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.
25 April, 2011
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.
21 April, 2011
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
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.
20 April, 2011
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.
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.
19 April, 2011
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.
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?
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?
18 April, 2011
NaPoMo 2011 Day 14 Poem
Photo from Black & WTF Photos:
Rentre dedans
There is an elephant in your
apartment. He is oblong,
he is taking more space
than he needs. His trunk
is sopping water from
a sink full of bubbles.
His tusk is prodding
me from between
the banister. You have
to move. But how are you going
to get this elephant in your car? Look,
since as long as he can remember,
this elephant has wanted to be
smaller, like a calf or large
pig, the kind of animal
who can fit in a tea cup
when he is born. You can
not stuff an elephant, not
this elephant, into your car.
Every wrinkle that does not fit
cuts him to the quick. The older
the car, the less likely the elephant
will want to ride in it. You try
everything. You sprinkle
peanuts on the seats, but
this is not enough to get him
in. It is still four walls and a roof.
15 April, 2011
NaPoMo Day 13 Poem
Photo from Black & WTF Photos:
Just so you all know, I am definitely revisiting this one. Just did NOT have the strength to write a real Snooki poem during catch-ups. Cinquains are enablers of cheating.
Love Song for Snooki
Some men
made a giant
pickle for Snooki. Soaked
in brine, jarred and frozen till half
her size.
Will you
take it, Nicole, this absurdist
portrait, curve into its
hollows? Do it
for them.
NaPoMo Day 12 Poem
Photo from Black & WTF Photos:
Watermelon Shame
The way my daddy slices you open,
sharp metal sawing the rind of you.
She is asking for it, he says. Look
at the way she blushes inside, seeds
choked with juice. See how the ants
can feel her opening, the beetles, watch
them dance toward her sugary flesh.
I do not want this slaughtered
sweetness, the swelling bright
of you weighing on my jaw,
my hands, sinking into my molars.
Drink, son, let her waters run
from your lips until they turn
red. She has been waiting.
14 April, 2011
NaPoMo 2011 Day 11 Poem
Photo from Black & WTF Photos:
We don't want this
stinking sweet cement
beneath our feet. We do
not want this birthday
cake let it dance in the
rain until the green
of its icing runs
into the sewers, drips
down, falls down like
our mother, the day her
knees gave as she pulled
our favorite cake from
the oven, the day her recipe
card found the pocket
between the hutch
and the cracked
molding. We don’t see
it again until we re-paint.
We don’t see her again.
No, we do not want this
cowboy world on a thread,
and we can’t sing
worth a damn.
NaPoMo Day 14 Translation
This one was fun to translate, because I had heard the song lots of times but never really verbalized the meaning. What an awesome, weird premise.
The Chocolate Woman
Olivia Ruiz
from The Chocolate Woman
Size my hips with the axe
I ate too much chocolate
Crack my skin, if you like
Crack my bones, if you must
It’s a time of great metamorphosis
On the edge of my tiny breasts
Penetrating, pointed and plump
Two nuts, crack! You eat them
It’s a time of great metamorphosis
On the edge of my parted lips
grows a red silver raspberry
Could you kiss me to cut it?
Knead my hips with kisses
I become the chocolate woman
Let my hips melt Nutella
The blood that runs in me is hot chocolat
One day I’m going to fly away
To cross the sky to force it to swell…
And I’ll yawn lighting
A comet planted between the teeth
But on the earth, waiting
I transform into the chocolate woman
Size my hips with the axe
I ate too much chocolate…
The Chocolate Woman
Olivia Ruiz
from The Chocolate Woman
Size my hips with the axe
I ate too much chocolate
Crack my skin, if you like
Crack my bones, if you must
It’s a time of great metamorphosis
On the edge of my tiny breasts
Penetrating, pointed and plump
Two nuts, crack! You eat them
It’s a time of great metamorphosis
On the edge of my parted lips
grows a red silver raspberry
Could you kiss me to cut it?
Knead my hips with kisses
I become the chocolate woman
Let my hips melt Nutella
The blood that runs in me is hot chocolat
One day I’m going to fly away
To cross the sky to force it to swell…
And I’ll yawn lighting
A comet planted between the teeth
But on the earth, waiting
I transform into the chocolate woman
Size my hips with the axe
I ate too much chocolate…
13 April, 2011
NaPoMo Day 13 Translation
The return home
Jacques Prévert
from Paroles
French version here
There’s a man from Brittany who returns to his mother country
After having done several bad things
He walks past the factories of Douarnenez
He doesn’t recognize anyone
No one recognizes him
He is very sad.
He enters a creperie to eat crepes
But he can’t eat them
He has something that stops them from passing
He pays
He leaves
He lights a cigarette
But he can’t smoke it
There is something
Something in his head
Something bad
He is more and more sad
And suddenly he remembers:
Someone told him when he was small
“You will finish on the scaffold”
And through the years
He never dared do anything
Not even cross the road
Not even go to sea
Nothing absolutely nothing
He remembers
The one who predicted all this was his uncle Gresillard
Uncle Gresillard who carried unhappiness to everyone
Oh man!
And the man from Brittany thinks of his sister
Who works at Vaugirard
Of his brother killed in war
Thinks of all the things he has seen
All the things he has done.
The sadness tightens around him
He tries anew
To light a cigarette
But he does not want to smoke
So he decides to go to his Uncle Gresillard’s house
He goes there
He opens the door
The uncle doesn’t recognize him
But he recognizes him
And he says
“Hello uncle Gresillard”
And then he twists his neck
And he finishes on the scaffold in Quimper
After having eaten two dozen crepes
And smoked one cigarette.
Jacques Prévert
from Paroles
French version here
There’s a man from Brittany who returns to his mother country
After having done several bad things
He walks past the factories of Douarnenez
He doesn’t recognize anyone
No one recognizes him
He is very sad.
He enters a creperie to eat crepes
But he can’t eat them
He has something that stops them from passing
He pays
He leaves
He lights a cigarette
But he can’t smoke it
There is something
Something in his head
Something bad
He is more and more sad
And suddenly he remembers:
Someone told him when he was small
“You will finish on the scaffold”
And through the years
He never dared do anything
Not even cross the road
Not even go to sea
Nothing absolutely nothing
He remembers
The one who predicted all this was his uncle Gresillard
Uncle Gresillard who carried unhappiness to everyone
Oh man!
And the man from Brittany thinks of his sister
Who works at Vaugirard
Of his brother killed in war
Thinks of all the things he has seen
All the things he has done.
The sadness tightens around him
He tries anew
To light a cigarette
But he does not want to smoke
So he decides to go to his Uncle Gresillard’s house
He goes there
He opens the door
The uncle doesn’t recognize him
But he recognizes him
And he says
“Hello uncle Gresillard”
And then he twists his neck
And he finishes on the scaffold in Quimper
After having eaten two dozen crepes
And smoked one cigarette.
12 April, 2011
NaPoMo 2011 Day 10 Poem
Photo from Black & WTF Photos:
Foxhead
The sailor’s hand moves
like a current, flashing bristles
through the fur of his pet
foxhead. On a surfaced submarine,
he strokes cold teeth against
his fox’s mounted scalp.
