"translator" poems
The landlord rented his space.
The landlord became suspicious.
He received complaints from other tenants,
Within a couple of weeks about loud music
And laughter coming from her room.
Banned from having friends in their home,
People would arrive in a van nightly during the summer.
The details of which emerged in the trial of insurance businessman,
Who was accused of helping her,
Without their knowledge.
She accused the abuse after a plea.
His mercy,
Her punishment.
‘The past is still very much a reality’ she whimpered.
Forced to watch for five months,
The wolf spoke as she faced the hearing
Without a translator.
They are forbidden to speak.
For her first 23 years, she was tortured.
Anti-social behaviour is having more than two people in his head,
Playing music so loud,
That it can be heard,
Outside of him.
The only person to feel the same resigned.
The landlord asked the hound to verify the affair.
He handed two leather-bound volumes containing a map of the marks.
It was on that day,
The landlord took the decision to leave seriously.
Once known,
He made the claim and gave no hint as to the tenant’s identity.
Up for a chance to win, We wish you safe travels.
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 6:27 AM UTC
I am an artist
I draw my life.
I am a teacher
I teach my steps.
I am a doctor
I treat my destiny.
I am a lawyer
I judge my actions.
I am a builder
I build my success.
I am a translator
I translate my opinion.
I am a photographer
I take my memories.
I am a writer
I write my future.
I am a chef
I cook my mood.
I am a businesswoman
I manage myself.
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 9:42 AM UTC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is not a poem. This is about a poem.
Poems require words. This poem does not require words.
This poem requires memories' muscles.
This poem requires what is called colloquially love.
Learn that what we share here is not poetry.
Your poetic senses that produce the words that mark you present
are but surgical tools to extract, release the whole and the parts of you that help shape that single sense borning in your chest that defines you at any particular moment.
Quæ est mater Laureat.
She is the Mother Laureate.
She is the boundary you must learn to cross to be more than a re-arranger of letters and alphabets, but a translator of the human essence and fill our veins with the a sense of awe and wonder felt when we read each other and think aloud,
"yes, exactly, that was and is precisely what I was feeling."
She is the glue that keeps us sticking here, sticking together, each of us sticking to it.
You do not know her?
No worries, she will find you when you least expect it, perhaps
when you need it.
This is not a poem. This is a human who's a poem.
Understand the difference and then you may begin a journey
that has no destination other than weaving the connective tissue that makes us anticipating excited when we log on.
Happy Birthday Mother Poet Laureate!
I do not think I can write a better not poem for you.
Forgive me then, if going toward, I repost this every
October 24th as long as the chemical composition of
blood, God, spirit, logos or reason runs free within,
exiting as words encased in tears that formulate into
human poetry.
nattyman
P.S.There are 800 poems here with Sally in the title, and least 700 are about Sally B. If you like, please feel to free to add yours, old or new.
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 12:42 PM UTC
Yesterday
Was in the ecstasy
Of realizing that
We were
Those two
On earth
Who liked bitter gourd curry
Cooked with coconut milk ….
Remember?
Think it was
In the sixth life.
We were
Two nascent bitter guards
On the pandal
Spread in the northern corner
Of the farmland
Belonging to a grandmother
In a village in Mississippi
Who used to attend to the orchards
Sitting in a wheelchair.
We had
Watched earth
And peeked
At the sky
Hanging from the same stalk
The scar left
From your tight clasp on my thigh
Scared
After spotting a double tailed pest
Is still there.
The pleasure of that pain
Makes me tearful now.
I am like the faces
In the house of deceased
Sobbing
At times
Bursting into tears
The next moment
Holding back
After a while.
Sometimes
I am all the faces
In the house of the dead
Tears have
Nothing to do with them.
Sometimes
The wedding house
Will laugh and laugh
Till its cheeks hurt.
Just like you.
My dear bitter guard,
When will we
Go back to that
Pandal in Mississippi
Where we had pulsated
From a single stalk?
Aren’t we the ones
To offer obsequies
To that grandmother
Who looked after us
With pots
Of wholehearted love?
Translator - Shyma P
Shyma P : Works in Payyanur College, Payyanur. Translator and film critic. Has translated poems and articles in Malayalam Literary Survey, The Oxford India Anthology of Malayalam Dalit Literature, online magazines like Gulmohar, Readleaf Poetry as well as scripts and subtitles for short films.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC
The light toy-railway is traveling,
with the kids who aren’t anymore.
