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On Poetry and Culture Shock

Se muestran los artículos pertenecientes al tema My Poetry.

24/08/2007

Metric questions

This can be a one-liner:

Calvin could always carry Hell on his pocket.

It can be an unrhyming couplet:

Calvin could always carry
Hell on his pocket.

And it can be twisted out of shape into a three-line poem. The problem with thinking that this is a haiku is not that it lacks a few syllables, it's the run-on line effect.

Calvin could always
carry Hell
on his pocket.

Still I think that it sounds a lot better in Spanish.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Misterios de la métrica. Esto puede ser una simple frase directa:

Calvino siempre llevaba el infierno en el bolsillo.

Casi sola, te lleva hacia un pareado octosílabo sin rima:

Calvino siempre llevaba
El Infierno en el bolsillo.

Y con alguna sílaba de más se le puede dar forma de haiku, aunque el problema no son las sílabas sino el encabalgamiento:

Calvino siempre
llevaba algún Infierno
en el bolsillo.

08/05/2007

When all else fails, tea.

The night lies ahead.
Cup of tea full to the brim.
The poem doesn’t come.

Toda la noche por delante.
Una taza de té llena hasta el borde.
El poema no llega
.

07/05/2007

A nightmare

I wrote this as a microstory for a contest. Much later on, I realised it adapted well to free verse. 

In my nightmare,
the plane landed without me.
I flew on my seat,
inside the plane,
and out,
out,
Floating on the cold air.

That was how I got fear of flying.

So silly of me.
I was losing you, my love, 
I was alone.
Holding on to the cold air,
with you so distant.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 Esto era un microcuento que escribí hace un par de años. Hace algunos meses me parió que quedaba bastante mejor en forma de verso libre. 

 

En mi pesadilla,
El avión aterrizaba sin mí.
Volaba en mi asiento,
Dentro del avión,
Y salía,
Salía,
Atravesaba la pared,
Flotando en el aire frío.

Fue así como cogí miedo a volar.

Qué tonta.
Te estaba perdiendo, mi amor,
Me quedé sola.
Agarrada al aire frío,
y tú tan lejos.

 

 

 

07/05/2007 09:23 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

19/04/2007

Here comes the sun, to do do doo.

Dúo solar.
Piel bronceada.
Vainilla, miel, café, chocolate.
Te comería entero.

*

Células enloquecidas.
Al dermatólogo
Voy por la sombra.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Solar duo.

Suntanned skin.
Vanilla, honey, coffee, chocolate.
I'll eat you whole.
*
Cells gone mad.
I walk to the dermatologist
On my wide-brimmed hat.

14/03/2007

Calm and stillness

Ni mar ni río
La piscina del vecino
Nos arrulla.

Neither sea or river
The neighbour's swimming-pool
is our lullaby.

Written for One Deep Breath, whose prompt this week was calm and stillness.

07/03/2007

Zen

No es Zen
Si crees que ya has llegado
no era Zen.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

It's not Zen
If you thought you had grasped it
It wasn't Zen.

05/03/2007

Dirt

One Deep Breath prompt of the week: Dirt.  Haiku about getting clean, or getting muddy. In this part of the world,  getting dirty means getting sweaty, and that made me think of the beach.

So very sweaty
Lying on the sticky sand
Wrapped in sun.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

One Deep Breath sugiere que escribamos haiku sobre el barro, la tierra, la suciedad. Eso me hizo pensar en sudor, y por extensión en la playa. Un haiku playero:

Tan sudorosa
Tumbada en la arena
envuelta en sol.

01/03/2007

More namelessness

Hush, it's a concert:
The blackbird will sing
For those who don't know his name!

Sshh, es un concierto:
¡El mirlo va a cantar
para quienes no saben su nombre!

 

 

01/03/2007 10:46 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

26/02/2007

Don't mention it

Poetry Thursday asks to talk about something beautiful without mentioning it. Haikus are mostly about talking about a feeling without mentioning it, just describing the thing or situation that causes the feeling, so the haiku form is perfect for what Poetry Thursday intended. I hope my attempt is successful, it's easy enough to know what/who I'm talking about.

Under the blanket
There's nothing you can see
There's only feeling.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Poetry Thursday nos pide esta semana que hablemos de algo hermoso sin nombrarlo. El haike describe un sentimiento sin nombrarlo, mencionando sólo la situación que lo provoca, así que es, en teoría, la estrofa perfecta para el reto de la semana. Espero que os guste. Lo que no nombro queda bastante claro, ¿no?

Bajo la manta
No se puede ver nada
Sólo sentir.

23/02/2007

Spices & fibs.

Este es mi primer "fib", un poema con una secuencia silábica 1-1-2-3-5-8. En español es más difícil que en inglés, pero como "pimienta verde" son cinco sílabas, escribí el fib alrededor de esa línea. Y luego pensé que si son cinco sílabas podía hace un haiku gemelo. 

Sí,

Ya,

Esto

Sabe bien

Pimienta verde

Sal, laurel, y muchos besos.  

 

Pero también:

 

Pimienta verde.
Me besas en la cocina.

Esto sabe bien.  

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

The example above, in Spanish is my first attempt at a fib. Fibs in Spanish are hard because Spanish has very few one-syllable words, but I wanted to try because "green pepper", the spice not the vegetable, is "pimienta verde", in Spanish, five syllables. I tried to write a fib around that line, with a twin haiku. This would be the translation:

 

Yes,

now 

this dish

is tasty

lovely green pepper

with salt, laurel, and your kisses.  

 

Lovely green pepper.

You kiss me in the kitchen.

Yes, this is tasty.  

The body knows.

Mi cuerpo sabe
De dónde sale esta pena.
Haz que se calle. 

My body knows
the reason for all this sorrow.
Make it be quiet.

From this week's Poetry Thursday prompt.  

 

23/02/2007 09:59 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

01/02/2007

The heart

After a long wait,
I tie up my heart’s shoelaces
To run just for fun.

Pasó mucho tiempo.
El corazón descansado
Sale a correr.

Do you want the gossipy bit? Read on.

I wanted to play with the idea of "heartstrings" and I thought, what if the heartstrings were shoelaces? This haiku is from the time when my Spanish versions were straight translations with no care for rhythm or sound, or anything but meaning. The second version Spanish version, the one you can see here, still with an unorthodox 6-8-5 syllable count, was adapted about two years later.

And this is dedicated to certain little person who will not read me, and whose heart is beginning to enjoy itself.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Si quieres cotilleo, sigue leyendo....

Yo quería jugar con una idea que no se puede traducir al español, que es la palabra "heartstrings", "cuerdas del corazón", como una metáfora muy común para referirse a los sentimientos. ¿Y si esas cuerdas fueran cordones de atarse los zapatos? Este haiku es de la época en la que yo componía principalmente en inglés y las versiones españolas eran traducciones literales. La segunda versión española que veis aquí, menos literal pero con una cuenta silábica nada ortodoxa de 6-8-5, es de dos años más tarde.

Y está dedicada a cierta personita que no me va a leer, y que tiene un corazón que empieza a pasárselo bien justo ahora.

 

01/02/2007 11:05 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

14/01/2007

Ambition

Si escribiera
Un poema por cada nube,
¿Sería más feliz?

Desde que dije hace un mes que tenía demasiadas tareas diferentes que hacer, he acabado tres y media. Me quedan cuatro cosas de las que se pueden empezar y acabar, además de recuperar mis dos trabajos normales cuando todo esto me deje un respiro.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

If I wrote
a poem for every cloud
would I be happier?

Since I said that I had to work on too many different tasks,  I've finished three and a half. There's four left or the sort that can be started and finished, leaving aside my two regular jobs, which I hope to restart as soon as the other stuff gives me a break. Everything is under control. Yeah, right. 

