Two poems from new poems
many fruits of
your mind
are nonedible
and many are ripe
just
don’t drift off,
for the remainder of you
go to bed
like a bedouin
recount the
stars
while
sieving sands
through fingers
reminding of the
days we imagine
his sun being
his inner light,
his sand
his inner noise,
his
history
his tree
of dates
and so
forth.
if only did deer dare run no disney in argentina
would have seen a bambi, but the day he’s alive,
anew, after being frozen they bet he’ll become a zen
enthusiast: the classic: high tech, few furniture,
plenty of space to think: hence the fullness.
the music though is extreme, it doesn’t forgive.
the thought of it is tough as it is bitter the beer:
while a phoneme, or anything that sounds little,
when it changes changes what’s heard while the sequence
of such phonemes ‘s uttered, a sound that relies on
meaningless pitch has changed already. that means,
between us, that the change is always possible but you
don’t hear it. the path’s taken. the mind dwells too
long. silence accounts for sound. whereas here we’re still
marveled with disney’s dyspnea. no matter how vast our
memory, in words, sounds freeze after a while. an inner
desire of share sheer stability. and we know it real.
now how many angels are needed to sound a shofar or
bring disney to life? that’s a purely musical question.
everything ‘s possible. share is as different from share
as share is from share. we guess: eight angels, ten.
maybe more. disney is at large. everything he touches
freezes. like a medusa. or similarly. he is already on
his next movie. which frosts as soon as thinks of it.
even his meltdown will sound to us as a mass.
music, to say it randomly, is a little knot;
not a bond though.
Deux poèmes de El ruido elegido traduits en français par Adolfo Barberá
XVII
Il y a
Dans le corps gît le temps comme
gemme. Impoliment
inclus.
Rien de plus sacré en lui.
Qui sonne quand celui-là gémit.
Qui acquiesce quand j´imagine
que faire si on
l´a effleuré.
Pas un sommet, pas une valeur.
Poussière épandue par le corps
malheureux pour gagner du temps
jusqu´au son.
Parce qu´il le mérite.
Pour qu´il entre par l´ouïe.
VI
En dessous
L´argument est le
suivant:
un feintment
(un événement feint)
possède la grammaire
si propre
a l´image
future:
dans le présent sa
fonction est
programmatique,
tandis que dans
le futur
il détient
toujours
(encore)
le moment
où il
ne s´est pas
épuisé.
Dois poemas de O ruído elegido traduzidos para portugués por Éclair Antonio Almeida Filho
& Josina Nunes Magalhães Roncisvalle
IX
Além
O animal
encarna todas as vidas,
sabido que o mal
não é real –
ao tomar-se a vida
inteira fruto de um
impulso o
instinto de
tornar-se
anômalo.
O pavão irreal, por
exemplo,
não é mais vistoso que
a quimera.
Porém os imaginários,
os seres que não existem
deveras, às vezes
são estranhos: porém
nunca maus.
XX
Nanas tridimensionais
aqui
a quem
quer
que rastele
vem à mente
isto:
vem
rapidamente
e se vai.
cai
em
outra
orla
o
que
cai.
One poem from Amor Islam in vernacular by Andrés Ajens
chair amí
ti tes que
coser a túa
boca á
fronte dunha
muller
ti tes que
traquelar, oui, esa
fronte co
púrpura e
ouro
ti debes fundir
a túa man
esquerda (súa
palma) ao
teu oído
(o seu).
querido a-
migo: fai
que esa mu-
ller abrace
a túa cabeza
forte, entra-
ñablemente.
One poem from Amor Islam translated by Michelle Gil-Montero
Metro
Solitude of parks bounded
by rails stitched into
seams, and some
periphery
stretches to green-varied space and installs
trees. On all
paths
all faces drawn
by the
polyhedral park
the canopies
toss onto rooftops, and tractor trailers
circle, suppressing
the jut of their platforms
for cars against traffic.
To dispute that a crossing would satisfy
a theft
is
precisely the logic behind the
rhythm
in the seams.
Primeiro céu
Seu solo diz-lhe muito de líquido
no andar de
tua imagem
pedes água a tua boca
Coberta SOS, mulher
E tendo coisas pequenas
O vermelho chega a ser tua cor que
eleva ainda mais a altura
onde habitas que, com alguns quartos,
transformam o ambiente de um lado a
outro eu atravesso sua parede, encostado o
ouvido em um percurso silencioso
modulando o ouvido e funil
libertam um braço: sua mão oferece
dar ao que venha um pouco de azul
e atrás a mínima porção de chão que
acolhe o único janelão do lar
estão florescendo ao viço plantas
colhidas em salmoura.
O pavimento alto da cidade à sua altura
surge com odor cruel. A
planta rara brota pelo suor de
uma carne que se pendura na vertical:
nem rês; toicinho. Se
senta Lamia a seguir os percursos das
gotas, o desenho em vermelho, carmesim;
essas gotas se expandem por odor
Ela saboreia o querosene
percorre seus lábios,
olha a tarde que cai desde
o alto da cidade.
