Die Erinnerungen
sind es müde geworden, mir zu folgen
DER WEG WAR SO LANG
Dieser Wind kam von etlichen Schwingen
Und die Tage vergehen heulend am Horizont
Als junger Kutter
Durchkreuzte ich viele Ungewitter
Bei Seemannsliedern
Alle Möwen
gaben mir Federn in die Hände
Hinter dem letzten Berg
stiegen die Monate hinab
Ein posthumer Gesang versperrte uns die Ausfahrt
– Vicente Huidobro (aus “Poemas árticos”, erste Veröffentlichung 1918)
Aus dem Spanischen übersetzt von Johannes Beilharz (© 2010)
Weitere Gedichte von Vicente Huidobro
17.10.10
City puzzle
Stuttgart, Germany, 21st century
The game appears to be
to create the maximum number
of simultaneous holes in the
ground, marked by white-red
striped accident prevention
contraptions.
These holes
form the puzzle. Now to
connect them and get wise
to the great scheme behind
them all...
– Johannes Beilharz (© 2010)
My small tribute to the construction frenzy rampant in this city. Most likely, the authorities are attempting to prepare us for the mother of all constructions – Stuttgart 21 – bound to turn the city into one coherent construction mess for about ten years.
The game appears to be
to create the maximum number
of simultaneous holes in the
ground, marked by white-red
striped accident prevention
contraptions.
These holes
form the puzzle. Now to
connect them and get wise
to the great scheme behind
them all...
– Johannes Beilharz (© 2010)
My small tribute to the construction frenzy rampant in this city. Most likely, the authorities are attempting to prepare us for the mother of all constructions – Stuttgart 21 – bound to turn the city into one coherent construction mess for about ten years.
11.10.10
Yannis Ritsos / Heilung
Die Nächte gingen sehr dunkel vorbei.
Gewaltige Schreie liefen im Wind.
Am nächsten Tag erinnerten wir uns an gar nichts.
In der Zeit klaffte ein tiefes Loch.
Da, wo der Wolf sich eingenistet hatte,
blieb ein Schlagloch, mit warmem Wolfshaar ausgekleidet.
Jetzt könnte sich dort ein Schaf hinlegen.
– Yannis Ritsos (1909-1990)
Ins Deutsche übertragen von Johannes Beilharz (© 2010)
[Titel des griechischen Originals: Επουλωση. Aus: Ritsos in Parenthesis, Princeton University Press 1979]
Gewaltige Schreie liefen im Wind.
Am nächsten Tag erinnerten wir uns an gar nichts.
In der Zeit klaffte ein tiefes Loch.
Da, wo der Wolf sich eingenistet hatte,
blieb ein Schlagloch, mit warmem Wolfshaar ausgekleidet.
Jetzt könnte sich dort ein Schaf hinlegen.
– Yannis Ritsos (1909-1990)
Ins Deutsche übertragen von Johannes Beilharz (© 2010)
[Titel des griechischen Originals: Επουλωση. Aus: Ritsos in Parenthesis, Princeton University Press 1979]
7.10.10
Stille Wasser
... sind tief –
aber das ist noch lange keine Garantie dafür, dass etwas drin ist.
– Iself
Dringend notwendige Ergänzung eines alten Sprichworts.
aber das ist noch lange keine Garantie dafür, dass etwas drin ist.
– Iself
Dringend notwendige Ergänzung eines alten Sprichworts.
3.10.10
Yannis Ritsos / Tischkalender
Monate und Monate, Wochen, Tage – unlernbares Jahr.
April mit kurzsichtiger Brille auf der Gartenbank.
Juli verbietet dir, allein zu schlafen.
September erinnert sich an verschlossene Häuser –
zwei Papierblumen und ein schwarzer Kamm mit groben Zähnen auf dem Tisch.
Im November hält ein Mann einen Stein auf dem Knie.
Januar, Februar – alle sind im Ausland.
Der Wind macht verzweifelte Gesten
vor der Glastür des geschlossenen Hotels.