To Paris, to Brussels is traveling,
to the Black Africa too.
The light toy-railway is grieving,
for the fawn’s steps under Christmas tree,
for the luster in the eyes and
ah, for the toys.
For the Blue Bird, for the white photos,
for the hand that is putting the little star.
For the dream that’s coming true.
The light toy-railway is traveling.
Traveling.
The original:
Светлото влакче
Светлото влакче пътува,
с децата, които вече не са.
За Париж, Брюксел пътува,
за черната Африка.
Светлото влакче тъгува,
за стъпките на еленчето под елхата,
за блясъка във очите и
ах, за играчките.
За Синята птица, за белите снимки,
за ръката, която поставя звездичка.
За съня, който се сбъдва.
Пътува светлото влакче.
Пътува.
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Nov 29, 2010
Nov 29, 2010 at 12:18 AM UTC
I still don't sleep well at night sometimes. I miss you, whoever you are, or maybe I just miss having someone close to me I can put all of this love into, an outlet for my affection. Whatever the case, I spend my waking moments wondering where you are and my moments asleep wondering when. It's honestly getting harder to tell the difference between the two, the two infinite worlds of possibility where wild, unexpected things happen. Or don't. Sometimes the reality is more interesting than the dream.
There's a certain sense of tranquil quiet when you're lonely that I can only appreciate for about 5 minutes before my heart grips against its iron bars, looking for a key or a file or a spoon to leap its way out of my chest to freedom and adventure. It writes Morse code letters on skipped heartbeats to you, but I am a miserable translator and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for my past, for all the wrongs I've committed in the nebulous black leviathan night, the almost-nightmare state of bleariness and hypnotic suggestibility. Clarity only comes when you spirit your marble curved likeness in the warm wooded embrace I do so long for in waking life.
I ramble and you float away, O kind angel of faint hope, white stone wings beating tremendously in sync like the buzzer of an alarm clock, striking me asleep again for daylight, somnambulating across the barren black-tar desert in search of water and finding only more black sand.
The nights have become more torturous without your colorless gaze. Please get here soon so I can tell you about how I've known you all my life.
With fondest regards,
Christian
Nov 5, 2017
Nov 5, 2017 at 5:50 AM UTC
What a sight to see
Your perfection shining through my flaws
A reflection so pure the universe comes to a stop
Pauses in applause
She declaws the frightened dog that learned to act one with the wolves
It pulls me
Yet pushes me greater
For my soul it is the knower of all
The wisest translator
The pen
And paper
May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 9:38 AM UTC
Mine is Gopal, the Mountain-Holder; there is no one else.
On his head he wears the peacock-crown: He alone is my husband.
Father, mother, brother, relative: I have none to call my own.
I've forsaken both God, and the family's honor: what should I do?
I've sat near the holy ones, and I've lost shame before the people.
I've torn my scarf into shreds; I'm all wrapped up in a blanket.
I took off my finery of pearls and coral, and strung a garland of wildwood flowers.
With my tears, I watered the creeper of love that I planted;
Now the creeper has grown spread all over, and borne the fruit of bliss.
The churner of the milk churned with great love.
When I took out the butter, no need to drink any buttermilk.
I came for the sake of love-devotion; seeing the world, I wept.
Mira is the maidservant of the Mountain-Holder: now with love He takes me across to the further shore.
~~~~~~~
mere to giridhara gupaala, duusaraa na koii |
jaa ke sira mora mukuTa, mero pati soii ||
taata, maata, bhraata, baMdhu, apanaa nahiM koii |
ghaaM.Da daii, kula kii kaana, kyaa karegaa koii?
saMtana Dhiga baiThi baiThi, loka laaja khoii ||
chunarii ke kiye Tuuka Tuuka, o.Dha liinha loii |
motii muu.Nge utaara bana maalaa poii ||
a.Nsuvana jala siiMchi siiMchi prema beli boii |
aba to beli phaila gaii, aanaMda phala hoii ||
duudha kii mathaniyaa, ba.De prema se biloii |
maakhana jaba kaa.Dhi liyo, ghaagha piye koii ||
aaii maiM bhakti kaaja, jagata dekha roii |
daasii miiraa.N giradhara prabhu taare aba moii ||
____
Notes
I am the translator of this poem, "Torn in Shreds" by Mirabai. I did not copyright it; it's in the public domain and everyone is free to help themselves to it. I simply request that it appear with my name as the translator.