14/01/2007 13:03 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

11/01/2007

Eavesdropping

Mi bar favorito, de momento, es uno modelno que tiene enormes pufs en vez de sillas y música variada que tiende a quedarse en el lado triste y oscuro de las cosas. Se supone que es un bar para lesbianas. Hay exhibiciones de arte de vez en cuando (ayer tenían cuadros abstractos y en un año no he visto allí ni uno solo que me guste). A veces tienen tartas por la tarde y las camareras de los piercings (una con rastas, la otra rapada) no te miran raro si pides un poleomenta en mitad de la noche.

"Llevo así un mes".
La niña de los piercings
Es toda ojeras.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

My currently favourite bar is a trendy place with huge cushions as the only place to sit and really varied music which tends to be on the dark sad side of things. It's supposed to be a lesbian bar. There are periodical art exhibitions (yesterday they had abstract paintings and in the year I've know the place, I haven't seen one paint I really liked). Sometimes they have cakes in the afternoon and a waitress with dreadlocks with and six or seven face piercings won't look down on you if you order mint tea at midnight. This is an ellaboration on something I overheard yesterday.

"I've been like this for a month"
The multipierced waitress
has grey bags under her eyes.

 

 

11/01/2007 09:53 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

08/01/2007

Noche de Reyes

Cabalgata de Reyes.
Madre con hiyab,
niño riendo.

Seis de Enero.
No veo por las calles
Ni una bicicleta.

Siete de Enero.
El barrendero maldice
los caramelos.

***************************** 

These haikus don't translate into English at all because they are too culturally bound. In Spain, Christmas gifts are brough on January 6th by the Three Magi. There are parades on the evening of January 5th and the morning of the 6th (depends on the town) and the participants throw candy to the watchers. The significance of the first haiku in the cycle is that the parade is a Catholic tradition and my city has been ethnically, culturally and religiously homogeneous until very recently. 

The Magi's parade
Mother on hiyab,
Laughing son.

January 6th.
Not a bicycle in sight.  

January 7th.
The streetsweeper curses
All this candy.

 

08/01/2007 15:21 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

27/12/2006

Weathering / Aging

Piel imperfecta,
Estrías y arrugas.
Pero qué suave.

Me he apuntado a los retos semanales de One Deep Breath. Espero que me ayude a componer más porque últimamente estaba seca (huy, qué miedo da eso). La sugerencia que dan esta semana es "cosas envejecidas o estropeadas". He preferido que el original sea en español; mi último poema original en inglés tiene ya casi un año, y se me hace raro pero supongo que es inevitable. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

Imperfect skin,
stretchmarks and wrinkles.
Still, so soft. 

I'm reading the weekly "challenges" in  One Deep Breath. I hope it will help me to compose more because I'm very slow lately (that's so scary ). This week's suggestion is "weathering and aging". I've preferred to compose it in Spanish; my last original in English is about a year old, and that feels odd but inevitable. 

24/12/2006

Christmassy

Navideño. 

Sin el abuelo.
Con mi cuñada.
Aún somos quince.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Grandfather's gone.
A new sister-in-law.
Still fifteen guests for dinner.

 

 

11/12/2006

The Phone Tanka

The stubborn sulky silence of the phone
When I’m waiting for a call.
The endless(less) engaged tone(tone) again
When I’m calling.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

El silencio enfurruñado del teléfono
Cuando espero una llamada.
Otra(tra) vez(ez) comunica
cuando llamo yo.

11/12/2006 11:10 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

27/11/2006

Hope

The original version is the Spanish one. I realised yesterday that for the last six months or more, I only make English versions of my poems when I post them in this blog. The rest of the time they stay monolingual. I don't know if I'm sad because I'm losing ambivalence, or happy in case it means I'm more confident of my control of Spanish.

After many months
The back of the mouth
Still keeps plenty of memories. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

La versión original de este haiku es la española. Ayer me di cuenta de que hace unos seis meses que sólo traduzco poemas al inglés cuando los pongo aquí; el resto del iempo se quedan en español. No sé si eso me da pena porque estoy perdiendo la capacidad de componer en inglés, o me alegra si es que significa que ahora tengo más control de mi propio idioma. 

Aún queda
Al fondo de  la boca
Recuerdo.

27/11/2006 14:22 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

20/11/2006

Orange blossom at the wrong time.

A haiku on global warming that I composed (in Spanish) as I was driving home one evening last week. That afternoon, I smelled orange blossom that I could not see. This is, of course, dedicated to Crafty Green Poet, who is behind all of my poems with an environmental concern. ç

 

November. 

You can't see the orange blossoms

As you drive. 

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Un haiku acerca del efecto invernadero que compuse mientras conducía camino de mi casa. Esa tarde me preocupé al oler azahares. Y por supuesto, está dedicado a Craft GReen Poet, que es la inspiración de todos mis poemas sobre temas ecológicos.

 

Noviembre.

Desde tu coche no ves

Los azahares.

20/11/2006 12:37 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry Hay 1 comentario.

19/10/2006

Autumnal

Primeras lluvias.
Turrón en el supermercado.
Mitad de Octubre.

^^^^^^^^^^^^

In my corner of the world, October rain is early rain because the heavy rains are expected in November. I don't mean rain in the early morning.

Under early rains,
Christmas sweets in supermarkets.
October nineteenth.

09/10/2006

Is erotic haiku possible?

At first my prose was erotic, and my poetry wasn't. Of course I wrote about love, desire, longing, but even when I was writing about lust, it didn't mean my poems were erotic. I didn't keep the two things separated on purpose: it was a question of the limitations of haikus. What can you tell in two or three lines? You can describe a body, or desire, or a climax, or afterglow, but you need to choose one. And while conciseness is a very good thing, the poem is over before you have time to feel anything! That's why the first poem of mine that I considered erotic entirely, from intention to result, was free verse. And that's maybe why I keep telling different love stories rearranging the same haikus in different orders: because I cannot write erotic prose anymore, and I miss it.

These wee ones here are not a cycle. They are some of the isolated haikus that either in intention, result, or allusion have some eroticism in them. Enjoy.

An old friend, rediscovered.
Suddenly, his sweat smells good.

I like your blond skin
I want your blond smile.
I'm looking for some blonde fun.

I chew the brightness of pain with pleasure.
My body is full of you now.

Brunette and blonde hide.
No longer children.
Forbidden games are always best.

The senses tanka. after e. e. cummings.

In your slow caress,
your heartbeat makes my music.
Not just my eyes love
Your scent of salt, blood and sweat,
your pretty red chilli lips.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

Al principio mi prosa era erótica, y mi poesía no. Por supuesto que escribía sobre el amor y el deseo, pero incluso en el estado de ánimo más lujurioso esto no significaba que los poemas fueran eróticos. Yo no conservaba las dos cosas separadas intencionadamente; era sólo una cuestión de las limitaciones propias del haiku. ¿qué se puede decir en dos o tres líneas? Puedes decribir un cuerpo, o un deseo, o un momento sexual, pero necesitas escoger sólo uno. Y a pesar de que la concisión puede ser una cosa estupenda, ¡el poema se ha acabado antes de que tengas tiempo de sentir nada! por eso el primer poema que escribí que me pareció erótico de principio a fin, desde su inspiración hasta el resultado, es verso libre. Y también puede que sea por eso que cuento diferentes historias reordenando los mismos haikus de forma diferente: porque ya nome sale escribir prosa erótica, y lo echo de menos. 

Estos chiquitines de aquí no son un ciclo. Sólo son algunos de los haikus aislados que en intención, alusión o resultado tienen algún rastro de erotismo. Espero que os gusten.

Antiguo amigo, redescubierto:
De repente, su sudor huele bien.

Me gusta tu rubia piel
Me atrae tu rubia sonrisa
Quiero divertirme rubiamente.

Mastico la luminosidad del dolor con placer.
Ahora mi cuerpo está lleno de ti.

