NaPoMo Day 28 Translation

L’accent grave*
Jacques Prévert
from Paroles
French version here

The teacher
Hamlet!

Hamlet (jumping up)
Huh…what…sorry…what happened…what is it…what’s up?...


The teacher (annoyed)
Can’t you say “present” like everyone else? It’s not possible, you are still in the clouds.


Hamlet
To be or not to be in the clouds!

The teacher
That’s enough. Not so many ways. And conjugate the verb to be, like everyone else, it’s all I’m asking.

Hamlet
Être…

The teacher
In English, please, like everyone else.


Hamlet
OK, Mr. (He conjugates:)
I am or I am not
You are or you are not
He is or he is not
We are or we are not…

Teacher
(excessively annoyed)
But it’s you who is not there, my poor friend!

Hamlet
That’s it, Mr. Teacher,
I am “where”** I’m not
And, in the end, huh, at the reflection, to be “where” not to be
That might also be the question.

*This is an accent in French, like this: où. If you translate the words literally it means ‘the grave accent.’ Take that as you will, and see the next note to get why Prévert chose it as the title.
** ‘Ou’ means or but ‘où’ means where. So this one is intentionally a double entendre, but it doesn’t translate that way in English.

NaPoMo Day 27 Poem

Photo from Black & WTF Photos:
Prompt courtesy Rach: Write a poem about prom night: While the seniors dance at Prom Night in Some Small Town, Middle America--a town of about 3,000—a tornado hits the town, destroying about a third of it. When the kids emerge from the dance, they discover what's happened.

We the survivors of prom night
didn’t feel our town crush, old receipt to the tornado’s
cracked fist. We thought the ceiling rained glitter
on our hair. Our town is small, but enough of us
in this sweating gymnasium and we can repopulate.
We’re not thinking of this as the guitarist riffs
something from the 70s, safe for our chaperones,
something that makes our backs bend, brings us closer
to the floor and to each other. Prom ends like it always
ends, desperate embraces like this is our last night.
Like we have survived a disaster. And then we realize
we have survived a disaster. We have lost our limos
to the spin. We have lost our stop signs our diner our cherry
blossoms. We do not panic, try to find home, get lost. Funny
how the landmarks guided us before. We see our house
has been scattered. In the middle of the yard, a small table
with our black cat on it. We find a pile of homethings: sewing
kit, dreamcatcher, energy saving light bulbs. How does a tornado
decide what it can do without? We scatter playing cards across
the ground. We meet a skeleton. We ask, who were you?
He can’t talk, but he breathes notes from the ribs
of that horn. A melody we don’t want to hear.
We plug our ears with bulbs.

NaPoMo Day 27 Translation

I've seen several
Jacques Prévert
from Paroles
French version here

I saw one who was sitting on the hat
of another
he was pale
he trembled
he was waiting for something…doesn’t matter what
the war…the end of the world…
it was absolutely impossible for him to make a move or talk
and the other
the other who was looking for “his” hat was even paler
and he trembled also
and repeated himself nonstop
my hat…my hat
and he wanted to cry.
I saw one who read the newspapers
I saw one who saluted the flag
I saw one who was dressed in black
he had a watch
a watch chain
a wallet
the legion of honor
and a pince-nez
I saw one who led his child by the hand and shouted
I saw one with a dog
I saw one with a cane sword
I saw one who cried
I saw one who went into a church
I saw one who left it…

NaPoMo Day 26 Poem

Photo from Black & WTF Photos:

Central
At the center of the frame a man, taller than most, holds
hands with a short woman, and in his palm stands a miniature

man in a suit. At the center of a café at the center of a small
town the man in the palm thinks he is the center of everyone’s
world. But he’s in the right hand of the tall man which means

he’s a little to the left. The miniature thinks he is the tall man’s
right hand, but he’s just in it. The tall man at center is in a trench

coat and black top hat. His calves shift his weight, but he’s still
at the center of the short woman’s gaze. She’s his right hand

man. Her feet push pumps into the concrete,
which is at the center of two roads.

