાર જ મને જીવંત રાખે છે,

અનુભવ પુરો પાડે છે.

NINETEENTH CLOCKED POEM, IN WHICH I TRY ON CLOTHES
18:30
I have discovered a hole
in the heart of the nineties,
into which I, if I were alive,
would fit quite well.

18:34

The jumps of our present,
these endless vistas.

18:36

I will lie with them in the ground,
with my animals, my animals of hide.
I am afraid that my

18:37

hyper-focus
will actually cause someone to die.

18:38

Microscopic writing, inward
facing time.
Not one form left now,
I speak like a ghost exhaling.

18:39

Who can write down time
as ghostly as I can?
Who can make a mistake this long
and not reconsider it
blink against the light
and disappear into the dark?
Keep living and go shopping. I want to shop
and feel what it is to be human.

18:43

I am an agent and try on clothes.
I put on lots and lots of woolly clothes
in a tastefully lit fitting-room.
My body is buoyant, wide-awake.

18:46

These clothes. This room.

18:47

I drum on my stomach
and observe that my organs
exist.
I keep my organs warm
in the clothes that I buy.
Such dreamlike marketing exists.

18:49

I was called, I heard something.
Flames may descend
at any minute and make the hole
in which I’ll lay myself.

18:51

That the towers have collapsed
is such powerful, darkly magical language
that my youth must have
been pervaded by it.
I remember grainy images,
but see me with my mother
walk through a shopping mall in Roosendaal
or stand in front of my school.
My half-dead time at school.
The market alone brings me alive,
provides me with experiences.
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૧)

ગઈ રાતે સ્વપ્ન આવ્યું હતું,જ્યારે હું આફ્રિકા પહોંચ્યો,

એક ભયાનક ગડગડાટ સંભળાયો હતો.

પહેલાંતો ટારઝનના ઢેકા ભાંગવા હતાં,

જંગલનો રાજા જણાવવા.

આ યુધ્ધ માટે હું મગર સાથે લઢ્યો છું,

હું વ્હેલ સાથે બાખડયો છું,

મેં જકડેલી વીજળી ધરી છે,

અને જેલમાં ગગડાટ ફેક્યા છે.તમે જાણો છો કેવો ખરાબ હું.

ગયા અઠવાડિયે જ,મેં ખડક હણ્યો,

પથ્થર ઈજાગ્રસ્ત કર્યો,ઈંટ રૂગ્ણાલય પહોંચાડી છે.

હું અતિ અનુદાર,હું દવાને બિમાર પાડું.

હું કેટલો ઝડપી ચું ,દોસ્ત.

હું વાવાઝોડા પાર દોડું અને કોરો નીકળું.

જ્યારે જ્યોર્જ ફોર્મેન મને ટકરાશે,

એ એનું દેવું ચુકવશે.

હું પાણીની ચુસકી ડુબાવું,અને મૃત વૃક્ષ હણું.

પ્રતીક્ષા કરજો મુહેમદ અલિને મળવાની.

૨)

એણે પ્રેમના થોડાં પ્યાલા પીધાં

એણે ચમચી ભર ધીરજ ગ્રહી,

એક ચમચી દાનવીરતા,

પા ગેલન પરોપકારીતા,

એણે ગેલન હાસ્ય લીધું,

એક ચપટી કાળજી રાખી.

અને પછી,સ્વેચ્છા આનંદમાં ઘોળી.

એણે અઢળક શ્રધ્ધા ઊમેરી,

અને સારી એવી વલોવી.

પછી એણે જન્મારા પર ચોપડી,

દરેક લાયક વ્યક્ટિને પીરસ્યો.