Una morena y una rubia.
Ya no son niñas.
Los juegos prohibidos siempre son los mejores.

 En tu lenta caricia,
Los latidos de tu corazón son mi música.
No sólo mis ojos aman
Tu olor a sangre, sudor y sal,
tus labios de chile rojo.

29/09/2006

Hospital haiku

Next best thing to a death haiku (in which the poet foresees his / her own death with resignation), a hospital haiku. Real events from last night.

In the hospital's lobby,
the scent of flowers.
I'm breathing deeply. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

En el hospital,
el olor de las flores. 
Respiro hondo.

 

05/09/2006

Prose

I've had a lovely evening with Idgie W. McGregor, Fanshawe, and two people from the real world. It's awkward to meet for the first time people whose writings and lives I've read and admired/enjoyed. At some point I said something that almost fits haiku form, and it's going to count as a haiku. 

I didn't choose poetry.
Prose abandoned me.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^` 

He pasado  un rato estupendo con Idgie W. McGregor, Fanshawe, y dos personas más que son del mundo real :P Es raro ver en persona por primera vez a gente que escribe cosas que me gustan. Habré dichomuchas tonterías, y en algún momento solté una frase lapidaria que tiene casi forma de haiku. Así que así queda.

No escogí la poesía.
La prosa me abandonó.

 

 

23/08/2006

Chinese babies

As I have said before, Spain is the second country in the world in international adoptions, which is amazing because we are not a very multiethnic country yet, so the adopters always look very different from their parents and we don't seem to mind. No, actually, we love it. 

At the restaurant
I'm watched by the Chinese baby
with blond parents.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

España es el segundo país del mundo en adopciones internacionales, lo que es sorprendente porque todavía no somos un país muy multiétnico que digamos, así que los padres adoptivos suelen tener un aspecto muy distinto del de sus hijos y no parece que nos importe. No, mentira: no es que no nos importe, es que nos encanta.

En el bar
Me mira la niña china
De padres rubios.

23/08/2006 14:51 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

17/08/2006

On cancer

This is part of a cycle now, but I don't want to post the whole thing. I composed it about a month after Martyn Bennett 's death.

I think that the definition of cancer as cells which have forgotten how to die was made by a Spanish researcher, but I had it from my mother, a doctor. This means that my bleakest line is stolen from a scientist.

Worse than loneliness,
There’s frailty and fear
When cells forget how to die.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Ahora esto es parte de un ciclo, pero no lo quiero poner entero. Lo compuse más o menos un mes después de la muerte de Martyn Bennett. Creo que la definición del cáncer como células que no saben morirse la hizo un investigador español, pero yo la conozco a través de mi madre, que es médico. En cualquier caso, eso significa que el verso más deprimente que tengo se lo he robado a un científico.

Peor que la soledad,
La fragilidad y el miedo.
Células que se olvidan de morir.

 

17/08/2006 13:54 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

16/08/2006

On hands again

I know, I know , I’m obsessed and I’ve already exhausted the topic. But still.

The poet’s natural tendency is to edit once and again. My natural tendency is to edit the cycles and the poems' order rather than their words (they have too few words: change one word and you have a different poem!). Most of my haiku cycles are the result of recycling individual poems. The Hands Cycle used to be called “Four Lovers, Four Hands” and I thought of it as four completely separate vignettes. Now that I have one sad poem about hands, I have added it to the cycle and changed the order so that it tells a story.

I’ve said that initially this was about four lovers; for those of you that want a bit of gossip, the inspiration for the first and fourth poems were fantasies on strangers; the second is how I think someone used to feel about me (the hands are mine); the third and fifth are autobiographical, on different people. 

1

Cream on my coffee.
Silver on his hands.
Who could give him all those rings?

2

I look at your wrist.
Pink veins through transparent skin.
A road map to love.

3
Old feeling made new,
Hands firm on my back.
They show anything’s possible.

4
Five rays of light shine,
Your fingers on my cream skin.
Too much of them stings.

5
Our tangled hands are dry
but they hold a slippery love,
Too fragile to last. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 

Ya lo sé, ya lo sé, he agotado el tema, pero me da igual. Más poemas sobre manos.

La tendencia natural del poeta es reescribir, reeditar. My tendencia es editar los ciclos y el orden de los poemás más que sus palabras: ¡los haikus andan bastante cortos de palabras, y cambiar una palabra es cambiar el poema entero! Casi todos mis ciclos de haikus son resultado de reciclar y agrupar poemas que en principio eran independientes, y eso es lo que pasa con éste. Antes se llamaba "Cuatro Amantes, Cuatro Manos" y eran cuatro viñetitas totalmente independientes. Pero más adelante, escribí (no: la vida escribió para mí) un haiku triste en el que salían manos, así que lo añadí al ciclo y cambié el orden para que los cinco contaran una historia.

Para los que quieran cotilleo, la inspiración de las estrofas primera y cuarta fueron perfectos desconocidos. La segunda es cómo creo que se sentía alguien por mí (las manos son mías). La tercera y la quinta son autobiográficas. 

 

Nata en mi café
Plata en sus manos.
¿Quién le habrá regalado todos esos anillos?

Miro tu muñeca.
Venas rosas, piel transparente.
Un mapa de carreteras del  amor.

Un sentimiento antiguo, renovado.
Manos firmes sobre mi espalda.
Todo es posible.

Cinco rayos de luz brillan,
Tus dedos sobre mi piel de nata.
En exceso, queman.

Nuestras manos secas
sostienen un amor resbaladizo,
demasiado frágil para durar.

 

16/08/2006 07:24 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

16/07/2006

A poem for the weekend

Creo que este microcuento en verso libre sería mejor si tuviera menos sílabas, si pudiera encajarlo en la estructura del tanka. Pero así se va a quedar. 

Bares. Ginebra.
Alguien comparte conmigo
un poco de tiempo y saliva.
A la vuelta,
Lo mejor de la noche:
Un búho blanco,
Posado sobre un ceda el paso.

 ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

This microstory in free verse would probably improve if I managed to twist it into Tanka shape. But this is the way it's going to stay.  

Bars. Gin.
Someone to share with me
A little time and saliva.
On the way back home,
the highlight of the evening:
a white owl,
perched on a traffic sign.

16/07/2006 16:51 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

30/06/2006

Obsessive

Esa sonrisa.
Esa sonrisa tuya.
Esa sonrisa.

Alan Spence tiene un haiku que dice:

Cae la lluvia
Cae la lluvia
Cae la lluvia.

Yo quería hacer algo así de obsesivo y repetitivo desde que leí el de Spence, y de eso hace tres años. Por fin salió. A lo mejor es que tenía que encontrar la sonrisa adecuada.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

That smile.
That smile of yours.
That smile.

Alan Spence has a haiku that goes:

The sound of the rain
The sound of the rain
The sound of the rain

And I wanted to write something as repetitive and obsessive as it since I read it, three years ago. It came out of my head at last. Maybe I had to meet the right smile.

30/06/2006 16:21 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

26/06/2006

Dance haiku

Pure living skin
Zuel is shimmying
The desert longs for him.

Zuel is an oriental dancer based here in Sevilla, and occasionally, my teacher.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Pura piel viva.
Zuel está vibrando.
El desierto lo añora.

Zuel es bailarín de danza oriental aquí en Sevilla, y a veces, mi profesor. 

 

26/06/2006 23:54 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

19/06/2006

List poem (an homage to Sei Shonagon)

I once told you about list poems ; they're easy to write but it's hard to make a good one. Sei Shonagon, queen of the list poem, had a list of things that improve on a painting; this is a little homage to her.

Things that look good on a photograph.