Johanna-Hypatia Cybeleia
4.8k
.*i guess a loss of subscriptions is, somehow, a badge of honor, namely? i somehow managed to attach a screwdriver to my words... why? read below... English women consider motherhood to be a job... how ******* demeaning! gone are the days of womanhood attaining the stature of god, in the Christian methodology of encompassing the pivot of lady Madonna... perhaps a too high peddle-stool? i guess so... i'm not usurping the female status, but elevating a female stature, deeming motherhood an UNESCO status? seems it's too much... for some people... who make it necessary to befriend their shadow, and travel to the hinterlands.*
just your atypical pedantry,
a translator's subscript comment -
who's richard rojcewicz's...
regarding what?
heidegger...
das volk,
and the three derivatives -
volkhaft (populist),
volklich (communal)
und?
völkisch (folkish) -
i'm starting to suspect that
i'm tapping in the all things folk....
unconsciously, favoring folk
music...
see, us central europeans,
we bunch together and share
the most odd similarities -
i never thought that the song
herr mannelig could be translated
from Swedish - as it was
translated into German...
then again... Vikings founded Kiev...
and all these loan-words
of Germanic origin in Polish...
the only Anglo loan-word
that i know of, is, weekend...
hence, das volk, people -
by the way... German has "too many"
definite articles,
and only one ein - or eine -
is that the same rule as in Ęnglish?
i.e. N
in an example,
rather than in a counter example?
two vowels adjacent in separate
word, sitting across from the grand
chasm of... a spacing itch?
but look at German, i never get it...
DAS DIE DER...
is there an aesthetic difference,
and only an aesthetic difference
to mind?
bewildering...
if there is such a thing as a western
civilization...
that sometime
pompous obnoxiousness,
fair enough... no problem:
but learn to hide it,
feel it, rather then feed it...
it's not a question of a civilization,
but more...
an answer to what is less
civilization, and more... a chore...
just like western women,
notably the english women
call motherhood a, "job"...
it's a... wait... a job?
doubt was big in classic philosophy
of the Cartesian schematic...
so no one knows that
the French existentialists
brought in negation,
as the driving force to replace
doubt?
who the hell sees doubt
these days?
either the know it alles -
or the hush-hush crowd...
motherhood is a... job?
well... then i guess, being a man...
western civilization,
by that standard of logic...
can't be anything more...
than a.... ******* chore!
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
My mother tongue got cut off
I’ve been bleeding in my mouth ever since
But I learned to cope with the pain
Because no one with my mothers tongue has been able to
Show me how to grow it back.
Hair grows back easily though.
It keeps my head warm
So my thoughts can sit comfortably
While trying to process what the **** everyone’s saying,
Without burdening the translator who just wants to listen.
I try but can’t listen or speak
It turns into a silent loud noise
This language barrier pulls my hair
My thoughts release with no refuge
It’s cold out here I try and tell them
But no one can hear me.
So I try to improvise and improvise
I wana say I love you. I’ll try and show you how.
I can’t verbalize my humor
It makes me cry.
Now they wont get to know me as deeply
As I dig for them and they dig for me.
Then they ask me how could you not learn your language
As if I hate it
I ask them do you know my story
I did not choose this.
It’s not their fault
It’s not my fault
Idk what was conspiring against me or with me
To make this happen.
So as I try and learn to grow back my mothers tongue
I pray that this is a gift
And its curse like symptoms is only a mask
I pray this is a gift
And its curse like symptoms is only a mask
I pray this is a gift
And its curse like symptoms is only a mask
Amen
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 3:42 AM UTC
“Let love be your feature”
Mandela
My eternal man
Mandela
My eternal man
The scent of your breath
The scent of freedom
O, Mandela
Your eyes have the color of freedom
O, Mandela
The scent of your breath
The scent of freedom
O, Mandela
My eternal man
Your hand is the flag of freedom
Freedom
Freedom
O, flower, your name is the symbol of freedom
Tulips
Meadow saffrons
Seek your scent
And red poppies ask you:
“Where is the freedom”
The beloved Mandela
Our eternal man
Our eternal man
I’m with you
O, you, flower of freedom
I’m with you
O, flower ….O, Mandela
Mandela
Our eternal man
Mandela
Our eternal man
I’m with you
O, you, flower of freedom
I’m with you
O, flower ….O, Mandela
Our eternal man
Poet: Pezhman Mosleh
Translator: Lida Kavoosi
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 5:10 PM UTC
Or, at least what you might think.