અનુ.૬/૧૪/૨૦૧૬

  • Last night I had a dream, When I got to Africa,
    I had one hell of a rumble.
    I had to beat Tarzan’s behind first,
    For claiming to be King of the Jungle.
    For this fight, I’ve wrestled with alligators,
    I’ve tussled with a whale.
    I done handcuffed lightning
    And throw thunder in jail.
    You know I’m bad.
    just last week, I murdered a rock,
    Injured a stone, Hospitalized a brick.
    I’m so mean, I make medicine sick.
    I’m so fast, man,
    I can run through a hurricane and don’t get wet.
    When George Foreman meets me,
    He’ll pay his debt.
    I can drown the drink of water, and kill a dead tree.
    Wait till you see Muhammad Ali.

  • Interview with David Frost (1974)

    • David Frost: What would you like people to think about you when you’ve gone?
      Muhammad Ali: I’d like for them to say:
      He took a few cups of love.
      He took one tablespoon of patience,
      One teaspoon of generosity,
      One pint of kindness.
      He took one quart of laughter,
      One pinch of concern.
      And then, he mixed willingness with happiness.
      He added lots of faith,
      And he stirred it up well.
      Then he spread it over a span of a lifetime,
      And he served it to each and every deserving person he met.

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થોડાં તત્વોથી બધું

પુન;રચવાનો આ યત્ન છેઃ

પડછાયો રંગમંચ ત્યજે,

વાર્નિશની ગંધ અને જાહેરાત

– એની એ જ નહીં – ગોલિઆત સોડા માટે

આંખના ખૂણેથી પકડાયેલી

જુલાઈ ૨૦૦૪એ

કેળવાય તેવાં ગુલ્લાંમાં

દાખલ થતી બસમાંથી

દક્ષિણ અમેરિકન હેમાળાવાળી

જ્યારે અમારે ઉષ્ણતા નહતી.

આંગળીએ

દસ સુધી ગ્ણો તમે.

ટચલીથી

કે અંગૂઠાથી શરૂ કરો.

એ અભિન્ન નથી યદ્યપિ એવું લાગશે,

વા નથી સમાન,સવારે ૩ વાગે,

પીઠા બહાર, ઊભી રાખેલી,આપણી ગાડી

છાપરે

નાતાલ વૃક્ષ બાંધેલી.

અહીં પૂલ નીચે નર્યું પાણી,

અમે જ્યારે જગ્યા ત્યજી

વૈશ્વિક સંગીતે ત્રસ્ત,

નવાયુગની દુર્ગંધ.

અહીં ચારઋતુ નથીઃ

ભૂમધ્યરેખાથી ઉપર,

જળરેખાથી ઉપર.

નવ મહિનાના વરસાદે

તરતાં શીખવાડ્યું,

અમને મુક્ત કાવ્યના

સુખમાં ગુમાવવાનું.

દા.ત. આખા ઘરમાં

હું અનુસરાતો

દીકરીથી,બિલાડી અને કૂતરાથી.

એ મારાં ઉત્કૃષ્ટ પડછાયા છે.

ફરીથી ગેસ ગંધાય,

અને નેવાં વધું પડતા વ્યસ્ત છે.

ટપકવાની ધીમી તાલમાપક

ગતિ દિવસનું વિભાજન કરે.

વરસ વીતે એંધાણી ચીંધતુંઃ

એ લગભગ સુધરે.

શ્વાન કોકડાય

ઉત્ક્રાંતિવાદી શાંતિથી.

બહુ સરળ છે,

આપણી જરુર નથી એમને

શેષ સમજવા.

૬-૧૧-૨૦૧૬ Luis Chaves
Circumference
Poetry in Translation

Featured

Underneath all of this there’s a song
Three poems by Luis Chaves, translated and introduced by Julia Guez and Samantha Zighelboim

Every Sunday for the last twenty-four months, our task as translators has been to keep up with the hyper-caffeinated imagination of Costa Rican poet Luis Chaves, rendering each image in his remarkable new collection of poetry in a way that orients the reader and provides a moment’s stasis and clarity before “the waves come and the waves erase it.”