Other people on the act of taking a photograph.
Babies.
Tattoos.
Flowers, especially if their colours are bright.
The ground through shallow water.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Una vez puse un post sobre poemas en forma de lista; esa clase de poema es fácil de escribir, pero es difícil que queden muy bien. Sei Shonagon, la reina del poema-lista, escribió entre otras la lista de cosas que mejoran cuando se pintan (en un cuadro). Y este es un pequeñísimo homenaje a esta autora, más un boceto que un verdadero poema.

Cosas que quedan muy bien en foto.

Otras personas en el momento en que hacen una foto.
Bebés.
Tatuajes.
Flores, sobre todo si son de colores brillantes.
El fondo, bajo la superficie de agua poco profunda.

19/06/2006 14:54 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry Hay 1 comentario.

03/06/2006

Hmmmmm, yummy

This was inspired by an actual woman I am not attracted to (at least, not sexually). My dance teacher does have the tattoo I describe, and she brought some peaches to class the other day. I doubt she'll find her way here, and I'd be kind of embarrassed if she knew about this poem. 

The softest peach,
my love, and her tattoo
of spiky, thorny branches.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Este poema lo inspiró una mujer de verdad, pero por la que no me siento atraída (al menos, no sexualmente). Mi profesora de baile tiene ese tatuaje que describo, y el otro día nos trajo unos melocotones a la clase. Dudo que ella llegue hasta aquí, y la verdad es que si lo hiciera me daría un pelín de corte. 

Suave melocotón:
Mi amor, tatuada
de ramas espinosas.

03/06/2006 17:40 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

31/05/2006

Wishes

Compuse un haiku para regalárselo a Fanshawe y en vez de ponerlo aquí se lo mandé en una postal, porque él sacó el tema. Ahora que la postal ya le ha llegado puedo poner el haiku aquí sin estropear la sorpresa. Fue el último de un ataque de inspiración en el que salieron casi solos diez haikus en cinco días, más o menos. 

Lo que se pide.
Lo que se desea en silencio.
Lo que se obtiene.

I composed a haiku for Fanshawe and instead of posting it here I sent it to him in real-world mail because his post on postcards inspired me. Now that I'm sure the letter reached him I can post it here. It's the last of a ten-haikus-in-five days frenzy I had earlier this month.

What we ask for.
What we silently desire.
What we're given.  

31/05/2006 08:20 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

24/05/2006

Barthes, e.e.cummings, a lover and a redhead

Mis palabras te tocan,
hablo,
hablamos,
y mis palabras se enredan entre tus dedos.
No sé qué tienes que me hace hablar.
No sé qué haces que me tiene presa.
Es algo rojo y suave,
frágil,
es algo que cambia cuando lo describo
(si hablarte es tocarte,
si mis dedos te tocan, te cuentan un cuento)

My words touch you,
I talk,
we’re talking,
and my words get tangled between your fingers.
I don’t know what you have that makes me talk.
I don’t know what you make that has me enthralled.
It’s something red and soft,
fragile,
it’s something that changes as I describe it.
(if talking to you is touching you,
when my fingers touch you they tell you a story).

This poem should be in the archives but it has vanished for some reason. It's probably the densest collection of allusions I've ever managed. Most of them are too small or obscure to be noticeable.

24/05/2006 10:49 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

17/05/2006

More mothers (a tanka)

Maruja, this is the poem I told you about yesterday. The one that steals from you the word "ajedrez". It was a question of syllable count, nothing personal (and I know your living room does have books).

Tankas are a type of poem, historically earlier than the haiku, with a syllable count 5-7-5-7-7. I have composed a handful of those.They're easier than haikus but it's necessary to consider very carefully if you really, trully need the two extra lines. 

Madre moderna:
un colegio bilingüe,
ajedrez, tenis.
En el salón sin libros,
colección de bonsais. 

A modern mother:
Bilingual education,
chess, sports and ballet.
In the book-less living-room,
a collection of bonsais.

 

17/05/2006 11:29 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

16/05/2006

Mothers to the rescue!

I have the feeling that something's connecting a certain Poet and me.

Last night I had to chase a blackbird out of my living-room. The stupid thing wouldn't leave the room: chased towards a door it would perch on top of furniture. This went on for about half an hour, until I could let a piece of cloth fall on it and I left it outside in the garden.

This morning I could hear an extremely loud chirping. Not a song. Eek-eek. It was very obvious that it was a baby blackbird saying it was hungry: that was why last night's bird wouldn't go. She couldn't leave her baby behind. It took a long search to find the wee one hidden behind a pile of books. Two thirds grown, all the adult feathers on the wings but not yet on the body. It was very easy to wrap it on the same cloth and throw it out on the quietest corner in the garden. A very black blackbird (a male, therefore) immediately flew to the center of the garden and sang very fast and very loud. In a matter of seconds, at least three birds had taken the baby with them, helping it into a bush so that it could hide. I didn't know that territorial animals could be so cooperative.

Classical haiku material.

Catorce madres:
Mirlas al rescate
del pollito caído.

Fourteen mothers:
blackbirds come to the rescue
of the fallen chick.

14/05/2006

a two-line haiku

I haven't written a two-line haiku in ages. Ages. I would really appreciate opinions on this one (I don't know if it's too flat and dry, rather than bleak as I want it to be). It is partly inspired in a love poem by Juliet Wilson.

Jamás pudimos compartir musa.
Ni cama tampoco.

We could never have shared a muse.
Or a bed, either.

 

09/05/2006

Banks and bars

The autobiographical bit: there is actually a bank in the place where a café used to be. But I have lovely memories attached to the place and I can't translate my sense of loss into a haiku. 

En tu bar favorito
el que yo odiaba
han abierto otro banco.

A new bank has opened
in your favourite bar,
the one I used to hate.

09/05/2006 23:05 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

04/05/2006

Pretty flowers

This baby probably is my most classically-themed poem.

Snowdrops on the ground,
White lilies on pots:
Will you live forty-two months?

Azahar en la rama,
camelia en un jarrón:
¿vais a vivir cuarenta y dos meses?

04/05/2006 12:56 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

29/04/2006

Work in progress

Edited to add Jose Angel 's suggestion. 

Frágil
Vulnerable
Delicado
Endeble
Desvalido
Débil

Qué asco de diccionario

Demasiados sinónimos para mi cobardía.

Vulnerable
Delicate
Weak
Brittle
Fragile
Feeble

Fucking Thesaurus

Too many synonyms for my cowardice.

29/04/2006 19:30 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry Hay 1 comentario.

21/04/2006

Horror Tanka

I was going to call this "fairy tale tanka" because I like my fairy tales bloody. But that doesn't sound right.

Cuando miras
Debajo de la cama
Y no hay un monstruo
Ten muchísimo cuidado
Mira bajo la almohada.

When you look under the bed
And there's no monster
With extreme care
look under the pillow
.

 

 

 

21/04/2006 19:38 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

19/04/2006

Let's say this again

I’m repeating a poem I only posted a month ago, I know. This little baby is, against my custom, sincere. It is maybe the first poem I ever write and don’t destroy in which I use the first person to talk about my own feelings. That’s why I didn’t like it at first and also why I thought it was cliché.

I don't like to give so much interpretation of my own poem, but in case anyone is reading me in it, I don't find this feeling a negative one. Not at all.  

Algo me falta;
Me siento como un ritmo
buscando melodía.

There’s something missing.
I feel I’m a rhythm
in search of a melody.

19/04/2006 15:23 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry Hay 1 comentario.

17/04/2006

Unfinished?

This might be part of a cycle, eventually; I don't know if it captures the mood of something loving and gentle but limited and unresolved.

Dos horas aquí.
Verte en esta burbuja
es viajar a un país exótico.

Here for two hours.
Meeting you in this bubble
Like travelling to distant lands.

17/04/2006 14:05 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

15/04/2006

Lust and Gluttony

Lujuria y gula.

Eres distinto del chocolate
porque ver chocolate no basta
pero no necesito de ti
más que saber que podrías ser mío.