A small white cat sneers, calms,
sniffs the fox. The man’s beard
is pushing wiry hairs toward the sea.
NaPoMo 2011 Day 9 Poem
Photo from Black & WTF Photos:
Poem done and intensely personal. But here's the title:
Letter to the black bear who put his paw on my shoulder during a sad time
NaPoMo 2011 Day 8 Poem
Photo from Black & WTF Photos:
Prompt: poem answers the question ‘what is the girl going to saw?’ It must also include the action of sawing and the separation of what has been sawed.
I ask the little girl in a plaid dress what she is going to do with her saw
NaPoMo 2011 Day 12 Translation
The Dunce
Jacques Prévert
from Paroles
French version here
He says no with the head
But he says yes with the heart
He says yes to what he loves
He says no to the professor
He stands
We question him
And all the problems are posed
Suddenly laughter takes him
And he erases everything
The digits and the words
The dates and the names
The sentences and the traps
And despite the teacher’s warnings
Under the boos of child prodigies
With multicolored chalk
On the black chalkboard of unhappiness
He draws the face of happiness.
Jacques Prévert
from Paroles
French version here
He says no with the head
But he says yes with the heart
He says yes to what he loves
He says no to the professor
He stands
We question him
And all the problems are posed
Suddenly laughter takes him
And he erases everything
The digits and the words
The dates and the names
The sentences and the traps
And despite the teacher’s warnings
Under the boos of child prodigies
With multicolored chalk
On the black chalkboard of unhappiness
He draws the face of happiness.
NaPoMo 2011 Day 7 Poem
Photo from Black & WTF Photos:
Poem for my friend
They say you are the mosquito, friend,
wings beaten and heart small
all proboscis and no bite.
Little fly, they want to know
why you think you are a crane.
Let them bait you, friend, with the pulse
of white heat beneath their skin. They crave
the tickle of your mouthparts
working their skin. They wish
to become dragonflies, wish to hunt
and smear you.
Friend, you are the bike. Pedal driven and human
powered. Your frame the center of gravity, rotating
on a piercing axle. If you must support this load, friend,
you must find someone to clean your chain, your spokes,
your sprockets. Someone to keep you suspended, keep you
from rusting.
Friend, they say you are the pagoda, attracting
lightning because you were made too high. What
do they know of your structure? What do they
know of the charge that pulls you up, up, up?
You are the lotus, friend, that the pagoda
represents. Not the flower but the plant. Men
disagree about where your family should belong.
Why must they refuse to let you live this terrestrial
life, friend, just because you choose to sit on the surface?
NaPoMo Day 7-11 Translations
Catching up now. Translations here. Poems to come.
Day 7
Immense and Red
Jacques Prévert
from Paroles
French version here
Immense and red
Beneath the Grand Palais
The winter sun appears
And disappears
Like it my heart will disappear
And all my blood will go
Go to look for you
My love
My beauty
And find you
There where you are.
Day 8
The garden
Jacques Prévert
from Paroles
French version here
Thousands and thousands of years
Will not be enough
To explain
The little eternal second
When you kissed me
When I kissed you
One morning under the winter light
At Montsouris Park in Paris
In Paris
On the earth
The earth which is a star.
Day 9
(took some definite liberties with this one)
Song
Jacques Prévert
from Paroles
French version here
What day are we
We are all the days
My friend
We are all our lives
My love
We love each other and we live
We live and we love each other
And we don’t know what is but life
And we don’t know what is but the day
And we don’t know what is but love.
Day 10
Breakfast
Jacques Prévert
from Paroles
French version here
He put the coffee
In the cup
He put the milk
In the cup of coffee
He put the sugar
In the coffee with milk
With the teaspoon
He turned
He drank the coffee with milk
And he put down the cup
Without talking to me
He lit
A cigarette
He had a discussion
With the smoke
He put the ashes
In the ashtray
Without talking to me
Without looking at me
He got up
He put
His hat on his head
He put on
His raincoat
Because it was raining
And he left
Under the rain
Without one word
Without looking at me
And me, I took
My head in my hand
And I cried.
Day 11
You are going to see what you are going to see
Jacques Prévert
from Paroles
French version here
A nude girl swims in the sea
A bearded man walks on water
Where is the wonder of wonders
The miracle announced most loudly?
Day 7
Immense and Red
Jacques Prévert
from Paroles
French version here
Immense and red
Beneath the Grand Palais
The winter sun appears
And disappears
Like it my heart will disappear
And all my blood will go
Go to look for you
My love
My beauty
And find you
There where you are.
Day 8
The garden
Jacques Prévert
from Paroles
French version here
Thousands and thousands of years
Will not be enough
To explain
The little eternal second
When you kissed me
When I kissed you
One morning under the winter light
At Montsouris Park in Paris
In Paris
On the earth
The earth which is a star.
Day 9
(took some definite liberties with this one)
Song
Jacques Prévert
from Paroles
French version here
What day are we
We are all the days
My friend
We are all our lives
My love
We love each other and we live
We live and we love each other
And we don’t know what is but life
And we don’t know what is but the day
And we don’t know what is but love.
Day 10
Breakfast
Jacques Prévert
from Paroles
French version here
He put the coffee
In the cup
He put the milk
In the cup of coffee
He put the sugar
In the coffee with milk
With the teaspoon
He turned
He drank the coffee with milk
And he put down the cup
Without talking to me
He lit
A cigarette
He had a discussion
With the smoke
He put the ashes
In the ashtray
Without talking to me
Without looking at me
He got up
He put
His hat on his head
He put on
His raincoat
Because it was raining
And he left
Under the rain
Without one word
Without looking at me
And me, I took
My head in my hand
And I cried.
Day 11
You are going to see what you are going to see
Jacques Prévert
from Paroles
French version here
A nude girl swims in the sea
A bearded man walks on water
Where is the wonder of wonders
The miracle announced most loudly?
07 April, 2011
NaPoMo Day 6 Translation
Turns out, translating is hard. It was easy to figure out I wanted to try to translate a song. It was hard to choose a song I felt I could translate. I have to say, though, as overwhelming as this is, I'm having a blast. I know I'm taking liberties with some of these translations. Playing with tone, with what tone I have interpreted. I am learning that a good translation is rarely literal. I just hope I'm not mucking up the original work too badly.