Dann erscheint die stille Reinemachfrau frühmorgens
mit einem Schwamm, um die Fenster zu putzen.
– Yannis Ritsos (1909-1990)
Ins Deutsche übertragen von Johannes Beilharz (© 2010)
[Titel des griechischen Originals: Επιτραπεζιο Ημερολγιο. Aus: Ritsos in Parenthesis, Princeton University Press 1979]
Nachbemerkung des Übersetzers
Wie kam ich dazu, heute dieses Gedicht zu übersetzen? Bei einem Gang durch die Wohnung fiel mir auf, wie verstaubt Ritsos in Parenthesis im Regal war, nahm das Buch mit, staubte es ab, schlug es planlos auf der Seite mit diesem Gedicht auf, las es und beschloss, es zu übersetzen. Es schien mir sehr gut zu dem heutigen goldenen Herbst-Sonntag zu passen.
April mit kurzsichtiger Brille auf der Gartenbank.
Juli verbietet dir, allein zu schlafen.
September erinnert sich an verschlossene Häuser –
zwei Papierblumen und ein schwarzer Kamm mit groben Zähnen auf dem Tisch.
Im November hält ein Mann einen Stein auf dem Knie.
Januar, Februar – alle sind im Ausland.
Der Wind macht verzweifelte Gesten
vor der Glastür des geschlossenen Hotels.
Dann erscheint die stille Reinemachfrau frühmorgens
mit einem Schwamm, um die Fenster zu putzen.
– Yannis Ritsos (1909-1990)
Ins Deutsche übertragen von Johannes Beilharz (© 2010)
[Titel des griechischen Originals: Επιτραπεζιο Ημερολγιο. Aus: Ritsos in Parenthesis, Princeton University Press 1979]
Nachbemerkung des Übersetzers
Wie kam ich dazu, heute dieses Gedicht zu übersetzen? Bei einem Gang durch die Wohnung fiel mir auf, wie verstaubt Ritsos in Parenthesis im Regal war, nahm das Buch mit, staubte es ab, schlug es planlos auf der Seite mit diesem Gedicht auf, las es und beschloss, es zu übersetzen. Es schien mir sehr gut zu dem heutigen goldenen Herbst-Sonntag zu passen.
6.9.10
Clod-stuck poem invigorated
or: Liturgy in the Sky
Again
Presentation of the role of straw Heron
This lake. For taking steps
Besides, why bother in the water, and
Pull up a blank, but only once.
Later, in the streets for miles, and some
He said that he will be there when the came. How to
Every day that fragile legs
Cool green scum, a good library door
The heat and light? This is the world's stupid.
Their streets every day, the sky,
Crypt in his cave,
Tin from surface distortion, Scattered in the yard.
daisied West
Changes in three colors, dandelion
The road was. Each year, influenza
Thick volume of air and tingling in wild
Hot, thin grass, leaves light
The beginning. Heron's position
The stone on the ground or behind me.
And broken wings, and then open and remove the iron
Blue rhythm, his body during the flight.
I felt the heat, and straw. Hope song
Taste of the wild, I empty
I said: No, but warm in the fields of
And skin. It is not long before
Start normal breathing,
The liturgy is still in the sky.
- Not Iself
Notes
Received another clod-stuck poem from that well-known ex-poet laureate this evening, which trampled its clod-stuck path about something or other very realistic from one trite line ending to the next.
What to do to breathe some sort of life into that still-life?
Well, I decided to pass it through Google Translate in a bunch of iterations - from English to Chinese to Bulgarian to Georgian to Arabic to God knows what and eventually back to English.
The above is the unadulterated result.
It's a wee bit puzzling ... but at least it's puzzling, which could not have been said about the pedestrian original.
Robert Bly might appreciate it - it has some of those leaps and bounds he thought great poetry should have.
Here's the Hindi version ... just for kicks:
फिर
भूसे की भूमिका की प्रस्तुति बगुला
इस झील. कदम उठाने के लिए
इसके अलावा, क्यों, पानी में परेशान है, और
ऊपर खींचो एक खाली है, लेकिन केवल एक बार.