Lust & Gluttony

You're not like chocolate at all
because it is never enough to see chocolate
but I need nothing of you
beyond the certainty you could be mine.


 

15/04/2006 19:56 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

14/04/2006

Little by little

For those of you interested in creative process gossip, this is absolutely autobiographical. The thing is, it is not my body that has been ill. Those of you that know me in the real world probably know what I'm talking about. It's inspired by a classical, Japanese one I'll post soon.

Convalecencia
con el cuerpo casi nuevo
poquito a poco.

Convalescence
With my body nearly new
Baby steps.

 

14/04/2006 15:12 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry Hay 1 comentario.

04/04/2006

Martial Arts.

This is dedicated to Maruja, even though she doesn't like poetry. Thanks for the tea and everything else.

Bang. Bang. Ipon.
No jewels like beads of sweat.
No music like a body against a mat.

Bang. Bang. Ipon.
Ninguna joya más hermosa que el sudor.
Ninguna música más hermosa que el impacto.

 

02/04/2006

Saidi haiku!

Saidi is my favourite dance rhythm. It belongs to Egyptian folk music and it is intrinsically happy. I think the rhythm of the Spanish version of this haiku is closer to it than the English one.

The world would be a much better place if more things happened to a Saidi beat.

dum-TAK, dum-dum TAK
A veces la Tierra gira
con ritmo Saidi.

dum TAK dum-dum TAK
sometimes the world can spin
to a Saidi beat.

02/04/2006 23:24 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

21/03/2006

Happy Spring

Today is the first day of spring, and International Poetry Day; this one is something I didn't know until today. The truly approppriate thing would be a poem on the beginning of spring, and there are thousands, my favourite being Alan Spence's

First warmth of spring
I feel as if
I have been asleep.

That one doesn't count because I have posted it loads of times. So I'm giving you one of mine instead, a bit of erotism to wish you happy spring loves.

The senses tanka.
In your slow caress,
your heartbeat makes my music.
Not just my eyes love
Your scent of salt, blood and sweat,
your pretty red chilli lips.

El tanka de los sentidos
En tu lenta caricia,
Los latidos de tu corazón son mi música.
No son sólo mis ojos los que aman
Tu olor a sangre, sudor y sal,
tus bonitos labios de chiles rojos.

 

21/03/2006 22:19 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

18/03/2006

Cliché?

Algo me falta;
Me siento como un ritmo
buscando melodía.

There's something missing.
I feel I'm a rhythm
in search of a melody.

 

18/03/2006 13:03 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

16/03/2006

The beginning of spring: the orange blossom tanka

The most visible consequence of global warming in this corner of the world is that orange trees are in bloom a month too early.

Such simple beauty,
orange blossom, perfect scent.
Your flavour’s subtle.
What a miracle it would be
to hear you sing!

Belleza simple,
azahar, perfecto aroma.
Tu sabor, sutil.
¡Qué milagro sería
que nos pudieras cantar!

 

16/03/2006 14:20 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

04/03/2006

Mourning

I'm a bit sorry to have said so loud and so recently that all poets are thieves and liars, including me. It screeches next to what I'm going to say next.

I composed this yesterday, because my grandfather, Zifra' s father, and my future, are all in the same place. With all my love to anyone who understands how this feels.

Agua somos.
En la Bahía de Cádiz,
Todas nuestras cenizas.

To water we return.
In the Bay of Cadiz,
Lie all our ashes.

 

 

04/03/2006 15:54 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

21/02/2006

Not meant to be taken seriously.

This one is not really supposed to be taken seriously. I think I have a handful of poems that I see as humorous,  or at least ironic, about love or rather erotism.

For those of you interested in the composition proccess, or just the gossipy bit, the whole poem is built around the first line. Someone said it to me in all seriousness, as a part of their seduction strategy. It didn't work, but I stole the line. I already told you that every poet is a thief and a liar and I'm no exception.

Primera impresión.

Con esos labios no puedes ser mala.
Esa cintura dice siempre la verdad.
Tienes caderas de buena persona.
Tus rizos son los más sinceros,
y tienes la piel más simpática.
Andas muy cariñosamente,
y es una lástima que no nos conozcamos.

First impressions

You can't be bad, with such lips.
Your waist always tells the truth.
You have kind, gentle hips.
Your curls are the most sincere,
and your skin, the friendliest I've seen.
It's a pity that we don't know each other.

21/02/2006 10:29 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

19/02/2006

a new one

Yesterday I did that poet thing that looks so terribly pretentious: At the meet of my town’s bloggers, as we were spreading over the sofas of a bar, I asked for a pen because I just needed to write down a poem. Yes, very exhibitionist of me... the poem involved a lot of tweaking and polishing, it wasn’t just a spark of sudden inspiration. Here it is.

Stiffness on my back.
Your warm hand hugs me
Three seconds longer than I expected.

Mi espalda, tensa.
Tu abrazo ha durado
tres segundos de más.

16/02/2006

Tiny and sentimental.

I live in the heat and the dust.
Will you change my endless summer
for your occasional spring?

 

 

16/02/2006 11:07 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

07/02/2006

the bridges, the bridges

Los siete puentes
abrazando la ciudad,
a todos nosotros.

Our seven bridges
Hugging the city,
hugging us all.

The mantra goes:
Alamillo, Barqueta, Chapina, Triana, San Telmo, Delicias, Quinto Centenario.
A harp, a leap, a ship, a dance, a park, a road, a tower.
To Gran’s, to bars, to walk, way back, to class, to park, and trucks.

I find it very frustrating that I cannot translate this one into Spanish.

07/02/2006 12:58 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

03/02/2006

Self-referential

This haiku is dedicated to Zifra , because I think he likes this sort of thing.

A haiku has three lines,
seventeen syllables,
and one idea.

Un haiku: tres versos,
diecisiete sílabas,
una idea.

20/01/2006

To Martyn Bennett, now immortal.

Wilson Pickett, the singer of soul classics like In The Midnight Hour, has just died. January 30th is the first anniversary of Martyn Bennett 's death. Wilson Pickett was the sort of artist whose work everyone knows, but whose name is only known by his few dedicated fans. Martyn Bennett, on the other hand, was too brilliant and original for his own good and never got the success he deserved.  I knew he was diagnosed with a nasty type of cancer in the year 2000, and I suspected he was depressed, and we had emailed occasionally in the three vyears or so before his death. I'm still mourning him in the same way other people mourn family members or "real" rock stars.

This is my only poem in free verse in which the English version came before the Spanish one. It mixes my own feelings for Martyn with my memory of having to study in the hospital on my grandfather’s last days: I had an oral exam the morning after his death, and I pretended to be strong about the whole thing for a few days. And I stole an idea here and there from Jeanette Winterson, who has a novel, Written on the Body, that you should go and read right now.

A hospital is not a library.
A needle’s not a pen.
We sit and wait as your blood is replaced by ghosts.
As I think of your inky hair,
Most beautiful when sweaty,
Long wet tendrils falling over us.
Ink.
Ink’s the key.
I used black ink to write poems about you,
As you mocked me (people use computers these days,
You know).
Your body is still waging war on itself,
And not
all
the
hospitals
in
the
world
will
HELP.

So,
I’ll write poems about you
until the future gives up and makes you immortal.

 

Un hospital no es una biblioteca.
Una aguja no es una pluma.
Nos sentamos a esperar mientras los fantasmas sustituyen tu sangre.
Y pienso en tu pelo entintado,
Precioso cuando sudabas,
Largos tirabuzones húmedos sobre los dos.
Tinta.
La tinta es la clave.
Tinta china para componer poemas sobre ti,
Y te burlabas (eso se puede hacer a ordenador,
Por si no lo sabías)
Tu cuerpo sufre un golpe de estado,
Y
ningún
hospital
del
mundo
entero
va
a
enviar
AYUDA.
Por eso,
voy a escribir poemas sobre ti
hasta que el futuro se rinda y te haga inmortal.