Toi + Moi
Grégoire
from Toi + Moi
Have a listen here
You plus me plus them plus all of those who want it
Plus him plus her and all who are alone
Come on, let’s go and get into the dance
Come on let’s go, let’s be reckless
Close to a thousand, I know we can do it
Everything is possible everything is doable
We can run much higher than our dreams
We can go much farther than the strike
Oh you plus me plus them plus all of those who want it
Plus him plus her plus all who are alone
Come on, let’s go and get into the dance
Come on let’s go it’s our lucky day
With desire, power and courage
The cold, the fear are nothing but mirages
Let unhappiness fall for once
Come on let’s go, re-find yourself with me
Oh you plus me plus them plus all of those who want it
Plus him plus her and all who are alone
Come on, let’s go and get into the dance
Come on let’s go and be reckless
I know it’s true my song is naïve
Even a little stupid, but not offensive
And even if it doesn’t change the world
It invites you to get into the discussion
Oh you plus me plus them plus all of those who want it
Plus him plus her and all who are alone
Come on, let’s go and get into the dance
Come on let’s go it’s our lucky day
Hope enthusiasm make everything we need
My arms my heart my shoulders and my back
I want to see the stars in your eyes
I want to see us smiling and happy
Oh you plus me plus them plus all of those who want it
Plus him plus her and all who are alone
Come on, let’s go and get into the dance
Come on let’s go and be reckless
Oh you plus me plus them plus all of those who want it
Plus him plus her plus all who are alone
Come on, let’s go and get into the dance
Come on let’s go it’s our lucky day
Oh you plus me plus them plus all of those who want it
Plus him plus her plus all who are alone
Come on, let’s go and get into the dance
Come on, let’s go and get into the dance
Toi + Moi
Grégoire
from Toi + Moi
Have a listen here
You plus me plus them plus all of those who want it
Plus him plus her and all who are alone
Come on, let’s go and get into the dance
Come on let’s go, let’s be reckless
Close to a thousand, I know we can do it
Everything is possible everything is doable
We can run much higher than our dreams
We can go much farther than the strike
Oh you plus me plus them plus all of those who want it
Plus him plus her plus all who are alone
Come on, let’s go and get into the dance
Come on let’s go it’s our lucky day
With desire, power and courage
The cold, the fear are nothing but mirages
Let unhappiness fall for once
Come on let’s go, re-find yourself with me
Oh you plus me plus them plus all of those who want it
Plus him plus her and all who are alone
Come on, let’s go and get into the dance
Come on let’s go and be reckless
I know it’s true my song is naïve
Even a little stupid, but not offensive
And even if it doesn’t change the world
It invites you to get into the discussion
Oh you plus me plus them plus all of those who want it
Plus him plus her and all who are alone
Come on, let’s go and get into the dance
Come on let’s go it’s our lucky day
Hope enthusiasm make everything we need
My arms my heart my shoulders and my back
I want to see the stars in your eyes
I want to see us smiling and happy
Oh you plus me plus them plus all of those who want it
Plus him plus her and all who are alone
Come on, let’s go and get into the dance
Come on let’s go and be reckless
Oh you plus me plus them plus all of those who want it
Plus him plus her plus all who are alone
Come on, let’s go and get into the dance
Come on let’s go it’s our lucky day
Oh you plus me plus them plus all of those who want it
Plus him plus her plus all who are alone
Come on, let’s go and get into the dance
Come on, let’s go and get into the dance
06 April, 2011
NaPoMo 2011 Day 6 Poem
Photo from Black & WTF Photos:
Prompt: Think of 10 interesting cosmic questions that the chicken can ask the girl. The poem is not the questions. The poem is you answering the questions.
Young girl responds to the questions of a chicken on house arrest as she smokes a cigarette
The meaning of life? You are not meant to know. The meaning is
not in the sauce, or on the table. You won’t know until you can see
past the fire. True love? It’s waiting for you, beneath a briefcase
in a terminal in Chicago. It’s been flattened into garlic skin. Press
it against your chest. Love is an iron-on transfer. You want to know
if the sun and moon are in love, who is in the sky. The answer is old
light.
You or the egg? Toss a coin.
You ask if you will be able
to conceive. In the future
you will pull the corners
of your child and zoom in.
You will sell this technology
to every dentist in the country.
Of course Colbert is a better lay.
I don’t know much about good health,
but I saw a special on extreme coupon
clippers once.
You can still be a good parent, all juke
and no bite. Your kids will cleave
the world.
NaPoMo 2011 Day 5 Translation
Paris at Night
Jacques Prevert
from Paroles
French version here
Three matches one by one illuminated in the night
The first to see your face in its entirety
The second to see your eyes
The last to see your mouth
And the darkness all around to remind me of all of these
While holding you in my arms
Jacques Prevert
from Paroles
French version here
Three matches one by one illuminated in the night
The first to see your face in its entirety
The second to see your eyes
The last to see your mouth
And the darkness all around to remind me of all of these
While holding you in my arms
NaPoMo 2011 Day 5 Poem
Photo from Black & WTF Photos:
Prompt: Write a poem in triolet form
Accouchement
How proud they were to show the stained mattress
the day I wasn’t born; they had to support each other
with straps and breath. To pose the cradle on mother’s back –
how proud they were! To show the stained mattress,
five women, ready to sanitize, ready for striking matches,
held tightly to each other, wanting to tell my mother
how proud they were. To show the stained mattress,
the day I wasn’t born, they had to support each other.
NaPoMo 2011 Day 4 Translation
Writing Page
Jacques Prevert
from Paroles
French version here
Two and two four
four and four eight
eight and eight make sixteen
Repeat! says the teacher
Two and two four
four and four eight
eight and eight make sixteen.
But there is the lyrebird
who passes in the sky
the child sees him
the child hears him
the child calls him
Save me
play with me
bird!
So the bird descends
and plays with the child
two and two four
Repeat! says the teacher
and the child plays
the bird plays with him
four and four eight
eight and eight make sixteen
and sixteen and sixteen what do they make?
They don’t make anything sixteen and sixteen
and above all not thirty-two
anyway
they leave
And the child has hidden the bird
in his desk
and all the children
hear his song
and all the children
hear the music
and eight and eight leave when it’s their turn
and four and four and two and two
get out of there when it’s their turn
and one and one make neither one nor two
one and one leave equally
And the lyrebird plays
and the child sings
and the teacher yells:
When you have finished clowning
But all the other children
listen to the music
and the walls of the class
crumble quietly
and the windows turn back into sand
the ink turns back into water
the desks turn back into trees
the chalk turns back into cliff
the feather pen turns back into bird
Jacques Prevert
from Paroles
French version here
Two and two four
four and four eight
eight and eight make sixteen
Repeat! says the teacher
Two and two four
four and four eight
eight and eight make sixteen.
But there is the lyrebird
who passes in the sky
the child sees him
the child hears him
the child calls him
Save me
play with me
bird!
So the bird descends
and plays with the child
two and two four
Repeat! says the teacher
and the child plays
the bird plays with him
four and four eight
eight and eight make sixteen
and sixteen and sixteen what do they make?
They don’t make anything sixteen and sixteen
and above all not thirty-two
anyway
they leave
And the child has hidden the bird
in his desk
and all the children
hear his song
and all the children
hear the music
and eight and eight leave when it’s their turn
and four and four and two and two
get out of there when it’s their turn
and one and one make neither one nor two
one and one leave equally
And the lyrebird plays
and the child sings
and the teacher yells:
When you have finished clowning
But all the other children
listen to the music
and the walls of the class
crumble quietly
and the windows turn back into sand
the ink turns back into water
the desks turn back into trees
the chalk turns back into cliff
the feather pen turns back into bird
NaPoMo 2011 Day 4 Poem
Photo from Black & WTF Photos:
They would follow you anywhere
Penguins.
sixteen of them. They shuffled down the city
sidewalk with you every day on your way to
school, wings tucked, beaks facing cement. The
penguins never made a sound.