बाद में, मील के लिए सड़कों में, कुछ और
उन्होंने कहा कि वह वहाँ जब आया होगा. कैसे करने के लिए
हर दिन है कि नाजुक पैरों
शांत हरी मैल, एक अच्छा पुस्तकालय दरवाजा
गर्मी और प्रकाश? यह दुनिया की बेवकूफी है.
उनकी हर दिन सड़कों, आकाश,
अपने गुफा में तहखाना,
विरूपण की सतह से टिन, यार्ड में बिखरे हुए.
पश्चिम गुलबहारों से ढंका हुआ
तीन रंगों, पीले फूल का एक पाक्रर का पौधा में परिवर्तन
सड़क था. प्रत्येक वर्ष, इन्फ्लूएंजा
हवा की मोटी मात्रा और जंगली में झुनझुनी
गर्म, पतले घास, पत्तियां प्रकाश
शुरुआत. बगुला है स्थिति
या मेरे पीछे जमीन पर पत्थर.
और टूटे पंख, और फिर खोलने के लिए और लोहे हटायें
ब्लू ताल, उड़ान के दौरान अपने शरीर.
मैं गर्मी महसूस किया, और पुआल. आशा गीत
जंगली का स्वाद, मैं खाली
मैंने कहा: नहीं, लेकिन के क्षेत्र में गर्म
त्वचा और. यह लंबे समय से पहले नहीं है
शुरू सामान्य श्वास,
मरणोत्तर गित आकाश में अब भी है.
Again
Presentation of the role of straw Heron
This lake. For taking steps
Besides, why bother in the water, and
Pull up a blank, but only once.
Later, in the streets for miles, and some
He said that he will be there when the came. How to
Every day that fragile legs
Cool green scum, a good library door
The heat and light? This is the world's stupid.
Their streets every day, the sky,
Crypt in his cave,
Tin from surface distortion, Scattered in the yard.
daisied West
Changes in three colors, dandelion
The road was. Each year, influenza
Thick volume of air and tingling in wild
Hot, thin grass, leaves light
The beginning. Heron's position
The stone on the ground or behind me.
And broken wings, and then open and remove the iron
Blue rhythm, his body during the flight.
I felt the heat, and straw. Hope song
Taste of the wild, I empty
I said: No, but warm in the fields of
And skin. It is not long before
Start normal breathing,
The liturgy is still in the sky.
- Not Iself
Notes
Received another clod-stuck poem from that well-known ex-poet laureate this evening, which trampled its clod-stuck path about something or other very realistic from one trite line ending to the next.
What to do to breathe some sort of life into that still-life?
Well, I decided to pass it through Google Translate in a bunch of iterations - from English to Chinese to Bulgarian to Georgian to Arabic to God knows what and eventually back to English.
The above is the unadulterated result.
It's a wee bit puzzling ... but at least it's puzzling, which could not have been said about the pedestrian original.
Robert Bly might appreciate it - it has some of those leaps and bounds he thought great poetry should have.
Here's the Hindi version ... just for kicks:
फिर
भूसे की भूमिका की प्रस्तुति बगुला
इस झील. कदम उठाने के लिए
इसके अलावा, क्यों, पानी में परेशान है, और
ऊपर खींचो एक खाली है, लेकिन केवल एक बार.
बाद में, मील के लिए सड़कों में, कुछ और
उन्होंने कहा कि वह वहाँ जब आया होगा. कैसे करने के लिए
हर दिन है कि नाजुक पैरों
शांत हरी मैल, एक अच्छा पुस्तकालय दरवाजा
गर्मी और प्रकाश? यह दुनिया की बेवकूफी है.
उनकी हर दिन सड़कों, आकाश,
अपने गुफा में तहखाना,
विरूपण की सतह से टिन, यार्ड में बिखरे हुए.