Judgement hurts in too many ways to count.
I stand in the local thrift market
looking for trinkets and such with my father.
He came here to look for vintage picture frames,
to put up on our pastel coloured walls.
He brought me to be a translator,
of his broken english.
I see the looks some give him,
but I am proud of my father.
And mad at how our society works.
Looking at my father you think,
he probably only knows his own mother tongue,
no education,
bad manners,
had lived in poverty before.
But you are wrong.
An Italian man sits by this booth,
selling picture frames.
I point and tell my father, and he walks over.
"How much for frames?"
I taught him how to say that well enough.
The Italian man says fluently,
"$40 a piece,"
but behind it you can hear a faint Italian accent.
My father hears this and his face lights up,
and he replies in Italian,
"Great, but can you lower it to $30. For me, man?"
The man seemed shocked to see a dark-skinned man,
speaks such fluent Italian.
The man got up with a smile on his face,
and told my father,
"Man, I was born in Italy, but you speak it better than me,"
My dad laughed.
Next time you see,
a strange man,
struggling with his english,
stop to think,
he might be able to speak to you in,
German. Italian. French. And in a tiny bit of Spanish.
And of course, his mother tongue.
He might have learned the culinary arts,
in a world-renounced school.
He might be able to do anything.
And he might even be a little more impressive,
than you will ever be.
Judgement hurts.
But all it takes is you to stop it.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 6:25 PM UTC
Scattered through these pages are my thoughts throughout the ages.
Running through my head are all the many words you said.
This pen writes on the paper, expressing my thoughts like a translator.
My pillow holds my tears, and seems to takes away my fears.
I think of you at night, you're like my window for the light.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 10:35 PM UTC
Mayan Poetry Translations
The Receiving of the Flower
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let us sing overflowing with joy
as we observe the Receiving of the Flower.
The lovely maidens beam;
their hearts leap in their *******
Why?
Because they will soon yield their virginity to the men they love!
###
The Deflowering
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Remove your clothes;
let down your hair;
become as naked as the day you were born—
virgins!
###
Prelude to **********
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lay out your most beautiful clothes,
maidens!
The day of happiness has arrived!
Grab your combs, detangle your hair,
adorn your earlobes with gaudy pendants.
Dress in white as becomes maidens ...
Then go, give your lovers the happiness of your laughter!
And all the village will rejoice with you,
for the day of happiness has arrived!
###
The Flower-Strewn Pool
excerpt from a Mayan love poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You have arrived at last in the woods
where no one can see what you do
at the flower-strewn pool ...
Remove your clothes,
unbraid your hair,
become as you were
when you first arrived here,
virgins, maidens!
These are my modern English translations of ancient Mayan love poems. Native Americans were creating poems and songs in pre-Columbian days; Mayan and Aztec literature may date back to the first millennium BCE. Unfortunately the Spanish conquerors of South America destroyed all but four of the thousands of pre-Columbian books that probably once existed (according to translator Michael Coe). Mayan hieroglyphs remain far from fully understood and dating what remains is difficult. However, the best poetry is timeless and I believe we can know our Mayan brothers and sisters a little better through their poems.—Michael R. Burch
These are my modern English translations of ancient Mayan love poems. Native Americans were creating poems and songs in pre-Columbian days; Mayan and Aztec literature may date back to the first millennium BCE. Unfortunately the Spanish conquerors of South America destroyed all but four of the thousands of pre-Columbian books that probably once existed (according to translator Michael Coe). Mayan hieroglyphs remain far from fully understood and dating what remains is difficult. However, the best poetry is timeless and I believe we can know our Mayan brothers and sisters a little better through their poems.—Michael R. Burch
Keywords/Tags: ancient, Mayan, poetry, translation, translations, love, virginity, *** marriage, joy, happiness, flower, flowers, deflowering, clothes, hair, ****** nakedness
May 5, 2020
May 5, 2020 at 4:54 AM UTC
Vania Konstantinova was born, lives and works in Sofia. She graduated Classical Ballet in her native town and in Petersburg as well as Polish Philology in Sofia University and Jagiellonian University, Krakow. She's co-author of the poetic book Four Cycles (along with Bozhidar Pangelov). Her collection of short stories Thank You Mister One is published in autumn of 2008.
