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on Clenched Soul by Pablo Neruda, on February 14, 2006
a translated paraphrase?
Below are Spanish and English versions of translation by Pablo Neruda of Tagore's Tumi Sandhyara Meghamala.
In My Sky At Twilight
This poem is a paraphrase of the 30th poem in Rabindranath Tagore's The Gardener.
In my sky at twilight you are like a cloud
and your form and color are the way I love them.
You are mine, mine, woman with sweet lips
and in your life my infinite dreams live.
The lamp of my soul dyes your feet,
My sour wine is sweeter on your lips,
oh reaper of my evening song,
how solitary dreams believe you to be mine!
You are mine, mine, I go shouting it to the
afternoon's wind,
and the wind hauls on my widowed voice.
Huntress of the depths of my eyes, your plunder
stills your nocturnal regard as though it were water.
You are taken in the net of my music, my love,
and my nets of music are wide as the sky.
My soul is born on the shore of your eyes of mourning.
In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.
En Mi Cielo Al Crepúsculo
Este poema es una parúfrasis del poema 30 de El jardinero de Rabindranath Tagore.
En mi cielo al crepúsculo cres como una nube
y tu color y forma son como yo los quiero.
Eras mÃa, cres mÃa, mujer de labios dulces
y viven en tu vida mis infinotos sueños.
La lámpara de mà alma te sonorosa los pies,
el agrio vino mÃo es más dulce en tus labios,
oh segadora de mi canción de atardecer,
cómo te sienten mÃa mis sueños solitarios!
Eres mÃa, eres mÃa, voy gritando en la brisa
de la tarde, y el viento arrastra mi voz viuda.
Cazadora del fondo de mis ojos, tu robo
estanca como el agua tu mirada nocturna.
En la red de mi música estás presa, amor mÃo,
y mis redes de música son anchas como el cielo.
Mi alma nace a la orilla de tus ojos de luto.
En tus ojos de luto comienza el paÃs del sueño.
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on Consolation by Matthew Arnold, on February 14, 2006
wonderful
if i could only write like this, i love the shortened line and the clipped word format. Wonderful images, timeless. ~richard
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on I Sit And Look Out by Walt Whitman, on January 26, 2006How is it that so much of achedemia disses this writer. I’ve read pleanty of criticisms and find it a mystery. Perhaps I am the one not getting it but i am still lost in the way he touches my soul with the truths he penned. I feel the conflict of mind and heart within this poem and can relate to it. Isn’t that what good poetry is all about?
An original S.O.B. but a gifted poet
i do not find this at all “pretentious or arrogant” as someone said. i heard him read this and the way he said it, the way he carried the words aloud in that dusty alcoholic drone of a voice he had made it sound like more a warning, that writer’s are given a mandate to rise above the mundane, those of us who pretend to write. it is a sound bit of advice, i think, where, what we put out on paper, should mean something more than words running down a page – that there should be an energy of soul that drives us, compels us, to create something beyond our own need to express ourselves as if fire were dwelling behind our eyes and in our fingers – and THAT, is poured out onto the page and into the reader’s heart. Bukowski, he was a real, authentic, writer; i just pretend.