पश्चिम गुलबहारों से ढंका हुआ
तीन रंगों, पीले फूल का एक पाक्रर का पौधा में परिवर्तन
सड़क था. प्रत्येक वर्ष, इन्फ्लूएंजा
हवा की मोटी मात्रा और जंगली में झुनझुनी
गर्म, पतले घास, पत्तियां प्रकाश
शुरुआत. बगुला है स्थिति
या मेरे पीछे जमीन पर पत्थर.
और टूटे पंख, और फिर खोलने के लिए और लोहे हटायें
ब्लू ताल, उड़ान के दौरान अपने शरीर.
मैं गर्मी महसूस किया, और पुआल. आशा गीत
जंगली का स्वाद, मैं खाली
मैंने कहा: नहीं, लेकिन के क्षेत्र में गर्म
त्वचा और. यह लंबे समय से पहले नहीं है
शुरू सामान्य श्वास,
मरणोत्तर गित आकाश में अब भी है.
12.7.10
Good-bye to Haiku Very Much
Indelible
Bright flags strung up on
timelines flutter their good-byes
into the present
– Johannes Beilharz (© 2010)
A haiku to say good-bye to Haiku Very Much and its haiku challenges. They will be missed!
Bright flags strung up on
timelines flutter their good-byes
into the present
– Johannes Beilharz (© 2010)
A haiku to say good-bye to Haiku Very Much and its haiku challenges. They will be missed!
27.5.10
Nightingale
Grey melody.
Earth and sky sing in you
And are Spring.
– Peter Hille (1854-1904)
(Translation of Nachtigall; copyright © of translation from German by Johannes Beilharz 2010)
Earth and sky sing in you
And are Spring.
– Peter Hille (1854-1904)
(Translation of Nachtigall; copyright © of translation from German by Johannes Beilharz 2010)
Nachtigall
Graue Melodie.
In dir singen Erde und Himmel
Und sind Frühling.
– Peter Hille (1854-1904)
Dieses Gedicht flatterte mir in der gestrigen Lyrikmail ins Postfach.
In dir singen Erde und Himmel
Und sind Frühling.
– Peter Hille (1854-1904)
Dieses Gedicht flatterte mir in der gestrigen Lyrikmail ins Postfach.
3.5.10
You do ignite
You do ignite that
rotten side of me – now please
be gone, old fart – depart!
rotten side of me – now please
be gone, old fart – depart!
– Felix Morgenstern (© 2010)
Written around depart, ignite, rotten from 3WW and a slightly failed haiku.
1.5.10
NYC
redeeming snowy rooftops
upper east side manhattan
looking toward sunrise
12th floor blinking red for planes
and below the neighbor's hillocked roof garden
at night the jewelry of tiny glowing rectangles
infinite humans in that flying brick
the chirping of a small bird
a siren far then near then far
the rush of tires
a horn
– Deirdre LaPenna (© 2010)
This poem was originally posted in response to one of my own (Ditty in celebration of a grey city morning).
Other poems by Deirdre:
First poem
It is not imaginary
Older poems
upper east side manhattan
looking toward sunrise
12th floor blinking red for planes
and below the neighbor's hillocked roof garden
at night the jewelry of tiny glowing rectangles
infinite humans in that flying brick
the chirping of a small bird
a siren far then near then far
the rush of tires
a horn
– Deirdre LaPenna (© 2010)
This poem was originally posted in response to one of my own (Ditty in celebration of a grey city morning).