Some questioned where they came from, others
wondered why you. Was it the lilac in your hair?
Your black and white Mary Janes? When you got
to school, they waited at the curb. They never
whined, never pitched. Just sat in silence, staring
at your window, until they heard that bell.
They found a home in you, and then you grew.
Turned into a creased woman who wore her hair
like a helmet. Now you wear your skin like a tux.
This is what they taught you, before they turned back
into water. Their beaks into stone.
NaPoMo 2011 Day 3 Translation
Alicante
Jacques Prevert
from Paroles
French version here
An orange on the table
Your dress on the carpet
And you in my bed
Soft present of the present
Freshness of the night
Warmth of my life
Jacques Prevert
from Paroles
French version here
An orange on the table
Your dress on the carpet
And you in my bed
Soft present of the present
Freshness of the night
Warmth of my life
NaPoMo 2011 Day 3 Poem
Photo from Black & WTF Photos:
Mirror Cinquain
Love puts
down her gloves. Time
for a new sport. Careful
with the neck, she folds a crane, crafts
haiku.
Monday
she will lift the veil. Make a wish
on one thousand pretty,
curling sheets of
paper.
NaPoMo 2011 Day 2 Translation
For you, my love
Jacques Prevert
from Paroles
French version here
I went to the bird market
And I bought birds
For you
My love
I went to the flower market
And I bought flowers
For you
My love
I went to the iron market
And I bought chains
Heavy chains
For you
My love
And I went to the slave market
And I searched for you
But I did not find you
My love
Jacques Prevert
from Paroles
French version here
I went to the bird market
And I bought birds
For you
My love
I went to the flower market
And I bought flowers
For you
My love
I went to the iron market
And I bought chains
Heavy chains
For you
My love
And I went to the slave market
And I searched for you
But I did not find you
My love
NaPoMo 2011 Day 2 Poem
Photo from Black & WTF Photos:
And when you die, the sky will be bright blue
Not gray, like you’d imagined, but the kind
of blue that could make you pull over
and angle your self over the dash
to have a look. You don’t know it’s coming.
No one knows it’s coming. Your ’02 Taurus mangling
a fresh water lake, the lace of your just-washed cami hooked
over a rotting branch, the dirt they will push over your coffin.
These are the things that do not fit. The sky is the most
surprising, though, that blue. It will hit you, the way a kid
smoking a cigarette would, all stubby fingers and too-adult
face. They say the nails are the first to go. Just fingers, just
toes.
NaPoMo 2011 Day 1 Translation
To paint the portrait of a bird
Jacques Prevert
from Paroles
French version here
First, paint a cage
with an open door
next paint
something nice
something simple
something beautiful
something useful
for the bird
next place the canvas next to a tree
in a garden
in the woods
or in a forest
hide behind the tree
without saying anything
without moving…
Sometimes the bird comes quick
but he can very well also take long
years
before he decides.
Don’t be discouraged
wait
wait, if you must, for years
the speed or the slowness of the bird’s
arrival
doesn’t have anything to do
with the success of the picture
When the bird arrives
if he arrives
observe the most profound silence
wait for the bird to enter the cage
and when he is inside
lightly close the door with the brush
then
erase one by one all the bars
being careful not to touch any
of the bird’s feathers
Do the painting of the tree next
leaving the best of its branches
for the bird
paint also the green foliage and the
freshness of air
the dust of the sun
and the sound of bugs in the grass in the
heat of summer
and then wait to see if the bird decides to
sing
if the bird doesn’t sing
it’s a bad sign
a sign that the painting is bad
but if he sings it’s a good sign
a sign that you can sign it
so very gently tear off
one of the bird’s feathers
and sign your name in a corner of the painting
Jacques Prevert
from Paroles
French version here
First, paint a cage
with an open door
next paint
something nice
something simple
something beautiful
something useful
for the bird
next place the canvas next to a tree
in a garden
in the woods
or in a forest
hide behind the tree
without saying anything
without moving…
Sometimes the bird comes quick
but he can very well also take long
years
before he decides.
Don’t be discouraged
wait
wait, if you must, for years
the speed or the slowness of the bird’s
arrival
doesn’t have anything to do
with the success of the picture
When the bird arrives
if he arrives
observe the most profound silence
wait for the bird to enter the cage
and when he is inside
lightly close the door with the brush
then
erase one by one all the bars
being careful not to touch any
of the bird’s feathers
Do the painting of the tree next
leaving the best of its branches
for the bird
paint also the green foliage and the
freshness of air
the dust of the sun
and the sound of bugs in the grass in the
heat of summer
and then wait to see if the bird decides to
sing
if the bird doesn’t sing
it’s a bad sign
a sign that the painting is bad
but if he sings it’s a good sign
a sign that you can sign it
so very gently tear off
one of the bird’s feathers
and sign your name in a corner of the painting
NaPoMo 2011 Day 1 Poem
Photo from Black & WTF Photos:
How to trap a porcelain pig
Start with an umbrella,
open it inside.
When piggy banks still looked like pigs
(not the rounded, perked-ear, pastel
ones we have today), you almost couldn’t tell
what was porcelain, what apricot flesh.
Spread three letters beneath the umbrella.
They must be red stamp sealed, or the pig
will not give.
If a younger sibling marries before
the older, the older must dance
in a trough for luck. Some keep the pig
trough stockings. Some never get past
the omen.
Put on your best Sunday hat. Remember, lean
pigs come quick for smiles and stockinged
legs. Hold fast to two of the umbrella’s ribs,
pull out, then up. The pig is there, moving
with your breath. Exhale, and the umbrella’s
folds bury him. But on the inhale, he is yours.
NaPoMo 2011
Hey! It's National Poetry Month, which means I'll be writing a poem a day!
Last year I fell off track right around day 26, when I tried to write a poem about a sensitive carpenter.
This year, to get me through to day 30, I have a plan. The first part of this plan: keep track of my efforts on this blog. I might not get to post every day, but I hope to post all 30 by the end of April.
The second element of this plan is inspiration. I didn't have a muse last year, and I struggled with topics. This year, I've got a crapload of black & wtf photos to keep me going. I chose my favorite 30 from the batch. Each day, a new photo, a new poem. I might stick to the thirty I chose, or I might branch out. Who knows? Black and wtf photos has a new one up every day.
Oh, I almost forgot. I'll also be translating a poem a day from French to English. So far, I've only translated Jacques Prevert. His language is simple, and his poetry is beautiful. It's a good fit for me. Still, holla if you want me to attempt a translation of your favorite French poem, and I'll do my best.
I leave you with two of my new favorite poems, from incredibly talented poets who I saw read at Drew University:
"For Estefani Lora, Third Grade, Who Made Me A Card" by Aracelis Girmay
"Who Says the Eye Loves Symmetry" by Pat Rosal
Last year I fell off track right around day 26, when I tried to write a poem about a sensitive carpenter.