http://www.public-republic.com/vania-konstantinova
With all the Homesickness of the Foreigner
"You'll present me one Paris
with all the homesickness of the foreigner"
Vania Konstantinova
He's looking for a job,
but has no shirt,
Rose,
and expectation even in the pocket.
Whether sometimes he doesn't bend
to look how the Seine passes slowly?
Whether it's cold
(that's an author's thought)?
In this circus gleam only
the blue glimmer of the knives
(which yesterday were pawned).
It's a French movie.
Paris is somewhat little
for one grief
and nothing.
Compared with your arm.
The original:
Ваня Константинова е родена, живее и работи в София. Завършила е класически балет в родния си град и в Петербург, а също и полска филология в Софийския университет и в Ягеловския университет в Краков. Съавтор е на поетичната книга “Четири цикъла” (заедно с Божидар Пангелов). През есента на 2008 излиза сборникът й с къси разкази “Благодарим ти, мистър Уан”.
http://www.public-republic.com/vania-konstantinova
Със цялата тъга на чужденеца
"Ти ще ми подариш един Париж
със цялата тъга на чужденеца"
Ваня Константинова
Той търси работа,
а няма риза,
Роза,
и очакване дори във джоба.
Дали понякога не се привежда
да погледне как минава бавно Сена?
Дали е хладно
(тази мисъл е на автора)?
Във този цирк проблясват само
сините отблясъци на ножовете
(които вчера са заложени).
Това е френски филм.
Париж е малко
за една тъга
и нищо.
Пред ръката ти.
*Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Dec 22, 2010
Dec 22, 2010 at 11:37 PM UTC
Yahya Kemal Beyatli translations
Yahya Kemal Beyatli (1884-1958) was a Turkish poet, editor, columnist and historian, as well as a politician and diplomat. Born born Ahmet Âgâh, he wrote under the pen names Agâh Kemal, Esrar, Mehmet Agâh, and Süleyman Sadi. He served as Turkey’s ambassador to Poland, Portugal and Pakistan.
Sessiz Gemi (“Silent Ship”)
by Yahya Kemal Beyatli
loose translation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch
for the refugees
The time to weigh anchor has come;
a ship departing harbor slips quietly out into the unknown,
cruising noiselessly, its occupants already ghosts.
No flourished handkerchiefs acknowledge their departure;
the landlocked mourners stand nurturing their grief,
scanning the bleak horizon, their eyes blurring...
Poor souls! Desperate hearts! But this is hardly the last ship departing!
There is always more pain to unload in this sorrowful life!
The hesitations of lovers and their belovèds are futile,
for they cannot know where the vanished are bound.
Many hopes must be quenched by the distant waves,
since years must pass, and no one returns from this journey.
Full Moon
by Yahya Kemal Beyatli
loose translation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch
You are so lovely
the full moon just might
delight
in your rising,
as curious
and bright,
to vanquish night.
But what can a mortal man do,
dear,
but hope?
I’ll ponder your mysteries
and (hmmmm) try to
cope.
We both know
you have every right to say no.
The Music of the Snow
by Yahya Kemal Beyatli
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This melody of a night lasting longer than a thousand years!
This music of the snow supposed to last for thousand years!
Sorrowful as the prayers of a secluded monastery,
It rises from a choir of a hundred voices!
As the organ’s harmonies resound profoundly,
I share the sufferings of Slavic grief.
Then my mind drifts far from this city, this era,
To the old records of Tanburi Cemil Bey.
Now I’m suddenly overjoyed as once again I hear,
With the ears of my heart, the purest sounds of Istanbul!
Thoughts of the snow and darkness depart me;
I keep them at bay all night with my dreams!