Other poems by Deirdre:
First poem
It is not imaginary
Older poems
29.4.10
And give us today our daily mixture
Elton John says GOP oil leak in trouble for 5 states
Shootings kill census mail blockade of Bullock
Illegal Alabama immigrants say new congress may not tackle
Baby results could be well of sunken drilling rig
Ariz. governor candidate plans to leave over Obama
This is Mexican border city: we speak law
US Navy has encounter with Ryan White
AP source is divorcing James, adopting immigration soon
Iranian jet turned his life around
Banking regulation bill abandons 16 people in English
– Iself 2010
Blended, mixed, inverted, contorted from 10 current headlines for napowrimo #29, front page news
Shootings kill census mail blockade of Bullock
Illegal Alabama immigrants say new congress may not tackle
Baby results could be well of sunken drilling rig
Ariz. governor candidate plans to leave over Obama
This is Mexican border city: we speak law
US Navy has encounter with Ryan White
AP source is divorcing James, adopting immigration soon
Iranian jet turned his life around
Banking regulation bill abandons 16 people in English
– Iself 2010
Blended, mixed, inverted, contorted from 10 current headlines for napowrimo #29, front page news
26.4.10
From across the river
Dark-eyed,
from across the Hooghly she beckons to me
Mysterious night
across the river beckons to me
The old chamber softly lit
beckons to me
A sweetly solemn thought, sun and wind and beat of sea
beckon to me
“I am your woman,” she says
and beckons to me
– Iself (© 2010)
Written for napowrimo #26, get scrappy.
Note
As I was quite sure that I did not have any scribbled or unfinished poem in my wallet or in a notebook, I went to a random poetry generator for inspiration, picking a poem from the “poetry in motion” category. The above romantic/folkloric poem, which is more or less in the form of a ghazal, is the result.
I’m not posting the original generated poem because it has ingredients I did not care for and did not use.
The Hooghly river is a distributary of the Ganges in West Bengal, India, and flows by Kolkata.
from across the Hooghly she beckons to me
Mysterious night
across the river beckons to me
The old chamber softly lit
beckons to me
A sweetly solemn thought, sun and wind and beat of sea
beckon to me
“I am your woman,” she says
and beckons to me
– Iself (© 2010)
Written for napowrimo #26, get scrappy.
Note
As I was quite sure that I did not have any scribbled or unfinished poem in my wallet or in a notebook, I went to a random poetry generator for inspiration, picking a poem from the “poetry in motion” category. The above romantic/folkloric poem, which is more or less in the form of a ghazal, is the result.
I’m not posting the original generated poem because it has ingredients I did not care for and did not use.
The Hooghly river is a distributary of the Ganges in West Bengal, India, and flows by Kolkata.
25.4.10
The first word to hear
It’s 7 a.m. on Sunday morning.
It’s the apartment and me.
The first word to hear is yet to come
from somewhere –
most likely through a telephone wire
or wireless or from someone
at a bakery.
But there’s bird song
through the open window,
and those birds
seem to be saying something.
– Iself (© 2010)
For napowrimo #25, first things first.
It’s the apartment and me.
The first word to hear is yet to come
from somewhere –
most likely through a telephone wire
or wireless or from someone
at a bakery.
But there’s bird song
through the open window,
and those birds
seem to be saying something.
– Iself (© 2010)
For napowrimo #25, first things first.
21.4.10
La salsa
Alors vint la salsa...I
– Gino Ducreuil
The salsa enters on the tiptoes of celery
its bongos are maroon leathery mushrooms
And the fat singer after margaritas
is pulsating fire: Celia Cruz
II
The little black angels deform
under the blasting wall of electric strings
Willie Colón the outlaw in-law
and this is the moment Brunilda Ruiz rises
from a vogue for an eternally long
second-long long bridge
The span of her foot is the graves of Puerto Rico
and the glistening rainy streets of Nueva York
Spanish words by Adrés Eloy Blanco
music by Manual Álvarez Maciste
for this elating bow the salsa
now playing in some nightclub in París
– Johannes Beilharz (© 1981/2010)
One quarter elemental for napowrimo #17, something elemental.
Note
Some explanation might be in order here to make this less cryptic.
This poem came about some time after the purchase of El Baquiné de Angelitos Negros, a 1977 album by Willie Colón. The cover shows dancer Brunilda Ruiz, and I somehow wove her, salsa and the much older song by Eloy Blanco and Álvarez Maciste into this poem along with salsa queen Celia Cruz, transplanting the whole show to Paris and quoting a non-existent Frenchman to introduce it.
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