20/01/2006 18:34 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

13/01/2006

The Chello

After fooling around for a week with the idea, I'm not sure this catches the sensuality of the situation. The Spanish version comes first because it is the original one.

Los hombros de la violonchelista,
Curvas blancas.
No recuerdo la música.

The chellist's shoulders,
White curves.
I don't remember the music.

 

 

13/01/2006 17:00 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry Hay 1 comentario.

09/01/2006

Surreal haiku

Y tu mirá
se me clava en los ojos
como la voz de Lole.

No os preocupéis, no me he vuelto Neosurrealista de repente (al menos eso espero). Este haiku no se puede adaptar de verdad al inglés porque está demasiado relacionado con la cultura española. ¿cómo le explico a un extranjero quién es Lole?

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

And your gaze
pierces my eyes
like Lole’s voice.

Don’t worry, I haven’t suddenly become a Neosurreal poet (I hope and pray). This haiku cannot be properly adapted into English because it is too culturally bound. Lole was a flamenco singer, popular when I was a wee child, and her most famous song said “And your gaze pierces my eyes like a sword”. A normal way of saying “stare” in Spanish is “to stab/pierce with your eyes” so the image is not as absurd and violent as you think.

09/01/2006 10:32 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

02/01/2006

A list poem

In Spain, Christmas gifts are traditionally given on January 6th. The Three Wise Men, not Santa Claus, bring them. Some time ago I  spoke about list poems; they are a good way of writing poetry when you think you can’t write, for lack of inspiration or anything else. The previous entry is a list poem I like a lot. This is my Christmas 2005-06 letter to the Three Wise Men.

Secret Wish List

A pink car.
Pink hair, extensions, a beauty salon voucher
including manicure.
Jeff Buckley’s second studio album*
and tickets to a Martyn Bennet concert*.
A plane ticket to Glasgow.
Or maybe New york instead.
No, to Glasgow.
Inspiration to finish everything I’ve started writing.
A Powerbook.
An ipod, with every single audiobook by Neil Gaiman,
and read by Ian McKellen.
A nicer accent when I speak in English.
Lots of rain,
and one thunderstorm.

 

* That might be hard, as they’re both dead.

02/01/2006 18:36 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry Hay 1 comentario.

20/12/2005

Latest poem

I think this melancholic little thing still counts as haiku, even though it has four lines.

So free.
Not a poem in weeks.
Not a lover in months.
So empty.

Qué libre.
Semanas sin componer.
Meses sin un amante.
Qué vacío.

 For those of you who cares about the biographical, gossipy bit, I have many poem beginnings around the idea of how long ago I last wrote something I found satisfying. Those little poem seeds rarely grow into real poems. Everything in this one was written around the second line.

 

20/12/2005 10:59 Autor: Eugenia Andino. Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

21/11/2005

Sunday Haiku (one day late)

This haiku is dedicated to my friend Suzanne Guthrie. The Spanish version is the original, and the English one the translation.

Café fuerte.
Pies en alto.
Suplemento dominical.

Strong coffee.
Putting feet up.
Sunday papers.

21/11/2005 09:27 Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

16/11/2005

Latest haiku

En la pantalla,
tu piel de pixels,
inalcanzable.

On the screen,
Your skin, made of pixels,
out of my reach.

I'm feeling more and more comfortable about composing haiku in Spanish, even though up to a couple years ago I thought that it was impossible to twist my native language into haiku shape.  



 

16/11/2005 12:31 Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry Hay 1 comentario.

08/11/2005

Birds

I love birds,  especially urban ones.

This entry is dedicated to Luc , for cheering me up.

Birds for all seasons

Spring
Hush, it’s a concert:
The blackbird will sing
For those who don’t know his name!

Summer
Swallows flying high.
Summer trickles down my back.
No one cools me down.

Autumn
Hundreds of sparrows!
Dead ashes floating
in the evening’s burning sky.

Winter
Snow melts in the air.
Under her coat, she shivers.
Seagulls around us.

Pájaros para las cuatro estaciones.

Primavera
Sshh, es un concierto:
¡El mirlo va a cantar
para todos los que no saben su nombre!

Verano
Las golondrinas vuelan alto.
El verano me gotea espalda abajo.
Nadie me relaja.

Otoño
¡Cientos de golondrinas!
Cenizas muertas que flotan
En el cielo en llamas de la tarde.

Invierno
La nieve se funde en el aire.
Bajo su abrigo, ella tirita.
Gaviotas a nuestro alrededor.

04/11/2005

List Poems

Different cultures have different types of list poems. I have seen long series of verses, free verse, and even sonnets that were simply lists. The easiest list-poem is the imitation of Sei Shonagon’s lists: Sei Shonagon was a lady at the court of a Japanese emperor, and she wrote short sketches of court life, together with lists. For example,  “Things that always seem to be dirty”; “things that look better on a painting”. I have a few of those, and this is the only one that’s not erotic. It's not realy a poem, more like the seed of one.

Cosas que me causan una profunda sensación de nostalgia:
Que un hombre que conozco de toda la vida se afeite. De repente su piel tiene el mismo tacto que hace quince años.
Un parque con hiedra y helechos en vez de césped.
El rock español de los 80.
Un día gris, muy gris, sobre todo si no hace frío.

Things that make me feel very nostalgic:
A man that I have known all my life when he shaves. Suddenly his skin feels like it did fifteen years ago.
A park with ivy or ferns instead of grass.
Spanish rock music from the eighties.
A very grey day, especially if it’s not cold.
04/11/2005 16:22 Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

13/10/2005

Saudade

Saudade is a Portuguese term which means, roughly, "homesickness of what never was; longing for what never will be". I find it very fitting because it's odd to say that I'm homesick of places that were never home.

The first haiku is Alan Spence's. The second is mine. It's a work in progress, I'm not completely happy with the rhythm nor with the Spanish translation. It's a true anecdote, and I composed it while stuck in a traffic jam.

400 miles from my friends
the apples they gave me
for the journey

A 500 kilómetros de mis amigos,
las manzanas que me dieron
para el viaje.


Morning e-mail!
Photos of red leaves
from an American friend.

El e-mail de hoy:
fotos de hojas rojas
de un amigo americano.
13/10/2005 16:51 Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

06/10/2005

Three years later.

I rescued a feeling from three years ago to compose this one. Writing haiku in Spanish is becoming easier and easier; I cannot judge if they are better than the ones in English, if the rhythm is bad, if the syllabic count is less correct. I used to think that haiku in Spanish would be bad, flat poetry because the language and the form are simply incompatible. Maybe when I said that I wanted my poems to follow too many rules.

Sigo buscando.
Al fondo de tus ojos,
sólo hay tristeza.

I keep on searching
deep into your eyes,
there’s only sadness.


·
06/10/2005 19:44 Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry Hay 1 comentario.

30/09/2005

Los Planetas and haikus

Los Planetas are a Spanish rock band. The singer is awful, he has the worst nasal voice in the universe, and he can’t vocalise. The music is stolen from older, better bands and the lyrics are often bad and vague. But I still like Los Planetas. Corrientes circulares en el tiempo, “Circular time currents” is yet another song of hate and need for a woman who has abandoned the singer. These guys have filled all quotas of break-up songs, seriously. I don’t have enough hate haiku, so I’m stealing their ideas to compensate for so many poems about hands and clouds and pretty things.

Es mi venganza:
Tu mente espiral,
Girando a mi alrededor.

I want this revenge:
Your spiral mind
Spinning around me.
30/09/2005 19:07 Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

15/09/2005

Happy (late) birthday, Zifra

Zifra gave me that cute little button on the sidebar that takes you to my other blog, the one about belly dance. And it was his birthday on Tuesday, so I told him I would give him a poem as a bithday gift. Considering what I know about him, a poem that hints atheism on the author might be to his taste.