Translator’s notes: “Slavic grief” because Beyatli wrote this poem while in Warsaw, serving as Turkey’s ambassador to Poland, in 1927. Tanburi Cemil Bey was a Turkish composer. Keywords/Tags: Beyatli, Agah, Kemal, Esrar, Turkish, translation, Turkey, silent, ship, anchor, harbor, ghosts, grief, Istanbul, moon, music, snow
Oct 30, 2020
Oct 30, 2020 at 4:28 AM UTC
Oh, creativity
Why hast thou left me?
I should be writing
A photoem
But without creativity here with me
I cannot see
My brain cannot
Change these images
Into words, lines, stanzas
Without the translator
Of creativity
Oh, creativity
For too long you have been gone
One may say I am stumped
Or infected with writers block
But I say creativity
Went off on an errand
And here I am watching the clock
Waiting
For its glorious return
But
Hmm, creativity
I’m afraid I realized something
Maybe it was I
Who left you
Not the other way around
And my sight drops to the ground
I did not mean to leave you
To loose you
I never meant to hurt
Or bruise you
So, what say you,
Creativity
I’m sorry and
Now that I
Am back
Will you join me?
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
Sundays
in rains
forgotten fragrance
and those non-grown up dreams
for
her hand
Sunday rains
like a faraway
beyond
недели
недели
в дъждове
забравен мирис
и тези непораснали мечти
за
нейната ръка
недели в дъждове
като сбогуване
оттатък
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
May 27, 2011
May 27, 2011 at 3:10 AM UTC
Ah, would I were a German!
I'd trouble my translator
With nouns the size of Hamburg
And leave the verb till later.
And if I were a Welshman
My work would thwart translation
With ninety novel plurals
In strict alliteration.
And would I were Chinese!
I'd throw them off their course
With twelve unusual symbols
All homophones of "horse".
But as it is, I'm English:
And I'm the one in hell
By writing in a language
Impossible to spell.
Sep 3, 2010
Sep 3, 2010 at 8:27 AM UTC
This is a very special day in Bulgaria, my friends. Here - http://www.balkanfolk.com/news.php?id=23 - you can read more on it.
marigolds
marigolds
San Clemente*
and the sun that is
opening
we will lose ourselves
before they find us
in the eternal searching
for ourselves
(and the mind again
steps over us)
did you recognize the happiness
Ahasver**
marigolds
(like an epoch)
San Clemente
and I am bowing
The original:
невени
невени
Сан Клементе
и слънцето, което се
разтваря
ще се загубим
преди да ни намерят
във вечното си търсене
на себе си
(и мисълта отново ни
прекрачва)
позна ли щастието
Ахасфере
невени
(като епоха)
Сан Клементе
и се прекланям
*In one lateral chapel there is a shrine with the tomb of Saint Cyril of the
Saints Cyril and Methodius who created the Glagolitic alphabet and Christianized the Slavs.
**Wandering Jew; the name Ahasver is adapted from Ahasuerus the Persian king in Esther, who was not a Jew, and whose very name among medieval Jews was an exemplum of a fool
/from wikipedia/
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
May 23, 2011
May 23, 2011 at 11:34 PM UTC
crimson mistress
(crimson flower
in the swooning gloom)
tell me
why against thy sharp
prickle
(eyes of lynx)
my heart I’m pressing
(æt the nihtegale)*
and don’t understand that
freedom
(like the archetype of Moon)
of the kiss
with laughter devoted
in the broad gardens
---------------
*(with the nightingale)
The original:
***(тъмночервена господарке)
тъмночервена господарке
(тъмночервено цвете
във припадащия мрак)
кажи ми
защо във острия ти
шип
(очи на рис)
сърцето си притискам
(със славея)
и не разбирам тази
свобода
(както и архетипа на луната)
на целувката
със смях отдадена
в широките градини
*Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
Dec 11, 2010
Dec 11, 2010 at 10:17 AM UTC
Some day, maybe tomorrow
get ready to travel.
The flute is narrating streams.
The leaves are drawing rainbows lightly,
they are soaring in the rain,
nearly not leaving circles.
Travel, travel …
With your soul only
(it is a mute shadow).
With your love
(it has no shadow).
Keep the life,
like music, like rain,
like the blind one who stopped
The Sun.
Travel …
The original:
Пътувай
Някой ден, може би утре,
приготви се да пътуваш.
