Kuta Beach

(After Reading Lorca)

Death comes in
with the salt
at the tavern

in this country
both gentle and sinister

prancing white horses
wave-dancing men

their soft guitars at night
from across the bay

the noises
the bursts of light

mistaken for fireworks
at first

young men
with trembling hands

hard-muscled
young men of the sea

an odour of salt
and blood

death enters into the salt
as the salt enters into the death

in that tavern.

© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2005

Published Diverse-City 2006 (Anthology of the Austin International Poetry Festival, Texas)

Original:


Malaguena

La muerte

entra y sale

de la taberna. 

Pasan caballos negros

y gente siniestra

por los hondos caminos

de la guitarra. 

Y hay un olor a sal

y a sangre [de hembra]¹,

en los nardos febriles

de la marina.

La muerte

entra y sale

y sale y entra

la muerte

de la taberna.

At dVerse we are invited to try homophonic translations (aka translitics). My current - weird! - attempts are in previous post. I'm posting this one to show what can be done with more time. *Smiles*.

(This example is not strictly a translitic, as I did understand some of the words — or thought I did — and used a mixture of translation, translitic and leaps of thought.)

Translitics

A dVerse exercise in homophonic translations, aka translitics, where you translate as best you can the sounds of an unknown language into words of your own.  Although I have done this kind of thing before with results that pleased me, I found this one very testing. 

Original:

Ne-om aminti cândva târziu

de-aceasta întâmplare simpla,

de-aceasta banca unde stam

tâmpla fierbinte lânga tâmpla.

De pe stamine de alun,

din plopii albi, se cerne jarul.

Orice-nceput se vrea fecund,

risipei se deda Florarul.

Polenul cade peste noi,

în preajma galbene troiene

alcatuieste-n aur fin.

Pe umeri cade-ne si-n gene.

Ne cade-n gura când vorbim,

si-n ochi, când nu gasim cuvântul.

Si nu stim ce pareri de rau

ne tulbura, piezis, avântul.

Ne-om aminti cândva târziu

de-aceasta întâmplare simpla,

de-aceasta banca unde stam

tâmpla fierbinte lânga tâmpla.

Visând, întrezarim prin doruri -

latente-n pulberi aurii –

paduri ce ar putea sa fie

si niciodatã nu vor fi.

I had two tries.

Translitic 1: 

(seemed to work better without line-breaks, as a kind of prose-poem) 

Nay, I'm — am! — into "can-do" of a tears-you day, a ceased (ah, in temple are simpler) day, a ceased,  a bank, a (understand, temple) a fire-burnt, a longer (temple, ah!)

deep, a stamina day, alone. Din! Plop! I'll alibi. Sea cure in a jar, you'll, or ice in sea put. Sea very fecund, rise. I pay, sea-dead; a fire are you.

Pole, newel, caddy. Peace! (Tea? No.) I in prayer edge. My gal been a Troy in a all-cat you, lest — eh? — an orphan. Pay America Day, nay sigh in genie.

Naked, e'en guru can dive or be. I'm sighing. Oh gee, canned new gas. I'm cue have, and you sigh new as time seep, are a ride, a row, natal bureau. Please is eventual / a vain tool.

Nay, I'm aiming the candy vat (ah!) as you. Day a cease taint, ample ate simpler, dear cease to ban Kay, understand, ample fire been too long at temple: a

vice and in treasure I'm pry in door, you are I, latent, in pool bury our ill — paid. You are I, see, are putty, as if I is in sea, oh data new have, or fee. 

I'm amused that it came out rather like one of those abstract word-association poems which I am not really into!

Translitic 2:

Nay! O Mam, in’t I can’t have a tear? Is you

de ancestor in temple, a simpler

day, a sistah (ban) say? Understand,

temple fire burnt. A longer temple, ah!

Deep, a stamina day, alone.

Din, plop! Pill. Alibi. Seek, earn; edge or all.

Or ice in seep at sea, very fecund.

Rice I pay, see deed. A flower, annual.

Pole in awl caddy, pest. Eh no, I

in pre-aim, a gal been Trojan eh?

All cat — you, I, is it? — in our fine.

Pay you, me, or I. Caddy? Nay, is I in genie.

Nay caddy, an’ guru can do for be I’m

sighin’, och! I can do new. Gas! I’m curve an’ tall.

See, new. Is it I’m see Pa? Or I de raw

new? Too ill, burrow. Please, is eventual? 

Nay, Oma, mine, tea-canned avatar, as you

de ancestor in temple are simpler,

dear cease to bank a under-steam

temple fire-bin too long at, ampler.

Vice; and in treasure I’m pray and do run —

late in tea and pool bury — or I, I 

paid you. Are I see or put here safe? I

sigh, Nice I, oh daughter, new for if eye.

I can see a story in this weird pidgin or Creole I came up with. I'd like to tease it out later. In fact I'd like to develop both of these into new poems, using the above as foundations only — but pushed for time just now.