Technical nota: this is a Ghazal. It is a Persian-then-Arabic form with a series of 6 to 12 couplets. Lines 1 and 2, and all even lines, end with the same word. Lines should all be the same lenght. The author must mention herself (either by name, "Nia says, Nia does", or in the first person). Everything else can be nearly free. Scroll down for the English version.

Luz refractada da color al cielo.
Del negro al rosa, misterioso cielo.

Demasiada luz roba las estrellas,
Las ciudades se han quedado sin cielo.

Posponer los problemas tomando el sol,
Prohibida la pena si está azul el cielo.

Gris plomo de nieve, gris claro de lluvia:
No hay otro destino escrito en el cielo.

Si existe un Dios, nos mira desde lejos.
No es un consuelo imaginar el cielo.

El granjero no ve ninguna nube.
A sus plantas secas las mata el cielo.

El exiliado ve las constelaciones.
Alumbran su casa desde otro cielo.

Los aviones vuelan de aquí al futuro.
Yo no los alcanzo, mirando al cielo.


Refracted light gives its colour to the sky.
Black down to pink, mysterious sky.

Too much light steals the stars.
Cities have lost their sky.

Put off your problems and sunbathe.
Banish all sorrow if there is blue in the sky.

Dark grey for snow, light grey for rain:
Don’t read any other destinies from the sky.

If there is a God, He’s so far away.
No comfort from an old man in the sky.

The farmer looks in vain for a cloud.
His dry plants are killed by the sky.

Exiles gaze at the constellations.
They light up his home on a different sky.

Airplanes fly from here to the future.
I cannot reach them as I stare at the sky.
15/09/2005 23:56 Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

14/09/2005

Hate song for a lazy Muse

A lazy poem about a lazy Muse for a lazy day. And I have a dance lesson this evening! All I want to do is go back to bed. It's all Zifra's fault.

The Muse is on holidays,
The Muse is on sabbatical,
The Muse is on sick leave.
The Muse is on strike.
The Muse is uncooperative,
The Muse went AWOL,
The Muse went out for a packet of cigarettes,
The Muse is scared of commitment.
The Muse left me for the Next Big Thing,
Who dares saying all poets are thieves and liars?
From the muse we learn to be so.

La Musa se fue de vacaciones,
La Musa se ha cogido un año sabático,
La Musa se dio de baja.
La Musa está en huelga.
La Musa no quiere cooperar,
La Musa está desaparecida en combate,
La Musa se fue a por tabaco,
La Musa tiene miedo al compromiso.
La Musa me ha dejado por otro.
¿Quién tiene el valor de decir que los poetas somos ladrones y mentirosos?
De la Musa aprendemos a ser así.
14/09/2005 14:06 Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

08/09/2005

Intertextuality

I haven't given you haikus in weeks, so here's a handful.

Intertextuality is the technical name to refer to quotes and allusions from one work of art in another. The texts don’t need to be written down: for example, Boticelli’s Birth of Venus is inspired by Ovid, and movies copy each other all the time. Every poet is a thief, me included, and sometimes I steal bits that I like from other writers. These are most of my poems that contain a quote straight out of someone else’s work. Naturally, almost all my poems are inspired by someone else's; these are only the ones with textual quotes.

The autobiographical bit: I wrote “Stirring memory and desire” and “Don’t give in without a fight” because those lines had seven syllables each, something unusual in either Spanish or English poetry. “Giving up laughter” came out of my fascination with Old English’s capacity to create compounds: “morning-ceald” expressed effectively something that I can only say with a clumsy phrase like “as cold as the morning”, and it doesn’t even refer to cold: in the original context it means “with a desperation and sadness as bleak as the cold of the early morning”. And the gorgeous understatement: “giving up laughter” in its original context didn’t mean “the end of happiness”, it meant death! Less is more. Then I wrote the graffiti one because the Chapina Bridge area is one of my favourite places in Seville and I like to see the kids skating in the park that’s covered in graffiti. Finally, “How can we know the dancer from the dance” was born after two years trying to finish a cycle about going out dancing on weekends, what is now The Friday Cycle, together with my intention of writing a poem about dancing for somebody else to see.

Beowulf.
“Giving up laughter”,
river-misty, “morning-cold”,
Monday begins.

“Poniendo fin a la risa”,
Como río neblinoso, “mañana fría”,
empieza el lunes.


Wiliam Butler Yeats.
“How can we know the dancer from the dance?”
Do I dance better if you watch?

¿Cómo distinguir el baile de la bailarina?
¿Bailo mejor cuando me miras?


T. S. Eliot.
Tenderness has died.
Two fierce young bodies,
“Stirring memory and desire”

La ternura ha muerto.
Dos cuerpos jóvenes y feroces,
“Removiendo el recuerdo y el deseo”


Pink Floyd.
Leaf clings to the tree,
Chill autumn.
“Don’t give in without a fight”

Una hoja se aferra a la rama.
Otoño helado.
“No te rindas sin oponer resistencia”.


Graffiti anónimo en el puente de Chapina /Anonymous graffiti on Chapina Bridge.
“Presos del suelo”,
Me envidian si patino.
¡Mira cómo vuelo!

“Prisoners of the ground”
they envy me when I skate.
Watch me fly!
08/09/2005 20:01 Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

02/09/2005

Lyrical Neosurrealism (again)

Lyrical Neosurrealism is the predominant style for the current generation of Spanish young poets. In Spanish I call it "Neosurrealismo inimista"; "intimista" is a very hard word to translate because the intimacy it refers to has nothing to do with sexual intimacy, so "lyrical" it will have to be. The label is mine and I doubt it will ever catch on, because these poets like to consider themselves very new, very post-everything. Elusive Poet agrees with me, though, in the definition.

I don't have anything particular against the style apart from the fact that it is a default mode: as I have said before, a whole generation of people want to be fresh and original and at the same time sincere, and they all end up as photocopies of Lorca and Pedro Salinas (and in terminal cases, Bécquer, bleh).

Since this style is everywhere, and I adore its wonderfully rich early-20th-century sources, I have used it occasionally. This is my first piece of creative writing ever; early spring, 2000. A professor asked us to do an experiment with automatic writing, that is, writing the first thing that comes to mind, or rather, writing without thinking. The Surrealists liked that.

I never forgot the piece; later, I wrote it down in several slightly different versions. A couple of phrases, and the person I was talking about, belong to my teens. Later on, I have come to despise any writing that is confessional, intimate, or with a strong look of having been improvised, but the first poem is like the first love, isn’t it?

The original is Spanish; scroll down for the English version.

Tengo frío. El frío me sale de dentro cuando Ángel me mira. Cuando está con las demás, Ángel se ríe, pero conmigo no, cuando está conmigo me hace preguntas, o quizá son preguntas que yo oigo aunque él no las haga, y las contesto y hablo sin parar hasta que las palabras sólidas que salen de mis labios forman una cadena, una espiral alrededor de mis caderas, con púas que me obligan a seguir hablando.
Los ojos de Ángel son telarañas pegajosas que me enredan, y yo lucho, pero no sirve de nada, estoy atrapada y siento cómo me observa, soy su presa. Los ojos de Ángel son espejos de mercurio resbaladizo. Me gustaría entrar en ese lago de mercurio gris venenoso, ahogarme, y poder olvidar este frío.
Pero a Ángel le gusta que yo pase frío.

I´m cold. I feel cold comes from the inside out when Angel looks at me. When he’s with the other girls, Angel laughs, but not with me, when he’s with me he asks me questions, or maybe those are questions that I hear even if he doesn’t ask them, and I answer them and talk incessantly until the solid words that come out of my mouth make a chain, a spiral around my hips, with thorns that force me to keep on talking.

