Authors

La Gare

August 31, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Cette nuit j’ai débarqué dans une gare.
Pareille à toutes. Lente, oppressante,
paisible parfois, submergée
au tréfonds des sortilèges de l’horloge.
Et je me suis pris pour une taupe, bestiole fourbue
dans un recoin,
les regardant passer, courir, renoncer,
et comme dévorant les guichets,
demander un billet, des horaires,
puis courir.


Cette nuit j’ai débarqué dans la gare
et je n’ai pas voulu me remémorer cette autre, la miniature,
battue des vents et secouée
comme peuplier transi.
Je me revois en elle, à peine extirpé du train,
rendu à la multitude,
cherchant sur les murs hors d’usage
la nuit de veille, le mitan du tour, une couleur,
un acacia tissant ses énigmes
dans les délires de mon corps. Dès lors
tout était terre ombreuse, une crainte
renversée entre col et ceinture, et la haine
du crieur annonçant la pluie impénitente.


Cette nuit j’ai débarqué
et renoncé à cet air emmuré
à la colère des cloîtres
à la radicelle amère qui cherchait
l’ombre et la vase.
Les trains passent. Comment ne pas épier
en eux une peine fugitive
un vestibule aux ronces, une promesse
du vieux territoire de l’amour.
Moi, je regarde la taupe, vautrée, jetée
à ce zig zag de cris et de figures,
indécise, accusatrice et comme déchiffrant
l’horaire et les vestiges
d’une vielle musique.


Je vois courir la nuit,
et le ciel dans mes souliers, et le profil
de mon corps pèlerin
par cette galerie d’anges se télescopant
pour ne pas manquer le train,
pour être chanceux, pour toucher le fond
de cette carte sans gloire.


(Traduit de l’espagnol par Jean-Claude Duthion)©


THE STATION


Tonight I arrived at a train station.
Same as the rest. Lingering, suffocating,
serene at times, submerged
under the magic spell of the clock.
And I played the mole, tired little beast
crouched in a corner,
watching them go by, running, giving up,
or devouring the teller’s little window
to ask for a ticket, a schedule,
and running again.


Tonight I arrived at the station,
and I refused to remember the other one, the very short one,
blown and shaken
like a freezing poplar.
I remember myself there, torn from the train,
returned to the crowds,
searching the useless walls
for light, noon, some color,
a locust tree spinning its enigmas in the delusions of my body. Then
everything was darkened earth,
a bolt of fear from my neck to my waist,
and hatred for the unrepentant rain’s proclamation.


Tonight I arrived
and renounced this air stifled between the walls,
the cloistered anger,
the bitter little shoot in search of
the shade and the downpour.
Trains go by. I can’t help but see in them
a fleeting sadness, a foreshadowing of the north wind,
a promise to bygone loves.
I look at the mole, being dragged along
thrown into this zigzag of shouts and shapes
looking doubtful, accusing, as if figuring out
the schedule, and the ruins
of an ancient music.


I see the night fly by,


and the sky in my shoes, and the outline
of my body traveling
through this gallery of angels tripping over each other
trying not to miss the train,
trying to be happy, trying to get to the bottom
of this inglorious journey.


(Translated from Spanish by Victor S. Drescher)©


LA ESTACIÓN


Esta noche he llegado a una estación de tren.
Igual a todas. Lenta, sofocante,
serena a veces, sumergida
entre los sortilegios del reloj.
Y me he tenido por topo, cansada bestiecilla
en un rincón,
mirándolos pasar, correr, rendirse,
y como devorando las ventanas
pedir billete, horarios
y correr.


Esta noche he llegado a la estación,
y no he querido rememorar la otra, la cortísima,
soplada y sacudida
como aterido álamo.
Yo me recuerdo en ella, arrancado del tren,
vuelto a las muchedumbres,
buscando en las paredes inservibles
la vela, el mediodía, algún color,
una acacia tejiendo sus enigmas
en los delirios de mi cuerpo. Entonces
todo era tierra umbría, un derramado
miedo entre el cuello y la cintura, y odio
al pregón de la lluvia impenitente.


Esta noche he llegado
y renunciado a este aire entre murallas,
a la ira de los claustros,
a la raicilla amarga que buscaba
la sombra y el turbión.
Pasan los trenes. Cómo no atisbar
en ellos una pena fugitiva,
una antesala al cierzo, una promesa
al viejo territorio del amor.
Yo miro al topo, a rastras, arrojado
a este zigzag de gritos y figuras,
dudoso, acusador, y como descifrando
el horario y las ruinas
de una música antigua.


Veo la noche correr
y el cielo en los zapatos, y el dibujo
de mi cuerpo viajero
por esta galería de ángeles atropellándose
por no perder el tren,
por ser dichosos, por tocar el fondo
de este mapa sin gloria.


(tomado del libro La tinta extinta)


Carlos Francisco Monge


© CFM. 2007


Avec l’aimable autorisation de l’auteur


Nota biográfica


CARLOS FRANCISCO MONGE (1951). Poeta y ensayista costarricense. Es autor, entre otros, de Reino del latido (1978), Los fértiles horarios (1983), La tinta extinta (1990) y Enigmas de la imperfección (2002), todos de poesía. También, como ensayista y crítico literario tiene publicados : La imagen separada (1984), La rama de fresno (1999) y El vanguardismo literario en Costa Rica (2005), y dos antologías : Antología crítica de la poesía de Costa Rica (1993) y Costa Rica : Poesía escogida (1998).
Es profesor de Literaturas Hispánicas en la Universidad Nacional (Heredia, Costa Rica). Es Premio Nacional de Poesía, de su país.