This year, to get me through to day 30, I have a plan. The first part of this plan: keep track of my efforts on this blog. I might not get to post every day, but I hope to post all 30 by the end of April.
The second element of this plan is inspiration. I didn't have a muse last year, and I struggled with topics. This year, I've got a crapload of black & wtf photos to keep me going. I chose my favorite 30 from the batch. Each day, a new photo, a new poem. I might stick to the thirty I chose, or I might branch out. Who knows? Black and wtf photos has a new one up every day.
Oh, I almost forgot. I'll also be translating a poem a day from French to English. So far, I've only translated Jacques Prevert. His language is simple, and his poetry is beautiful. It's a good fit for me. Still, holla if you want me to attempt a translation of your favorite French poem, and I'll do my best.
I leave you with two of my new favorite poems, from incredibly talented poets who I saw read at Drew University:
"For Estefani Lora, Third Grade, Who Made Me A Card" by Aracelis Girmay
"Who Says the Eye Loves Symmetry" by Pat Rosal
25 March, 2011
Poem for Lady Gaga, whose art inspires this little monster to create
Teeth
Take a bite of my bad girl meat,
you said, how were we to know the cost?
Show me your teeth.
I want to, but they are gone.
We shredded carrots,
radish, pickled
beets for garnish, lay your flesh
beside. Salted
the wound. Shared bites
of your bad girl meat.
The next morning they are gone.
I dreamt they fell from my mouth
like quarters from a porcelain pig.
My carpet’s speckled with enamel,
my tongue curious,
all those hollows.
I should have had more
calcium, prepared
for you, read the research
on bad girl meat. I’m lucky.
The others lost fingernails,
cartilage, entire bones.
Take a bite of my bad girl meat,
You, always ordering, knowing
We will listen. Show me your teeth.
I sleep with mouth open. Maybe they will return.
Take a bite of my bad girl meat,
you said, how were we to know the cost?
Show me your teeth.
I want to, but they are gone.
We shredded carrots,
radish, pickled
beets for garnish, lay your flesh
beside. Salted
the wound. Shared bites
of your bad girl meat.
The next morning they are gone.
I dreamt they fell from my mouth
like quarters from a porcelain pig.
My carpet’s speckled with enamel,
my tongue curious,
all those hollows.
I should have had more
calcium, prepared
for you, read the research
on bad girl meat. I’m lucky.
The others lost fingernails,
cartilage, entire bones.
Take a bite of my bad girl meat,
You, always ordering, knowing
We will listen. Show me your teeth.
I sleep with mouth open. Maybe they will return.
17 February, 2010
Sadness
Lucille Clifton, you will be missed. You were truly an amazing voice in American poetry, and you have had a great influence on me. I will always be grateful I had the chance to see you read. Maybe in another life I'll get to ask you about that fox.
12 February, 2010
On Cooking
I frickin love it. I've been pseudo-foodie lately, trying out every dish I can think of. My Thanksgiving dinner was out of this world. As I took a bite of my pumpkin pie (for which I didn't use a recipe, thank you very much), I proclaimed in a falsetto singsong voice, "I am a goddess!" My grandfather, a notoriously picky eater, told me it was the best pumpkin pie he's ever had. I mean, the man is my grandfather. He's had a lot of pumpkin pie.
Wednesday night I made my first homemade tomato sauce and wanted to make the same proclamation.
I float my own boat sometimes, but other times my culinary adventures end in disaster. The pumpkin pizza anyone? The attempt at pan-fried chickpeas? The reeses pieces brownies that turned out like sheetrock - which is apparently what happens when you scale the recipe down by 4 but spread the mixture in the same size baking sheet?
The point is, I've got some real talent, but I need lots of training.
Anyone know of a good vegetarian culinary training seminar? I'm looking for about a week, anywhere is fine. It won't do me much good to learn how to bone a duck if I'm never going to use that skill, you know?
Wednesday night I made my first homemade tomato sauce and wanted to make the same proclamation.
I float my own boat sometimes, but other times my culinary adventures end in disaster. The pumpkin pizza anyone? The attempt at pan-fried chickpeas? The reeses pieces brownies that turned out like sheetrock - which is apparently what happens when you scale the recipe down by 4 but spread the mixture in the same size baking sheet?
The point is, I've got some real talent, but I need lots of training.
Anyone know of a good vegetarian culinary training seminar? I'm looking for about a week, anywhere is fine. It won't do me much good to learn how to bone a duck if I'm never going to use that skill, you know?
27 January, 2010
Things that give me a happy, busy afternoon at work edition
the assaulting, scrumptious aroma of an orange after your thumbnail punctures its skin
and Olivia Ruiz singing "La Femme Chocolat":
and Olivia Ruiz singing "La Femme Chocolat":
19 November, 2009
Regarding the previous post
Yeah, I'll admit, I just read about 400 awesome things. That's all they had on the site so far. And man, my 5 were pretty lame.
So here are some better ones:
-The feeling you get in your stomach at the top of the roller coaster
-When you are immediately connected to a real person, and not a recording on the phone
-Pretending you're asleep and fooling the other person!
-Scraping just enough PB or mayo out of the jar to make a sandwich
Also, I decided it was my civic duty to share this with you, because it totally rocks!
So here are some better ones:
-The feeling you get in your stomach at the top of the roller coaster
-When you are immediately connected to a real person, and not a recording on the phone
-Pretending you're asleep and fooling the other person!
-Scraping just enough PB or mayo out of the jar to make a sandwich
Also, I decided it was my civic duty to share this with you, because it totally rocks!
Something Awesome
Postsecret just turned me onto this website 1,000 Awesome Things.
So far, I've only gotten through four of them, but I'm hooked. It's a great website to look at right around Thanksgiving, isn't it?
My fave so far: When your nose is dripping and someone hands you a tissue.
Well, I'd say I'm inspired.
Here are five things that I think are hella awesome. Let's see if they're on the list of 1,000 somewhere.
5. The moment when everything suddenly calms down. I'm thinking specifically of when I got off the train from Paris to Lisieux last year. Everything was so stressful, and then stepping onto the platform was like an instant calm. But this happens all the time! When you check off the last in a loooong series of To-Does at work, when you put the last dish on the drying rack or dishwasher, when the giant tidal wave hits the arc you made for 1 million citizens and everyone survives...you name it!
4. Finding a sweet bit of nostalgia. You know the kind, the one you had almost forgotten, then it comes into your mind but no one knows what the hell it is, and you can't explain it very well anyway, so you begin to think maybe you created it too, but then one day it up and slaps you in the face. That one. For me, it's finding Garfield's Halloween Adventure or Dr. Quandary's Island. I'm still looking for episodes of Baywatch that featured scary things like vampires and ghosts.
3. Families we make for ourselves.
2. Falling in love, and having that person love you the same way.
1. My all-time favorite feeling in the world: When you wake up and look at the alarm clock and realize you still have one hour to sleep. I actually used to beg someone I knew who worked overnights to call me at like 4am so I could wake up and then go back to sleep!