NaPoMo Day 26 Translation

The beautiful season
Jacques Prévert
from Paroles
French version here

Hungry* lost frozen
All alone without a dime
A sixteen year old girl
Standing still
Place de la Concorde
At noon the fifteenth of August

*Hungry is not really the right word here, but it's the closest thing we have in English to "a jeun," which means that someone has not yet eaten in the morning, after a long sleep.

NaPoMo Day 25 Poem

Photo from Black & WTF Photos:

Souvenir
We walk on the beach. The moon is shedding
orange light on the waves, in our pupils, across
the hulking clutch of the ferris wheel. You tell me
the science behind the harvest. We are dressed
in tangerine.

The moments only happen once. I know because
I had words like this tattoed on my shoulder
and side. You tell me about sediment transport
as I carve letters into a dune with a stick. I love
is a complete sentence. I don’t need a direct
object.

You know you know you know stories of men
who played music on trains, purple hearts
in the war, weird statues made of computer
parts, but you don’t know we don’t know
three years from now you will breathe
along my hips, half-dressed and still
curious, an orange peel on the ledge and tubas
blaring from the tracks.

NaPoMo Day 22-25 Translations

I'm rocking the poem a day challenge. I can feel it. My voice has really come into its own. I wish I could say the same for the translation a day challenge. But the more I try to translate poems, the more I realize I really can't at my level. The best I can promise is that I'll give you a general sense of the poem. I'm stoked to see how that will change as I keep learning more about this language.

Day 22
Where I’m going, where I’m from
Jacques Prévert
from La pluie et le beau temps
French version here

Where I’m going, where I’m from
Why I am soaked
Come on, you can see.
It’s raining.
The rain, it’s rain.
I’m going down, and then
And then that’s it.
Follow your path
Like I follow mine.
It’s for my pleasure
That I wallow in the mud.
The rain, it makes me laugh.
I laugh at everything and everything and everything.
If you cry easily
Go back home
Cry for yourself
But leave me
Leave me, leave me leave me, leave me.
I don’t want to hear the sound of your voice,
Follow your path
Like I follow mine.
The only man who I loved
it was you who killed him
Clubbed, trampled…
finished.
I saw his blood run
run into the creek
into the creek.
Follow your path
like I follow mine
The man who I loved
is dead, his head in the mud.
That I can hate you
hate you…it’s crazy…it’s crazy…it’s crazy
And you you wait on me,
you are too good for me,
way too good, believe me.

You are good…good like the rat keeper is good for the rat…
but one day…one day will come when the rat will bite you…
Follow your path,
good men…fine men.


Day 23
Memory
Jacques Prévert
from La pluie et le beau temps
French version here

Twenty years after one hundred years later
still the sordid musketeers
still the same swashbucklers
still the carriers of the banner
Child I saw an image
of men in black clothes with a green face
standing around a man named Ferrer
Oh poor living men
how you have tough adversaries
still the same without one change
oh unhappy executioners
similar to those before.


Day 24
Familiar
Jacques Prévert
from La pluie et le beau temps
French version here

The mother does the knitting
The son goes to war
She finds this all natural the mother
And the father what is he doing the father?
He does business
His wife the knitting
His son the war
He his business
Hi finds this all natural the father
And the son and the son
What does he find the son?
He doesn’t find anything absolutely nothing the son
The son his mother does the knitting his father his business he the war
When he has finished the war
He will do business with his father
The war goes on the mother goes on she knits
The father goes on he does his business
The son is killed he doesn’t go on anymore.
The father and the mother go to the cemetery
They find this all natural the father and the mother
Life continues life with knitting the war business
Business the war the knitting the war
Business business business
Life with the cemetery.

Day 25
At the florist's
Jacques Prévert
from La pluie et le beau temps
French version here


A man enters a florist's
and chooses flowers
the florist wraps the flowers
the man put his hand in his pocket
to get some money
money to pay for the flowers
but at the same time he puts
suddenly
his hand on his heart
and he falls

At the same time that he falls
the money rolls on the ground
and then the flowers fall
at the same time as the man
at the same time as the money
and the florist stays there
with the money that rolls
with the flowers that rot
with the man who dies
obviously all this is very sad
and she has to do something
the florist
but she doesn’t know how to take it
she doesn’t know
what to start with

There are so many things to do
with this man who died
and these flowers that rot
and this money
this money that rolls
that won’t stop rolling.