Флейтата разказва ручеи.
Листата плавно рисуват дъги,
политат в дъжда,
почти не оставят кръгове.
Пътувай, пътувай…
С душата единствено
(тя няма сянка).
С любовта си
(тя няма сянка).
Запази живота,
като музика, като дъжд,
като слепия, който спря
Слънцето.
Пътувай…
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
Dec 11, 2010
Dec 11, 2010 at 9:30 PM UTC
Will you break off with me,
my beloved,
morsel for morsel laddu*?
My dream doesn’t come to me,
my bed is divided,
my heart – dry,
fire is rankling me.
You’ll regret,
my beloved,
if you taste it –
outside it’s sweet
inside – bitter.
Twice more,
my beloved,
your tear will run fast
if you pass me by scornfully.
In my chest
I wear a diamond of snake,
a lion-hair on my wrist,
a wealth of Brahman
in my head.
Will someone take them, gifted
someone else but my death?
Ah, my beloved,
marry me.
*a round syrup sweet made of gram floor
The original:
Ходжата тича само до джамията
Ще отронваш ли с мене,
моя възлюбена,
късче по късче ладду*.
Сънят ми не ме спохожда,
леглото ми е делено,
сърцето – сухо,
огън ме гложди.
Ще съжаляваш,
моя възлюбена,
ако го вкусиш –
отвън е сладко,
отвътре – горчиво.
Дваж пъти повече,
моя възлюбена,
сълзи ще лееш
ако отминеш презрително.
Във гърдите си
диамант от змия нося,
косъм от лъв на китката си,
богатство на брахмин
в главата си.
Ще ги вземе ли някой дарени,
освен смъртта ми?
Ах, моя възлюбена,
омъжи се за мене.
___________
* кръгъл сиропиран сладкиш от нахутeно брашно.
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.
May 21, 2011
May 21, 2011 at 9:39 PM UTC
Stardate whatever.
The Klingons are attacking and my tricorder isn’t functioning.
Conjectural and anointing the furrows of my phaser blasted brow.
There you are.
A messy image in the transporter beam.
Gleaming and swaying amongst the particles of dust.
“I’m impossible to save,” I say.
“So save yourself, this planet is about to blow.” I say again.
It seems our universal translator isn’t working.
Otherwise, you would have left me.
Trusting is the hardest part.
I’ll do without it.
Beam me up Scotty.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC
write at midnight. edit in the morning.
write on a mountain. edit on a beach.
write inside a dream. edit & exist in reality.
write in a fever pitch as starlight kisses your cheekbones.
edit in the cold dawn light without excuses.
write loudly with Bjork screaming into the curtains.
edit in silence.
write as the clouds gather around the gibbous moon.
edit as the sun crests the hill & burns away the fog.
write inside, cozy under a blanket.
edit naked, cold on the front porch.
write asking questions.
edit demanding answers.
write blindfolded with your fingers waltzing across the qwerty.
edit bespectacled or with a monocle.
write like a mass ****** edit like a suicide.
or better yet
write like a homicide. edit like a detective.
write toward the open sky with your legs outstretched before you.
edit facing a clean white wall with your knees against your chest.
write because you are innocent. edit because you are guilty.
write during a fit of hyperventilation.
edit during mammoth exhalation.
write with complexity. edit into simplicity.
write, as Hemingway did, drunk.
edit, not sober, but hungover.
see your flaws in the sharp mirror of a headache.
write during sloppy explosion. edit during precise implosion.
write with your head in the clouds gnawing at the cumulus.
edit with your feet firmly planted in the ground.
write during violent collision.
edit during calm separation.
write with a pencil on soggy paper in a hot shower.
edit with a red pen sitting in tepid murky bathwater.
write among raucous laughter & banging skillets.
edit in secret while the kids are asleep.
write like a sadomasochist.
edit like a psychiatrist.
write while running on your tip-toes.
edit while lying flat on your back.
write in several languages with abandon.
edit beside a translator dictionary.
write as you are engulfed in fire.
edit with an extinguisher.
write with careless fluidity.
edit without assistance from amphetamine or coffee.
write with a full bladder,
standing up,
jitterbugging,
squeezing the tip of your *****
closed--urgently
squirm & trickle
your ideas onto
the porcelain page.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 11:33 AM UTC