I was going to criticize 1,000 Awesome Things for being a bit overblown with the writing, but I'm realizing now that that's just a side effect of raving about things that make you feel good!
So far, I've only gotten through four of them, but I'm hooked. It's a great website to look at right around Thanksgiving, isn't it?
My fave so far: When your nose is dripping and someone hands you a tissue.
Well, I'd say I'm inspired.
Here are five things that I think are hella awesome. Let's see if they're on the list of 1,000 somewhere.
5. The moment when everything suddenly calms down. I'm thinking specifically of when I got off the train from Paris to Lisieux last year. Everything was so stressful, and then stepping onto the platform was like an instant calm. But this happens all the time! When you check off the last in a loooong series of To-Does at work, when you put the last dish on the drying rack or dishwasher, when the giant tidal wave hits the arc you made for 1 million citizens and everyone survives...you name it!
4. Finding a sweet bit of nostalgia. You know the kind, the one you had almost forgotten, then it comes into your mind but no one knows what the hell it is, and you can't explain it very well anyway, so you begin to think maybe you created it too, but then one day it up and slaps you in the face. That one. For me, it's finding Garfield's Halloween Adventure or Dr. Quandary's Island. I'm still looking for episodes of Baywatch that featured scary things like vampires and ghosts.
3. Families we make for ourselves.
2. Falling in love, and having that person love you the same way.
1. My all-time favorite feeling in the world: When you wake up and look at the alarm clock and realize you still have one hour to sleep. I actually used to beg someone I knew who worked overnights to call me at like 4am so I could wake up and then go back to sleep!
I was going to criticize 1,000 Awesome Things for being a bit overblown with the writing, but I'm realizing now that that's just a side effect of raving about things that make you feel good!
06 November, 2009
Why people scare me
I typed "is" into google today, hoping to ask the wise internet world if I could get away with dropping an apostrophe (which, I know, is sinful most of the time, but it turns out it was OK in this case).
The problem is that google predictor gave me this:
Yes, the volume of people who care so much about celebrity gossip is scary. But what's exponentially more horrifying to me is that 4 of the results question the sex organs of successful women.
Let's be clear: when people ask if Lady Gaga is a "hermaphrodite" (which, by the way, is a horribly offensive and inaccurate term) or if Wendy Williams is a man, they are specifically asking about what organs they have in their pants. No, people are not asking about their sexualities. They're not asking about their gender expressions, since both clearly express themselves as feminine. The people who ask these questions assume they have the right to know about these public figures' biology.
And why? Why should it matter to anyone? Lady Gaga is an incredibly talented, extremely successful pop artist. Wendy Williams is a well-known radio and TV personality who is also quite successful despite, or perhaps because of, her controversial brash reporting style.
These two women are powerful. They have notoriety because of what they do. Not because of their sex. I think this world would be a better place if these googlers would rephrase their searches. My suggestions:
-Is hermaphrodite an offensive term?
-What are the meanings of transvestite, transgender, transsexual, intersex, etc,?
-When is Lady Gaga's new CD coming out?
-What channel is Wendy Williams' show on?
-Is it OK to drop an apostrophe after a business name?
Basically, anything that actually educates us and doesn't feed into this inane obsession with celebrity lives and body parts. Or, you can read this article by Carrie Polansky that articulates part of the reason I felt so uncomfortable looking at the search prediction. It's because of this weird media storm that happened after a video of Lady Gaga in a short skirt was released. I think the genius of the article is that Carrie urges us not to care about the video or Gaga's alleged (not confirmed) response, but how incredibly disrespectful the coverage was.
Of course after I noticed what the predictions were for the word "is," I had to try some other ones.
Here's what I saw when I typed "why" (keyword Pakistani - this one is so terrifying I don't even know where to begin:
And here's the result for "what" (keyword strawberries - ...............?):
Seriously, people, seriously?
The problem is that google predictor gave me this:
Yes, the volume of people who care so much about celebrity gossip is scary. But what's exponentially more horrifying to me is that 4 of the results question the sex organs of successful women.
Let's be clear: when people ask if Lady Gaga is a "hermaphrodite" (which, by the way, is a horribly offensive and inaccurate term) or if Wendy Williams is a man, they are specifically asking about what organs they have in their pants. No, people are not asking about their sexualities. They're not asking about their gender expressions, since both clearly express themselves as feminine. The people who ask these questions assume they have the right to know about these public figures' biology.
And why? Why should it matter to anyone? Lady Gaga is an incredibly talented, extremely successful pop artist. Wendy Williams is a well-known radio and TV personality who is also quite successful despite, or perhaps because of, her controversial brash reporting style.
These two women are powerful. They have notoriety because of what they do. Not because of their sex. I think this world would be a better place if these googlers would rephrase their searches. My suggestions:
-Is hermaphrodite an offensive term?
-What are the meanings of transvestite, transgender, transsexual, intersex, etc,?
-When is Lady Gaga's new CD coming out?
-What channel is Wendy Williams' show on?
-Is it OK to drop an apostrophe after a business name?
Basically, anything that actually educates us and doesn't feed into this inane obsession with celebrity lives and body parts. Or, you can read this article by Carrie Polansky that articulates part of the reason I felt so uncomfortable looking at the search prediction. It's because of this weird media storm that happened after a video of Lady Gaga in a short skirt was released. I think the genius of the article is that Carrie urges us not to care about the video or Gaga's alleged (not confirmed) response, but how incredibly disrespectful the coverage was.
Of course after I noticed what the predictions were for the word "is," I had to try some other ones.
Here's what I saw when I typed "why" (keyword Pakistani - this one is so terrifying I don't even know where to begin:
And here's the result for "what" (keyword strawberries - ...............?):
Seriously, people, seriously?
05 November, 2009
02 November, 2009
After a long, postless absence
I just want to say, I have the best friends in the world, who keep me very busy, and two exciting new jobs that give me lots of entertaining stories. Sorry for my absence, but I've really been livin' it up.
21 July, 2009
Camping v.2.0
I just got back from an awesome two-day camping extravaganza for Rachel's birthday. It rocked. There were ghost stories, swimming, barbecues, smores, and all around good times. My hoodie smells like the tent, and my water bottle still tastes like firewood. I couldn't be more satisfied. I hope Rach feels the same way!
08 June, 2009
OMFG
There's a new Quentin Tarantino movie. Brad Pitt is in it. It's about Nazi-occupied France. Holy. Eff.
17 May, 2009
Happiness is:
Camping with good friends and a firemaster:
And a friend getting a new kitten who is so adorable it's worth taking claritin every four hours for the next 15 years of your life:
:)
And a friend getting a new kitten who is so adorable it's worth taking claritin every four hours for the next 15 years of your life:
:)
15 May, 2009
Anyone who reads this probably noticed I dropped off
mostly cause it's been a little strange to be back and I don't know where to start.
So I leave you with this hilarious baby...
So I leave you with this hilarious baby...
07 May, 2009
Welcome to America.