Tudo se tem, já,
fazia cor de fogo débil,
derrete,
a carne vinga sua lágrima, a
garganta arde
em queimação.
de ádelon, traduzido por Evandro Nascimento
One poem from ádelon translated by Michelle Gil-Montero
Hand on the wall my
time in turn to
mute—to form with
rhythm: my whole
hand on the wall my
shadow made into
five soft antlers
at rest. They are one
hand on the wall my
shadow and hand of a size
same; equal the time of
one being after
the other: with no interval—and
I see the
bosom that
gives a name to
its street:
the five fingers
squash the wall:
shadows not are seen
by hands alone.
many fruits of
your mind
are nonedible
and many are ripe
just
don’t drift off,
for the remainder of you
go to bed
like a bedouin
recount the
stars
while
sieving sands
through fingers
reminding of the
days we imagine
his sun being
his inner light,
his sand
his inner noise,
his
history
his tree
of dates
and so
forth.
if only did deer dare run no disney in argentina
would have seen a bambi, but the day he’s alive,
anew, after being frozen they bet he’ll become a zen
enthusiast: the classic: high tech, few furniture,
plenty of space to think: hence the fullness.
the music though is extreme, it doesn’t forgive.
the thought of it is tough as it is bitter the beer:
while a phoneme, or anything that sounds little,
when it changes changes what’s heard while the sequence
of such phonemes ‘s uttered, a sound that relies on
meaningless pitch has changed already. that means,
between us, that the change is always possible but you
don’t hear it. the path’s taken. the mind dwells too
long. silence accounts for sound. whereas here we’re still
marveled with disney’s dyspnea. no matter how vast our
memory, in words, sounds freeze after a while. an inner
desire of share sheer stability. and we know it real.
now how many angels are needed to sound a shofar or
bring disney to life? that’s a purely musical question.
everything ‘s possible. share is as different from share
as share is from share. we guess: eight angels, ten.
maybe more. disney is at large. everything he touches
freezes. like a medusa. or similarly. he is already on
his next movie. which frosts as soon as thinks of it.
even his meltdown will sound to us as a mass.
music, to say it randomly, is a little knot;
not a bond though.
Deux poèmes de El ruido elegido traduits en français par Adolfo Barberá
XVII
Il y a
Dans le corps gît le temps comme
gemme. Impoliment
inclus.
Rien de plus sacré en lui.
Qui sonne quand celui-là gémit.
Qui acquiesce quand j´imagine
que faire si on
l´a effleuré.
Pas un sommet, pas une valeur.
Poussière épandue par le corps
malheureux pour gagner du temps
jusqu´au son.
Parce qu´il le mérite.
Pour qu´il entre par l´ouïe.
VI
En dessous
L´argument est le
suivant:
un feintment
(un événement feint)
possède la grammaire
si propre
a l´image
future:
dans le présent sa
fonction est
programmatique,
tandis que dans
le futur
il détient
toujours
(encore)
le moment
où il
ne s´est pas
épuisé.
Dois poemas de O ruído elegido traduzidos para portugués por Éclair Antonio Almeida Filho
& Josina Nunes Magalhães Roncisvalle
IX
Além
O animal
encarna todas as vidas,
sabido que o mal
não é real –
ao tomar-se a vida
inteira fruto de um
impulso o
instinto de
tornar-se
anômalo.
O pavão irreal, por
exemplo,
não é mais vistoso que
a quimera.
Porém os imaginários,
os seres que não existem
deveras, às vezes
são estranhos: porém
nunca maus.
XX
Nanas tridimensionais
aqui
a quem
quer
que rastele
vem à mente
isto:
vem
rapidamente
e se vai.
cai
em
outra
orla
o
que
cai.
One poem from Amor Islam in vernacular by Andrés Ajens
chair amí
ti tes que
coser a túa
boca á
fronte dunha
muller
ti tes que
traquelar, oui, esa
fronte co
púrpura e
ouro
ti debes fundir
a túa man
esquerda (súa
palma) ao
teu oído
(o seu).
querido a-
migo: fai
que esa mu-
ller abrace
a túa cabeza
forte, entra-
ñablemente.
One poem from Amor Islam translated by Michelle Gil-Montero
Metro
Solitude of parks bounded
by rails stitched into
seams, and some
periphery
stretches to green-varied space and installs
trees. On all
paths
all faces drawn
by the
polyhedral park
the canopies
toss onto rooftops, and tractor trailers
circle, suppressing
the jut of their platforms
for cars against traffic.
To dispute that a crossing would satisfy
a theft
is
precisely the logic behind the
rhythm
in the seams.
Primeiro céu
Seu solo diz-lhe muito de líquido
no andar de
tua imagem
pedes água a tua boca
Coberta SOS, mulher
E tendo coisas pequenas
O vermelho chega a ser tua cor que
eleva ainda mais a altura
onde habitas que, com alguns quartos,
transformam o ambiente de um lado a
outro eu atravesso sua parede, encostado o
ouvido em um percurso silencioso
modulando o ouvido e funil
libertam um braço: sua mão oferece
dar ao que venha um pouco de azul
e atrás a mínima porção de chão que
acolhe o único janelão do lar
estão florescendo ao viço plantas
colhidas em salmoura.
O pavimento alto da cidade à sua altura
surge com odor cruel. A
planta rara brota pelo suor de
uma carne que se pendura na vertical:
nem rês; toicinho. Se
senta Lamia a seguir os percursos das
gotas, o desenho em vermelho, carmesim;
essas gotas se expandem por odor
Ela saboreia o querosene
percorre seus lábios,
olha a tarde que cai desde
o alto da cidade.
Tudo se tem, já,
fazia cor de fogo débil,
derrete,
a carne vinga sua lágrima, a
garganta arde
em queimação.
de ádelon, traduzido por Evandro Nascimento
One poem from ádelon translated by Michelle Gil-Montero
Hand on the wall my
time in turn to
mute—to form with
rhythm: my whole
hand on the wall my
shadow made into
five soft antlers
at rest. They are one
hand on the wall my
shadow and hand of a size
same; equal the time of
one being after
the other: with no interval—and
I see the
bosom that
gives a name to
its street:
the five fingers
squash the wall:
shadows not are seen
by hands alone.