In Equestrian Monuments, dialogue from The Exorcist co-exists with lines from the Latin Kyrie, Rex. The stately figure of a former president, Leon Cortés, is counterbalanced by a cast of mock-heroic or non-normative foils: a transvestite, a cripple, a singleton, homunculus, thief and gardener. Sweeping statements about entire generations, continents and genres find a basis in the most intimate details of home-life. The intersections are uncanny, sometimes hilarious, often sad and unsettling.

In the original, Chaves contains complex thoughts and feelings with the simplest diction.

La maleza crece
cuando dejamos de mirar.
Los años se acumulan
mientras nos ocupamos de la maleza.
Aprender esto nos tomó
más tiempo del que hubiéramos querido.

Economy of syntax and style is something we’ve worked hard to maintain, while keeping with the ease, colloquialism and play of the Spanish. At the same time, we’ve liberally modulated some of the music in the translation to mirror what is happening in the shape-shifting original. That’s often a question of controlling the cadence of a line by way of enjambment or punctuation.

The weeds grow
when we’re not watching them.
Years accumulate
while we worry about the weeds.
Learning this took
longer than we would have liked.
chaves_libro_300_pag

Luis Chavez

Monumentos Ecuestres was a gift, given to Guez the first time she and Chaves met for Imperial and espresso at the Hotel Costa Rica, sitting on the patio across from the Teatro Nacional, before making their way to the Librería Duluoz nearby. She was in the country on a year-long grant from The Fulbright Commission. This allowed her to spend half of her time in Vargas Arraya—where she and her fiancée rented a small white-walled room in a guest house across from a grocery called Perimercado (which, for years after the name had officially changed, everyone still called Super Cindy). So close to the Universidad de Costa Rica in San Pedro, she wasn’t far from some of the presses—Lanzallamas, Espiral and Germinal—whose work she was there, in part, to research.

After taking in as many readings, salons and festivals in and around the capital as she could, Guez spent the rest of her time living in the small town of Delicias where, half-way up a massive hill, she rented the second story of a house overlooking the Gulf of Nicoya. It was there, on the balcony, that she made the first of three attempts to translate Equestrian Monuments on her own.

She would tinker with individual words and phrases for days. Once satisfied with the literal rendering of a line, weeks and months were then spent bending the overall tone of the translation closer to the original’s.

The project of successfully re-creating the experience of reading Luis Chaves really began to come together when, over drinks at Mercadito in New York City’s East Village, Guez invited Zighelboim into the process of co-translating the collection.
Guez-Roeder-2013 (Color) – Smiling

Julia Guez

Our paths crossed for the first time at Columbia University’s School of the Arts. A handful of conversations about poetry we exchanged in 2010 set Guez up to introduce Zighelboim’s work at the annual Thesis Reading that spring. It also gave us a window into one another’s sensibility, what we were reading, writing and translating at the time, and the extent to which we could trust and admire one another’s eye and ear. Most importantly, that small-scale collaboration hinted at the kind of ambition, humor, integrity, persistence and care that would allow us to do some extraordinary work together on a much larger-scale.

Ever since that drink at Mercadito, we have been meeting at one of our two apartments or a café close by almost every week. Beginning with the literal translation, we engaged in a five-part process with each piece.

In the first phase, our aim was simply to be generative. We wanted to come up with as many counterfactuals as we could. All of the options we could create for a given word or phrase were lined up, one after another, separated only by a back-slash. This was our divergent phase, and it was the most playful one.

In our second phase, we wanted to narrow the options down. The trimming would literally halve the size of our drafts. This was our convergent phase, and, of them all, it was the most straightforward.