Your tax return from 2007 is being audited and your cell phone service has been cut and you have a disgusting bill to worry about. You have to start paying your car and auto insurance retroactively as soon as possible. You have no health insurance. Being in your parents house makes you want to snack on processed junk food every thirty minutes. Your bedroom is le basard. You need work.
Though I feel so overwhelmed sometimes I can't think, it is way more satisfying than I imagined to see my friends, yellow school buses, grape jelly, Tapan and my family. I never noticed before how many American flags hang outside of houses or how many people wear fanny packs (thank you very much for that image, Chicago airport). It is good to be home, and I'm sure this debt/credit problem will be handled quickly.
Here's hoping.
Though I feel so overwhelmed sometimes I can't think, it is way more satisfying than I imagined to see my friends, yellow school buses, grape jelly, Tapan and my family. I never noticed before how many American flags hang outside of houses or how many people wear fanny packs (thank you very much for that image, Chicago airport). It is good to be home, and I'm sure this debt/credit problem will be handled quickly.
Here's hoping.
27 April, 2009
Whelmed
Next week I'll be home.
Last week I felt like I wasn't ready. I don't think I realized how quickly the leaving part would sneak up on me.
This weekend I went to Jersey with Emilien and 40 people he works with. It was fun most of the time, but some of the time I felt like this huge awkward outsider imposter person. I don't feel much like going into it here on the interwebs, but it made me realize that, yeah, I'm a bit tired of being the foreigner. I'm excited to come home to my country, speak in my language with people who will understand my slang, cultural jokes, nostalgic references. And I'll get theirs.
This week I'm having goodbye dinners with my colleagues and my friends. It's such a strange, indescribable feeling that I have. All this month I've watched the lasts roll in. Last time I'll see Fabien, last concert in France, last book rental from the medi@theque, last Friday class, last vacances, last grocery shopping. Soon I'll have my last paycheck, last dinner with my friends, last hair wash under my two-minute long shower, last weekend in Paris, last look at French stars. What will the final footfall in France, just before I board the plane, feel like? What will happen in my stomach when I hear my final announcement in French, and this time understand every word?
And what will my life be like in a month? Will I still be able to watch French movies with no subtitles? Understand song lyrics? How long does it take to lose a language? Will I see my colleagues again someday? What if one day I call them on the phone and am not able to understand their French?
You can see I'm a ball of nerves and conflicting emotions. My solution? Take advantage of the last days of my contract. And hope that these lasts are only lasts for this period in my life. Someday I'll come back here and make all new firsts and lasts. There's no doubt in my mind.
Last week I felt like I wasn't ready. I don't think I realized how quickly the leaving part would sneak up on me.
This weekend I went to Jersey with Emilien and 40 people he works with. It was fun most of the time, but some of the time I felt like this huge awkward outsider imposter person. I don't feel much like going into it here on the interwebs, but it made me realize that, yeah, I'm a bit tired of being the foreigner. I'm excited to come home to my country, speak in my language with people who will understand my slang, cultural jokes, nostalgic references. And I'll get theirs.
This week I'm having goodbye dinners with my colleagues and my friends. It's such a strange, indescribable feeling that I have. All this month I've watched the lasts roll in. Last time I'll see Fabien, last concert in France, last book rental from the medi@theque, last Friday class, last vacances, last grocery shopping. Soon I'll have my last paycheck, last dinner with my friends, last hair wash under my two-minute long shower, last weekend in Paris, last look at French stars. What will the final footfall in France, just before I board the plane, feel like? What will happen in my stomach when I hear my final announcement in French, and this time understand every word?
And what will my life be like in a month? Will I still be able to watch French movies with no subtitles? Understand song lyrics? How long does it take to lose a language? Will I see my colleagues again someday? What if one day I call them on the phone and am not able to understand their French?
You can see I'm a ball of nerves and conflicting emotions. My solution? Take advantage of the last days of my contract. And hope that these lasts are only lasts for this period in my life. Someday I'll come back here and make all new firsts and lasts. There's no doubt in my mind.
09 April, 2009
Going to the aaaaaatlantic!
Yeah, that's right. To all my Jersey shore peeps out there, I'm going to send you a big fat wave from the other coast of our ocean. Saturday. If you live nearby and the weather's nice, I encourage you to go to the beach. I'll be at this beach, looking at this view (image here):
Technically, I'll be on the coast of the bay that empties (flows? runs? eff geography)into the Atlantic, but that's good enough for me. I mean, there are already something like 3900 kms separating me from the other coast; who am I to complain about the distance of a tiny bay too?
It's another two-week paid vacation and this time I'm not bored out of my mind. I've got a new friend with a motorcycle and a desire to show me cool things about France and French culture. My best friend here (who was away the last vacances) is staying in town and open to traveling with me (that's us in the photo on the beach at Trouville). And most importantly, I'm feeling the crunch. I know I've gotta see stuff, and I know I've gotta see it now. Because, though my heart tells me I'll be back to France many times, my brain and the economic crisis warns me that one is never sure, and that I need to seize the opportunity I have to see this country now, while the language is fresh and I've nothing else to do.
So, this weekend La Baule; next weekend...? I'm thinking Strasbourg or maybe Provence. I so would love to go there before I leave. The weekend after I'm going to Jersey! Dream fulfilled! The weekend after that I'll be in Paris. And the weekend after that...get ready...
Are you ready for this?
The weekend after that I'll be in New Jersey.
(I can't write anymore cause I'm too busy cleaning the pieces of my exploded head out of my keyboard.)
Technically, I'll be on the coast of the bay that empties (flows? runs? eff geography)into the Atlantic, but that's good enough for me. I mean, there are already something like 3900 kms separating me from the other coast; who am I to complain about the distance of a tiny bay too?
It's another two-week paid vacation and this time I'm not bored out of my mind. I've got a new friend with a motorcycle and a desire to show me cool things about France and French culture. My best friend here (who was away the last vacances) is staying in town and open to traveling with me (that's us in the photo on the beach at Trouville). And most importantly, I'm feeling the crunch. I know I've gotta see stuff, and I know I've gotta see it now. Because, though my heart tells me I'll be back to France many times, my brain and the economic crisis warns me that one is never sure, and that I need to seize the opportunity I have to see this country now, while the language is fresh and I've nothing else to do. So, this weekend La Baule; next weekend...? I'm thinking Strasbourg or maybe Provence. I so would love to go there before I leave. The weekend after I'm going to Jersey! Dream fulfilled! The weekend after that I'll be in Paris. And the weekend after that...get ready...
Are you ready for this?
The weekend after that I'll be in New Jersey.
(I can't write anymore cause I'm too busy cleaning the pieces of my exploded head out of my keyboard.)
04 April, 2009
Fail
Well, I did decide to fail.
It's day four of the National Poetry Month poem-a-day challenge, and I've written exactly one so far. Last year I rocked it - thirty poems by the end of April - but this year I feel unmotivated. Also, my time in France is bittersweetly coming to an end, and I don't much feel like having a reminder of the time gone by every day. So I'm sitting this one out.