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The bridge of Avignon.

August 29, 2011 Rasel Rana 1 Comments

Joe Sharp


On the bridge of Avignon
All are dancing, all are dancing
On the bridge of Avignon
All are dancing round and round
Young men they are dancing
They carry on romancing


On the bridge of Avignon
All are dancing, all are dancing
On the bridge of Avignon
All are dancing round and round
Fair ladies they are dancing
The young men are advancing


On the bridge of Avignon
All are dancing, all are dancing
On the bridge of Avignon
All are dancing round and round
Gardeners they are dancing
Muddy boots are prancing


On the bridge of Avignon
All are dancing, all are dancing
On the bridge of Avignon
All are dancing round and round
Dressmakers they are dancing
With colours so entrancing


On the bridge of Avignon
All are dancing, all are dancing
On the bridge of Avignon
All are dancing round and round
Winegrowers they are dancing
Giggling wiggling glancing


On the bridge of Avignon
All are dancing, all are dancing
On the bridge of Avignon
All are dancing round and round
Laundrymaids they are dancing
Aprons white from blanching


On the bridge of Avignon
All were really going to town
Leaping up and jumping down
Would you believe it, the bridge fell down.

1 comments:

Camomile Tea

August 27, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Katherine Mansfield (1888 - 1923)


Outside the sky is light with stars;
There's a hollow roaring from the sea.
And, alas! for the little almond flowers,
The wind is shaking the almond tree.


How little I thought, a year ago,
In the horrible cottage upon the Lee
That he and I should be sitting so
And sipping a cup of camomiletea.


Light as feathers the witches fly,
The horn of the moon is plain to see;
By a firefly under a jonquil flower
A goblin toasts a bumble-bee.


We might be fifty, we might be five,
So snug, so compact, so wise are we!
Under the kitchen-table leg
My knee is pressing against his knee.


Our shutters are shut, the fire is low,
The tap is dripping peacefully;
The saucepan shadows on the wall
Are black and round and plain to see.


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When you are old

August 20, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;


How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;


And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.


William Butler Yeats

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A Patient Man

August 17, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Joe Sharp

A patient man is a priceless pearl
A proper prince among paupers
Slow to ponder time to dwell
A fragrant meadow for green grasshoppers


A happy man is a fertile furrow
A hayfield buzzing in Mother Nature’s hold
A bunny rabbit beside the warren’s burrow
Sifting sand to find the pot of gold


A gentle man is a God sent medallion
An imaginary halo around his humble head
A mother’s pet, a maiden’s model stallion
His offspring happily sleeping in the bed


An honest man is a breath of new mown hay
Stacked up snugly in the farmer’s harvest
Eagerly awaiting the trials of the day
Confidently knowing which policy is best


Patiently awaiting
Happily celebrating
Gently creating
Honestly debating
The complexities of life

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A Thunderstorm In Town

August 12, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Thomas Hardy (1840 – 1928)


(A Reminiscence, 1893)




She wore a 'terra-cotta' dress,

And we stayed, because of the pelting storm,

Within the hansom's dry recess,

Though the horse had stopped; yea, motionless

We sat on, snug and warm.

Then the downpour ceased, to my sharp sad pain,
And the glass that had screened our forms before
Flew up, and out she sprang to her door:
I should have kissed her if the rain
Had lasted a minute more.

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London Airport

August 11, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

Christopher Logue (b 1926)


Last night in London Airport
I saw a wooden bin
labelled UNWANTED LITERATURE
IS TO BE PLACED HEREIN
So I wrote a poem
and popped it in.



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I Have Forsworn You / Ich Habe Dir Entsagt

August 02, 2011 Rasel Rana 0 Comments

ANNE RANASINGHE


I Have Forsworn You


I have forsworn you, closed all memory;
I work and eat, listen to music, sleep,
Walk in the garden, watch the changing moon
Pretending that I have no need of you.
But all the while I know it is not true.
Your silence weaves around me such a tight cocoon
Of loneliness and sadness, such a deep
And painful longing that I know it is a fallacy
To feel and say or think that I am free.


***


Ich Habe Dir Entsagt


Ich habe dir abgeschworen, samt allen Gedanken,
Ich arbeite, esse, höre Musik und schlafe,
Im Garten geh ich umher, betrachte den wechselnden Mond,
Ich habe dich nicht nötig, es scheint mir so klar,
Doch immer schon weiß ich, das ist nicht wahr.
Dein Schweigen webt um mich ein dichtes Gespinst bewohnt
Von Einsamkeit und Trauer, es wird zur Strafe
Und schmerzlichem Sehnen. Ich weiß, es ist Täsuchung, zu denken
Zu fühlen, zu sagen: Ich bin frei.


Excerpt from Anna Ranasinghe's book
"Du Fragst Mich, Warum ich Gedichte Schreibe - You Ask Me Why I Write Poems"
(Pages 44 /45, Maro Verlag)

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