Then, the goal was to narrow the field of our focus even further (and, at this point, we weren’t tinkering with any of the options we had come up with before). If something didn’t work—even if it was completely accurate, and even if we couldn’t put our finger on why it didn’t attain what Kierkegaard (by way of Walter Lowrie’s translation) called a “primitive lyrical validity” in English—it was highlighted and removed from the list we had bracketed-out before.
SZ

Samantha Zighelboim

In the fourth phase of our work, the aim was to create enough distance between ourselves and the text, enough time and space to be able to come back and see everything with new eyes. Sometimes a few minutes—to prepare another gourd of mate or smoke a cigarette outside—would be sufficient. Then we could come back to a passage we had been struggling through, or toggle over to another piece in the collection. Other days, we would take several hours off—to pick up a bottle of wine for dinner, eat, drink then begin again. Several weeks and months would pass between drafts of the trickiest poems in the collection.

In the final phase of our work together, our aim was to dilate moments in the text that simply didn’t sound right to us. Unsatisfied with the options we had generated so far, we gave ourselves greater permission vis a vis inserting or eliding something in the English to protect the flow of a line (without altering its meaning and, likely, only adding to its plausibility).

“The waves come and the waves erase it” is one example. We repeated the word, “waves,” to maintain the lilt of the phrase, (“y las olas vienen y la borran”), and to convey the sense of ritual and repetition that is at the heart of this particular section of the poem. At this phase of the process, raindrops were finally “veining” the window. The crickets “came on,” after “the fog cleared.” And “the sky’s own white stone path” was chosen in lieu of cloud-like rolling stones (which, every way we attempted to render up to this point, was clichéd, distracting and allusive in the English in a way the Spanish didn’t mean to be). By the end of this phase, we had worked through the most important decision-points in the text. Everything we had pressure-tested, memorizing, reciting and tinkering with for months, still pleased us; it still worked, even though it didn’t always feel perfect.

In the introduction to Madame Bovary, Lydia Davis explains that she didn’t read any other translations until after she finished a first draft of her own. “In the second draft, I had ten others on hand, eventually an eleventh, the most recent. I made extensive comparisons in difficult passages, curious to learn what ingenious solutions might have been found to the various cruxes.”

Our admiration for one another as writers and as people, the trust we have for one another as co-translators and friends, our commitment to question every choice we have made, to consider and reconsider it almost compulsively, has allowed us to do what Davis was doing (in virtual conversation with other translators) in real-time. And it has helped us land on solutions to the various “cruxes” we’ve encountered in the course of co-translating Equestrian Monuments that neither one of us could have come up with on our own.

In our own translations then “provincia” has become “suburb”, and “Acetaminofén” is “Tylenol.” “La Virgen Criolla,” however, is still “La Virgen Criolla.” There are slippery, strange or foreign references in the original, and we attempt to make them feel the same way in our translation. That is part of a mystery we don’t, in any way, intend to clarify or solve for in this text: a necessary strangeness.
—Julia Elizabeth Guez & Samantha Zighelboim

Read original in Spanish

Moving
by Luis Chaves

1.

Picture this:

How two weeks of rain

have washed away all the flower pots’

ochre rings.

The whites and darks mix

in the same washing machine.

A house reduced to cardboard boxes.

The afternoon spinning on the rain’s axis.

The false menthol

of a Derby Light + a Halls.

The color plasticine bars make

when they’ve been kneaded together.

2.

The world is turning so fast

it appears to be standing still.

I thought about saying so

but, as your copilot, preferred

to watch you circle

the parking lot.

3.

Ants came in

the moving boxes.

The new apartment

begins to feel more like a home.

One belonging to someone else, but still—a home.

4.

In the new apartment,

the handyman hollows out a wall

searching for the leak.

This isn’t disorder per se,

but order of another kind.

Plastic bags, Sharpie

on boxes, in cursive:

KITCHEN/BOOKS/BATHROOM.

If someone else were to walk in at this moment,

they wouldn’t know if we were moving in or out.

5.

Inert, enveloped

in nicotine,

the brain goes soft;

the heart hardens.

I look older without a shirt on.

I thought about saying so, but preferred

to remember the time I was

your copilot as you kept

circling the lot.