For an older and completed example, see next post.

On Cold Nights (2)

This is the same poem I posted two days ago.  I am using it here for a dVerse request to mark up a poem so as to define the beats.  The heavy stresses are in bold. A caesura (a pause that's part of the rhythm) is indicated by square brackets around a space.

On Cold Nights

Although I have no husband now,

there are those that warm my bed.

One caresses my feet. [ ] My toes curl 

and stretch in ecstatic response. 

Another has my back. [ ] I snuggle in,

feeling comforted, safe.

A third is hot in my embrace

for hours, [ ] night after night.

There's a lad who sneaks in late. [ ] I wake to  see

his black-haired, handsome head [ ] lying beside mine.

My favourite, though, is grey-haired like me, [ ]

female like me. [ ] When I stroke her shapely flank,

she purrs. [ ] So does the black cat by my pillow ...
while the hot water bottles nestle quietly.

On Cold Nights

Although I have no husband now,

there are those that warm my bed.

One caresses my feet. My toes curl 

and stretch in ecstatic response. 

Another has my back. I snuggle in,

feeing comforted, safe.

A third is hot in my embrace

for hours, night after night.

There's a lad who sneaks in late. I wake to see

his black-haired, handsome head lying beside mine.

My favourite, though, is grey-haired like me,

female like me. When I stroke her shapely flank,

she purrs. So does the black cat by my pillow ...
while the hot water bottles nestle quietly.

From One Side

Falling rain.

The first quarrel

between old friends.

Are these tears?

Don’t be silly!

(It’s true my face is wet.)

Stalemate.

The words lie

where they were left.

Someone

must make the first move.

All right, I will. Help!

At dVerse "Meeting the Bar" it's a small, small world. They're calling for poems of 40 words or fewer. This one's the full 40, excluding title. I like to think each verse could also stand alone, and that the first two verses could, together,  form one poem — as could the last two, and even other combinations of two at a time.

The Dead of Winter

My house is my cave today. 

It's drizzly out and my blinds are drawn.

But weather is not my reason, 

it's my opportunity.

I fold this cave around me 

like a cosy dressing-gown.

I hope there will not be visitors. 

I disconnect my phone.

This is my bad time of year 

(though none, now, are good).

This is the death time, doubled — 

the recent and the old.

Which should I count worst? 

The man I was with for 20 years,

truest of all companions, 

slowly ageing, ailing?

Slowly losing his mind —

though never his love ... our love: 

our resolute, practical love — 

as I lost power to help.

Or the violent, sudden end

decades past, of one

linked to me, mind to mind,

a week short of his 25th birthday?

******

Such outwardly peaceful events. 

Holding a hand as known as my own,

murmuring to him of love and memory, 

all those hours with his eyes closed.

All those hours until his breath stopped, 

just as his eyes flew open

to bless me with his last look. 

And I, that one instant, not looking.

Or to sit down with a coffee 

on a lazy Saturday afternoon

and open the day's paper 

to the headline I'll never forget.

No-one knew I was someone

who would need to be told,

who would most need to be told —

no-one who had the telling.

(And I’d failed to understand

my inexplicable tears the night before,

the lines of poetry filling my thoughts

in words of love and goodbye.)

******

“There are some," my psychiatrist said, 

“Who break down very quietly.” 

Mostly that's what I did 

in all the several breakdowns of my life.

And in these hurts too. Mostly. 

"You mustn't grieve," I was told.

"It holds the dead back." Too bad, 

I said in my head. You owe me that.

I went long walks alone 

in Melbourne's hottest summer,

haranguing the pitiless, empty sky; 

returning calmly to cook dinner.

That's when I started 

always having too much to do,

keeping busy against 

bottomless rage and despair.

******

"Live my life for me," he seemed to say 

through the pages of a book.

For a while I tried but then I knew, 

that was not his message.

Live your own life, he'd have said.

Write your own poems. I'm outa here. 

And he'd have laughed. 

I went on. Life is long.

As my life with my last love was long, 

sweetly long, and now is done.

You won't see me scream and sob. 

I withdraw. I do it all alone.


Submitted for Poets United's Poetry Pantry #212

Paradelle of Love in the Morning

Hold me against your heart.

Hold me against your heart

in falling rain.

In falling rain

against your heart hold me,

rain falling in.

When we awake and stir,

when we awake and stir

in new daylight …

in new daylight

we stir and awake when

new in daylight.

Then we gather roses.

Then we gather roses

fresh with morning.

Fresh with morning,

we gather then roses 
with morning fresh.

Morning, rain falling.

Gather fresh heart.    

Hold me in your new 

against then within

when we stir daylight awake,

and we roses.

For a dVerse prompt. The paradelle is a joke/hoax by Billy Collins, parodying formal verse. He claimed it originated in France in 11th century Languedoc. Check its strict — and very silly — rules, and/or see what others have done with it, back at dVerse.