NaPoMo Day 24 Poem

Photo from Black & WTF Photos:

Another personal one. Not ready to share the whole thing, but here's an excerpt. Happy Easter!

Lady, there’s a lion in your lap
You and I know he is always going
to go for the feather in your hat. Paws
will dirty your skirts. You can keep
this lion, lady, but not on your lap.

NaPoMo Day 23 Poem

Photo from Black & WTF Photos:


April: thinking of rain
after Jane Kenyon
First, the slick drop on my window,
the mist through the screen. I remember
we had a bird in a cage. My brother and I
would set it outside as we ran around
the yard. Grass crunched, flowers bloomed.
Sometimes he would chase me with a toy
gun. Most days, I am the bird.
When it rains, I feel like the cage.

NaPoMo Day 22 Poem

Photo from Black & WTF Photos:

Nude woman talks to a skeleton
Skeleton you are
my friend. Look
what you have
achieved. Shed
muscle and sinew,
cartilage and skin,
until you’ve only
curves of rib, jaw,
spine. You did it
skeleton, but you
are rusted now,
because it is raining
and because you have
nothing on your
person. How silly
you would look
carrying an umbrella.
Skeleton, if you insist
on being only a
skeleton, I wish
you would wear
some clothes.

NaPoMo Day 21 Poem

Photo from Black & WTF Photos:

Amateurs
Here’s an elderly couple, upset with a boy for clapping
between thunder and lightning flash. It distracts the raven,
they say. It won’t bring the storm inside.

He knows they are crazy. Knew it since he saw them grasping
the wire fence at his game. He went with them for the thrill.

They do this on Sundays. Find someone willing to play, pay
if they must. Last week it was a hippie at the beach – dread
locks twisted beneath a paisley bandana – they posed him
with a tiger cub and plums shining on hooks.

The couple is not looking for a certain aesthetic. They want
only to capture something unique. A suited boy stroking
a raven, the antlers heavy on his head; a young mother
in a tutu licking grains of salt from between her fingers,

or most recently, themselves, spooning oatmeal at dinner,
mixing mixing until the berries swirl color in their bowls.

In their spoons, hummingbirds. In their cups, cotton. They still
can’t get the shot. So they wait for the image that rounds
their lips. The one that contracts their pupils.

NaPoMo Day 21 Translation

Clouds
Jacques Prévert
from La pluie et le beau temps
French version here

I went to get my wool from a young goat and it followed me
the gray
he is wary not like the older one
he is still too small

She was teeny tiny too
but something inside her already felt old like the world

Already
she knew of terrible things
for example
that she must be wary
and she looked at the kid and the kid looked at her
and she wants to cry
He is like me
she says
a little sad and a little giddy
And then she had a big smile
and the rain begins to fall

NaPoMo Day 20 Poem

Photo from Black & WTF Photos:

Prompt: List 10 facts that make today seem different than any other day. Craft these facts into a poem. The common thread between the facts is the title.

Creation
A friend paints sea creatures for a nursery
at my dining room table. Pressed against
muscle and bone, the hard point of her son.
She lets me touch the fold of him. We have
been crafting tonight. It is almost Easter.
A painted egg is staring at me from a crate,
and for once there is nothing in the background.
No glow of the plasma screen TV, no blurred
lyrics spreading over us from dusty speakers.
It was 84 degrees today, and the pizza man
made a vegetarian turnover. We discuss
creation. How she can’t know which features
she will give her children. She would like them
to match, the way the paint on these wooden
fish matches the walls. She has nightmares
they will not be uniform, that they will stack
like men in old photos. The tallest in the middle,
an average brother and very short brother
on his flanks, all in trench coats and top
hats. All holding canes. I tell her I’m sure
they will be beautiful. Their filmed smiles
will inspire poets. Chinese tea eggs simmer
in a pot. She asks me about my day as we breathe
the spiced air. I answer: a frenchman thought
my translation of a song was perfect and no ducks
approached me in the park.