6.

Without a sound, Francisca

moves through each space—

here with the bucket,

there with the broom—

inside that mouth,

always closed,

the glint of a gold tooth.

7.

A pause that threatens to become

something else entirely.

Clothes we haven’t unpacked,

the taste of false menthol,

that spot where

you finally parked the car.

8.

Over a few rounds

some friends argue about

how long we can keep calling ourselves young.

What does it matter,

you think aloud,

if I was never young to begin with.

Then the fog clears. Then

the crickets came on.

9.

Here’s where a decisive phrase should go

but the t-shirt I was wearing

that afternoon we’ve been talking about

fades while the grass grows,

and without realizing it,

you begin to use some of my own verbal tics

every six words.

What in this weather will never dry;

what shines whether we like it or not;

the wrong time of year to move—

the brain: a lump of plasticine,

the heart: two car doors

that only know how to close.

10.

Underneath all of this there’s a song,

even if it can’t be seen or heard.

The promise of a new house

stayed behind in the old one.

What remains of the rainy season is a blend

of all the plasticine bars—

what will be kneaded together is kneaded

together, hammering that quiets

the tenacity of a leak,

raindrops

veining the window.

And the crickets’ song

swelling like another fog.

Underneath all of this there is something better.
translated from Spanish by Julia Guez & Samantha Zighelboim
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Santa Teresa, 2006
by Luis Chaves

A few days and nights in Malpaís and Santa Teresa. I saw the pelicans, the threat of falling coconuts, I saw coatis, whales, iguanas, herons and some fish—blue, miniscule and phosphorescent—swimming in pools that form among the rocks at low-tide. Also the seagulls who followed us onto the deck of the ferry so that we’d feed them highly-processed snacks. I saw friends, I saw friends’ children. I saw friends and friends’ children light a bonfire in the night and fulfill this ritual that’s been with us for who knows how long. I saw the ocean each night before I’d fall asleep and I saw it each morning when I’d wake up. I saw a multi-colored comet still against the clean sky, I saw the invisible string that seemed to sustain it reach almost to my own hands. I saw hermit crabs of all sizes surrounding me while I pissed on the sand. I saw, in the bottom of the backpack, the spine of a Dos Passos novel I hadn’t even gotten around to opening. I saw objects the sea deposits on the shore: a stone in the shape of a cassette tape, a branch in the shape of a lantern, a beer can in the shape of a beer can. One afternoon I closed my eyes and saw the blur of so many past trips, imagining future visits to this very coast. This is how it is. Life can be reduced to a short list.
translated from Spanish by Julia Guez & Samantha Zighelboim
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Read original in Spanish

False Fiction

by Luis Chaves

Here’s an attempt at reconstructing

everything with only a few elements:

a shadow leaving the stage,

the smell of lacquer and the ad

—not the same one—for Goliat soda

caught out of the corner of my eye

from that bus entering into

the malleable masa

of July, 2004.

The one from that South American winter

when we didn’t have heat.

You count to ten

on your fingers,

beginning with the pinky

or the thumb.

It’s not the same although it would seem to be,

nor is it the same, at 3am,

outside the bar, parked, our car

the one with the Christmas tree tied on

to the roof.

Here’s where it was all water under the bridge,

when we abandoned a place

infested with World Music,

reeking of New Age.

There aren’t four seasons here:

above the equator

above the waterline.

Nine months of rain

have taught us to swim,

to lose ourselves,

in the comfort of free verse.

For example, all over the house

I am followed

by my daughter, the cat and the dog.

They are my good shadows.

It smells of gas again,

and the eaves are working overtime.

The metronome of that slow drip

divides the day into fractions.

The year goes on giving signs:

this almost gets better.

The dog curls up

with evolutionary calm.

It’s easy enough to see,

they don’t need us

to figure out the rest.
translated from Spanish by Julia Guez & Samantha Zighelboim

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