But you should go see what Rachel's been up to, cause it's awesome.
It's day four of the National Poetry Month poem-a-day challenge, and I've written exactly one so far. Last year I rocked it - thirty poems by the end of April - but this year I feel unmotivated. Also, my time in France is bittersweetly coming to an end, and I don't much feel like having a reminder of the time gone by every day. So I'm sitting this one out.
But you should go see what Rachel's been up to, cause it's awesome.
26 March, 2009
21 March, 2009
Something awesome happened
I checked out a book from the library. An anthology of the most beautiful french love poems. And I decided I didn't want to read it.
Why is that amazing?
I didn't give up because the language was too difficult. I didn't choose to read something in English or a little kids book instead. I simply didn't like what I was reading. I found it cliched. And do you know how? I could predict the lines that were coming next. Whoa. Not only was I able to read and comprehend the words, I was able to predict what French words were coming next. I'm able to recognize cliches in French now! Booyah!
In all seriousness though, this is a big moment. I've been reading in French for a while. Not fluently enough to tackle Le Monde, but substantial writing that hasn't been watered down for a foreigner. When I read the bilingual edition of Julien Green's The Language and Its Shadow I was able to read the English works in English and the French works in French, without using the translation as a clutch. I've been keeping a journal in French. I've even written (using very, very simple language) a poem in French.
I think I'll go to the beach this weekend with a much better anthology of contemporary French poetry to celebrate. If I don't profiter du soleil now, I'll never forgive myself.
PS - Not all the lines were horrible. I liked this one.
Why is that amazing?
I didn't give up because the language was too difficult. I didn't choose to read something in English or a little kids book instead. I simply didn't like what I was reading. I found it cliched. And do you know how? I could predict the lines that were coming next. Whoa. Not only was I able to read and comprehend the words, I was able to predict what French words were coming next. I'm able to recognize cliches in French now! Booyah!
In all seriousness though, this is a big moment. I've been reading in French for a while. Not fluently enough to tackle Le Monde, but substantial writing that hasn't been watered down for a foreigner. When I read the bilingual edition of Julien Green's The Language and Its Shadow I was able to read the English works in English and the French works in French, without using the translation as a clutch. I've been keeping a journal in French. I've even written (using very, very simple language) a poem in French.
I think I'll go to the beach this weekend with a much better anthology of contemporary French poetry to celebrate. If I don't profiter du soleil now, I'll never forgive myself.
PS - Not all the lines were horrible. I liked this one.
20 March, 2009
The most exciting thing that happened to me yesterday
I've just prepared my dinner (rice with black beans in a tomato onion sauce that will make you want to marry me) and am sitting down to eat. With a flick of my wrist, I knock over my American-sized cup of water - not one of those wimpy canteen glasses - all over the floor. It takes the entirety of my bath towel to sop up most of the fluid. I'm feeling pretty damn clumsy, and sad that no one is with me to make the Oh, Ashley remark. Also, I've been buying all of my water and feel that this is at least a sixty-five cent waste.
After I've hung my towel to dry, I sit down again to enjoy my meal. Within 45 seconds I've flipped my bowl upside down onto the floor and there is now splattered ricey beany sauce stretching almost to all four corners of my apartment. I ask myself what the hell my problem is. I have no answer. I do feel happy though, as I clean the resulting mess, that there's all that water on the floor to lift the stains.
After I've hung my towel to dry, I sit down again to enjoy my meal. Within 45 seconds I've flipped my bowl upside down onto the floor and there is now splattered ricey beany sauce stretching almost to all four corners of my apartment. I ask myself what the hell my problem is. I have no answer. I do feel happy though, as I clean the resulting mess, that there's all that water on the floor to lift the stains.
19 March, 2009
Best Week Ever - London Edition
At long last, here are the highlights in slideshow format:
And some more highlights that aren't available in photo form:
-Conversations in French and in English with the students
-An awesome and hospitable host family
-Good times with colleagues
-Pubs
-The animatronic T-Rex at the Natural History Museum
-Reading Julien Green and learning that languages are hard for everyone, even people raise bilingually.
And some more highlights that aren't available in photo form:
-Conversations in French and in English with the students
-An awesome and hospitable host family
-Good times with colleagues
-Pubs
-The animatronic T-Rex at the Natural History Museum
-Reading Julien Green and learning that languages are hard for everyone, even people raise bilingually.
07 March, 2009
London Calling
So...I didn't want to blog it before 'cause I wasn't 100% sure it was gonna work out, but everything in in order now and I can finally tell you...
I'm going to London!
I'm chaperoning a group of advanced students on their school trip to London with other professors Philippe and Karen. We three profs will be staying together at one house, while groups of students will be staying with other families. During the days, I'll get to see all the touristy stuff that's designed for the kids' trip, and at nights I'll be partaking in the London nightlife. Maybe.
Many, many stories to come. But I don't think any of them are going to involve me receiving flowers from a London man, so I think Anita is gonna win. ;)
I guess this is kinda me, minus the last line.
more animals
I'm going to London!
I'm chaperoning a group of advanced students on their school trip to London with other professors Philippe and Karen. We three profs will be staying together at one house, while groups of students will be staying with other families. During the days, I'll get to see all the touristy stuff that's designed for the kids' trip, and at nights I'll be partaking in the London nightlife. Maybe.
Many, many stories to come. But I don't think any of them are going to involve me receiving flowers from a London man, so I think Anita is gonna win. ;)
I guess this is kinda me, minus the last line.
more animals
06 March, 2009
Today is International Women's Day
If you want, you can go look at the official website.
I was more interested in looking at this one. After an attempt by about.com to name the top 100 women in history, and a spread in glamour magazine, Feministe invites its readers to submit the names of who would be on their lists. The user responses are great, and I'm finding out about a lot of incredible women by wiki-ing the names in the comments.
Who's on my list? My three favorite woman poets.
Lucille Clifton, Marie Howe, and Sharon Olds.
To celebrate women's day, I'm going to a free showing of a feminist film here in Lisieux. Then I'm going to continue my newest poetry project - working title Confessions from the fourth grade - cause it has a hell of a lot to do with the women who have had an effect on my life, whether they knew it or not.
UPDATE: The day actually falls on March 8th. My bad.
I was more interested in looking at this one. After an attempt by about.com to name the top 100 women in history, and a spread in glamour magazine, Feministe invites its readers to submit the names of who would be on their lists. The user responses are great, and I'm finding out about a lot of incredible women by wiki-ing the names in the comments.
Who's on my list? My three favorite woman poets.
Lucille Clifton, Marie Howe, and Sharon Olds.
To celebrate women's day, I'm going to a free showing of a feminist film here in Lisieux. Then I'm going to continue my newest poetry project - working title Confessions from the fourth grade - cause it has a hell of a lot to do with the women who have had an effect on my life, whether they knew it or not.
UPDATE: The day actually falls on March 8th. My bad.
02 March, 2009
Happiness is
The time of year a coupla months after daylight savings time when suddeny it's light again at 7:30 in the morning. Guess sometimes a little darkness makes us glad to have light.
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