NaPoMo Day 19 Poem

Photo from Black & WTF Photos:

Woman finds two kids on an old metal slide
They say three women make a market.
But how about one woman and two
goats? She has no idea what to do
with these kids. She knows she can
not use their milk, their bones, their
hides any more than she could pluck
the bigger from the top of that slide.
A goat atop a slide sees further than
a goat at the base. That’s why he trots
on the way down, hooves cautiously
kneading the metal beneath him at each
step. Does or bucks? She strives to find
a purpose for them. She lets those horizontal
slitted pupils follow her to a tree. If angled,
she has heard, the goats will climb it. Their bleats
ascend; the woman tilts to watch them sniff, lick
each groove in the bark. She is not surprised
when they return to her, nibble her buttons, her plaid
camera case, the soft summer of her hair.

NaPoMo Day 20 Translation

Love to the robot
Jacques Prévert
from La pluie et le beau temps
French version here

A man writes to the machine a love letter and the
machine responds to the man and to the hand and to the place
of the recipient
She is really a perfectionist this machine
the machine for washing checks and love letters
And the man in the comfort of his
machine for living reads to the machine for reading the response
of the machine
for writing
And in his machine for dreaming with his machine for calculating
he buys a machine for lovemaking
And in his machine for realizing he dreams he makes love
to the machine for writing and the machine for making love
And the machine cheats on him with a gadget
a gadget for dying of laughter.

NaPoMo Day 18 Poem

Photo from Black & WTF Photos:

Lonely woman shares tips for making the perfect men with a crowd
Mold the body from cotton and clay. Dress
him in a suit and tie. He is the base for your
little Frankensteins. Don’t forget the neck
is a seam. The idea is to hide the hem, to twist
off and exchange the heads with discretion.
See, the paper doll companies got it
all wrong. We want one body and we want
heads, unshrunken, beautiful heads. You can make
them from the body’s spare parts, weave the scraps
until they stare into you. Fill their skulls with tokens:
rusted coins for the negotiator, a mike for the vocalist.
Craft each head into what you’ve always wanted
to be. Remember, every woman should have
a repairman. The lover, the protector, if they matter
to you. I need them all, and more. Last piece of advice:
at night sleep with the body alone. It doesn’t need
a mind to hold you in its arms. Let the heads
watch you together from your dresser, if you like,
or hang them from the racks in your armoire. As long
as they can see. If you dare leave one attached,
it will think it is yours.

NaPoMo 2011 Day 17 Poem

Photo from Black & WTF Photos:

Husband and wife talk to a therapist about communication issues
The wife has glued her lips together and sewn
the skin of her husband’s neck to a 12 bolt
diving helmet. Fused his body hair to the fabric
of a scuba suit. She wants to know why they cannot
communicate.

The wife is terrified of water, of losing her husband
to the slick of it. Still, she refuses to loosen the stitch.
Instead she cuffs herself to his arm in the shower,
the pool, walking through the sprinklers, even when it rains.

She knows the ocean is the only place he does not suffer
from vertigo. She can see he is dizzied by cold anywhere
but the sea. Each time he grows a gill, she threads a needle.

NaPoMo 2011 Day 16 Poem

Photo from Black & WTF Photos:

Judges’ comments to the beauty pageant contestants
Women, eight of you, the sum
of your beautiful parts. 16 panty
hosed legs, 64 abdominal muscles
that sing of heated symmetry hidden
beneath the curves of your veldted
flesh. 640 strokes of a tiny paint
brush across 160 manicured nails.

Eight finalists, grazing the stage.
Eight lower lips, five widows
peaks. Eight pairs of pumps. Is eight
your lucky number, 13? Liberty rolls,
bobby pins, powder applied at the high
of your cheekbone and brushed
toward your temples.

Women, eight of you, the secret
is this: you can all win. Just fan
yourselves out, mount our table,
smother us
like the mangled
spider that you are.