Angel’s eyes are sticky spiderwebs that tangle me, and I struggle, but it’s useless, I’m trapped and I feel ho he stares at me. I’m his prey. Angel’s eyes are mirror of slippery mercury. I would like to walk into that lake of poison, drown and forget this cold.

But Angel likes me to be cold.
02/09/2005 14:08 Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry Hay 1 comentario.

25/08/2005

Free sex!

One of my favourite bloggers (the link is in Spanish) is being naughty; he mentions anal sex in a blog entry just to say that he isn't going to be around much in the next few days. A bit of search engine magic later, he will have masses of people visiting his blog. Not that he needs them, but anyway. I discovered the power of porn words when I did a merciless review of Inga Muscio's Cunt and my readers tripled in a few days.

Well, now that I have lured you here with promises of free sex, porn and dirty words I'll give you something to read. This is one of my earliest poems; I had it printed on a red tank top and whenI'm at home, in Spain, no one realy notices what it says even though it is bilingual. A few weeks ago, when I was still living in the States, I wore it often and it made my male friends giggle.

I chew the brightness of pain with pleasure.
My body is full of you now.

Mastico la luminosidad del dolor con placer.
Ahora mi cuerpo está lleno de ti.
25/08/2005 20:04 Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

22/08/2005

A cold poem for a lovely summer day

Snowflakes on your eyelashes.
Precious, wet diamonds.
Not at all like tears.

Copos de nieve en tus ojos.
Diamantes húmedos,
En nada se parecen a lágrimas.


Excusatio non petita, inculpatio manifesta is Latin for “Unasked apology, evident self-accusation”. I have a few poems or stories that are ironic because they work on that principle: if you need to say you are not in love, hey, I never asked you. I'm too deep inside this one to judge if I was successful, but the intention here was to show that the speaker is trying to ignore the pain of the person with snowy eyes.
22/08/2005 12:47 Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

09/08/2005

Poems for Martin

Specially for Martin, a poem out of the Glasgow Cycle, another one from Birds for all Seasons and another one from the Song for a River North to South. I will post the first two cycles sometime soon.

Sun coming through my eyelids,
Glaswegian kiss
As I lie on the grass.

El sol me atraviesa los párpados,
beso en Glasgow
tumbada en la hierba.


Swallows flying high.
Summer trickles down my back.
No one cools me down.

Las golondrinas vuelan alto.
El verano me gotea espalda abajo.
Nadie me relaja.


Los siete puentes
abrazando la ciudad,
a todos nosotros.

Our seven bridges
Hugging the city,
hugging us all.
09/08/2005 17:52 Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

02/08/2005

Jacaranda

Swaying in the breeze,
Feather-leaved jacaranda:
it dreams it’s a bird.

La jacaranda de hojas plumosas
se mece en la brisa:
sueña que es un pájaro.
02/08/2005 16:08 Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

25/07/2005

A new haiku

It is a relief that after one week at home, shuffling my books and reading half a page out of at least ten or fifteen of them in five days, I’ve composed my first back-home poem.

Hojas caídas,
se parecen a lápidas.
La acera llora.

The fallen leaves,
resembling tombstones.
the sidewalk weeps.


It is my first haiku in three months! It wasn’t a real, scary writer’s block, only the need to be in familiar surroundings so that I could process a feeling that had been sitting there for very long.

For anybody interested in the gossipy, autobiographical bit: I’m thinking of dull brown autumn leaves in Seville, not bright red Ithacan leaves. The tombstones are the ones in St Machar’s Cathedral in Aberdeen (North Campus), whose grounds weren’t very well kept. The feeling is not simply sadness, but mourning.
25/07/2005 11:43 Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

15/07/2005

the Ginkgo Tanka

Ginkgoes are beautiful trees. I love them since I was surprised by one in Aberdeen’s botanical gardens. They have perfectly elegant leaves, but the branches grow anarchically. A lot like free verse.

There are many ginkgoes in Collegetown and in the Cornell campus. There is also one in my garden at home, in Spain.

And this is dedicated to Stephanie; thank you for a beautiful day.

Along my streets,
The ginkgoes spread their branches.
They greet me, my friends,
Elegant ladies with fans.
Children throwing arms for hugs.

En estas calles mías
los ginkgos extienden sus ramas.
me saludan, estos amigos míos,
elegantes damas con abanicos,
niños que quieren abrazos.
15/07/2005 04:47 Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

13/07/2005

I google love.

No, it's not "I love Google". It's I google love. Let's sing the praises of Google, and its glorious incorporation into postmodern love.

Tien Tran from Cornell's MFA program in Creative Writing wrote this tiny beauty last autumn:

So I googled you.
I'm not obsessed I swear.

And a bit more than a year ago, I wrote:

Feeling fresh and new.
She thought she'd never need him.
Now she googles his name.

Un sentimiento nuevo.
Ella pensó que nunca lo necesitaría.
Y ahora busca en Google el nombre de él


No, it's not autobiographical. I've no idea if Tien's poem is or not, and I don't care. The point is not whether Tien or I are stalkers, but the fact that we could be if we wanted to, and also, that two poets with drastically different cultural backgrounds wrote such similar poems.

Google is here to change the way we deal with the end of any relationship. No ex-lover will ever be really, truly, definitely over and gone, because you know that if you wanted, you could just google for him (or her). And they never have to know about it, which is the best part.

Confess. You are dying to google someone's name right now. Go ahead.
13/07/2005 16:58 Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

12/07/2005

Shakespeare, Sonnet 130 as haiku.

Mi amor, tan bella,
No está hecha de versos.
Es imperfecta.

My lovely lady
Is not made out of verses.
And she’s not perfect.

The Spanish version goes first, because I composed it first. Exceptionally, both of them scan (if I’m maiming Shakespeare, I might as well do it with care).
12/07/2005 21:01 Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

11/07/2005

Desire and fulfilment

I chew the brightness of pain with pleasure.
My body is full of you now.

Mastico la luminosidad del dolor con placer.
Ahora mi cuerpo está lleno de ti.


It is easier to write about desire than about its opposite. Peace of mind. Fulfilment. Happiness. There is nothing left to say after “And they lived happily for ever after”.

The classic Japanese haiku comes from Zen thought, and much of it takes the absence of desire as a premise. Years ago, when I had just started to write poems, the Elusive Poet (*) recited to me from memory one that was something close to “I chew the brightness of plain boiled rice”. I forgot the author, but I liked the synaesthesia. "Chew" corresponds to one sense and brightness to another; outside poetry, feelings aren’t sweet and flavours aren’t bright: that is synaesthesia. I thought the image was very powerful so I stole it for a haiku about fulfilment of desire, rather than its absence.

(*) The Elusive Poet talks about the fact that he writes but he hardly ever shows his work to anyone, hence the nick.
11/07/2005 20:12 Link me // Enlace directo. Tema: My Poetry No hay comentarios. Comentar.

07/07/2005

Translation and adaptation, 9 and last.

No English translation this time, since the English original of these poems don't make sense as a history. You will find a paraphrase in English at the end.

Historia de un desamor en diez haikus:

Era un nadador,
Se convirtió en piraña.
Fue culpa mía.

La ternura ya ha muerto.
Cuerpos feroces,
Puro deseo.

Nieve y cielo azul.
Las rosas se han quemado.
No las cuidaste.

Venga, dímelo,
¿quién te regaló
todos esos anillos?

¿Me necesitas?
Sí, como el tigre;
Necesitas tu presa.

Eres Septiembre,
La lluvia tras el calor.
¡Qué traicionero!

Memoricé tus besos.
Flores fantasmas,
Jarrón vacío.

Beso a escondidas.
Cualquier hombre servía.
Yo lo negaba.

El mundo gira.
El centro hierve.
Y yo soy fría.

Si te recuerdo,
mi voz es tan cortante,
que me hace sangrar.

It's all the woman's voice or point of view. Guilt, loveless sex, four reproaches to the man, longing after it's definitely over, promiscuit