NaPoMo 2011 Day 15 Poem

Oh. Em. Gee. It's my America poem. It's my rodeo poem. It's a New Jersey poem. I am beyond excited about this. I cannot wait to (heavily) revise this. I want to play with the details, and work the epigraph in more. Here's the first draft.



Photo from Black & WTF Photos:

The rodeo comes to Atlantic City’s Boardwalk Hall

It occurs to me that I am America.
I am talking to myself again.

It occurs to me that I am learning
America at the rodeo. The pleated
dismount of the clown
from the bleachers,
the glitter of the horse
trainer. Studs and spurs forever.

My daddy gave me this flag, this pistol
before he took me to see the cowboys
get bucked at Boardwalk Hall. A rodeo bag
with seven years of America crammed inside
hangs from my shoulders. My favorites: a baby
seal sticker. A half missing sheet of candy
buttons. Seeds from a Jersey tomato.

It occurs to me that this announcer
is America. She doesn't want to buck
tonight, he tells us. I’ve been doing this
for forty years, and I can tell you that cowboy
came here to buck and he’s gonna do it.

A cowboy from Bridgeton mounts
a bull. His daddy was a Mexican
fightin bull and he will hook your shorts,
my father tells me. The floor is sticky.
And they are cheering for the cowboys
and they are cheering for the animals.
This is the rodeo, this is how it has
always been. I am not meant to know.

NaPoMo Day 15-19 Translations

Catching up from camping weekend. These were done quick and dirty, so I'm sure there are plenty of errors/misunderstandings for you to sink your teeth into.

Day 15
The daughter of wind
Olivia Ruiz
from The Chocolate Woman
Video here

Yes, I have character
A wicked temperament
Which is credited to my mom
Of worry and of torment
It’s what I have in my arteries
My tannins and my pigments
Which make up the blood and the earth
Like lava from a volcano

I am the daughter of wind
Who crosses the mountains
I torment the passers-by
By stealing their clothes
I defy all the currents
All the greased stars
That pass while dreaming
In platinum and champagne

Yes, I have character
A wicked temperament
Which is credited to my mom
Of worry and of torment
It’s what I take from my father
The passion and enthusiasm
That \make the huts quake
And make the lovers hug

I am the daughter of wind
Who crosses the mountains
To assault the passers-by
The cities and the country
I am wary of convents
And the gods wearing cloth
For I carry in my blood
All the wounds of Spain

Yes I am complete
And I move forward
Without listening to my father
The warnings
It’s that I’m like my mom
I got it at birth
The glow of lightning
The force of wind

I who am his daughter
I carry madness
The beauties of Castile
Or of Andalusia
I hold to my family
That today I am
I tip my banderilles
Faced with dangers of life

For I have a temper
His damn character
Which makes me tell my father
That I am his white hair
That I am his white hair


Day 16
The right to look
Jacques Prévert
from La pluie et le beau temps
French version here

You
I do not look at you
My life doesn’t look at you either
I like what I like
and that alone looks at me
and sees me
I like what I like
I look at them
they give me the right


Day 17
The river
Jacques Prévert
from La pluie et le beau temps
French version here

Your young breasts glisten beneath the moon
But he threw
The frozen pebble
The cold stone of jealousy
On the reflection
Of your beauty
Which danced nude on the river
In the splendor of summer


Day 18
When…
Jacques Prévert
from La pluie et le beau temps
French version here

When the lion cub takes lunch
the lioness gets younger
When the fire claims its share
the earth blushes
When the dead speaks to him of love
Life trembles
When life talks to him of death
love smiles.

Day 19
Janine I
Camille
from Le Fil
Have a listen here

Why do you call me Janine
when my name is Therese?

Why do you call me Ardeche
when my name is Correze?

Why do you call me triangle
when my name is trapezoid?

Why do you call me Louis XV
when my name is Louis XVI?

Why do you call me rooster egg
when my name is omelet?

Why do you call me oboe
when my name is trumpet?

Why do you call me Don Juan
when I have a tiny prick?

Why do you call me cap
when my name is helmet?