Sometimes by Helga Moreira

Sometimes when you read a translation, you know it is not right, because it doesn’t make sense and it doesn’t seem to be in the tradition of non-sensical poems.  I remember a little Latin and some Papiamentu:) This is what I think the poem says. If you are fluent in Portuguese and you think I am wrong, I would be glad if you let me know!

Sometimes

I.
Sometimes it’s almost a state.
Almost a tree, almost a lake.

2.
Somewhere in the right place.
Something in the wrong place.
Neither a tree nor a lake.
A complete negation.

3.
Let everything go on and on.
And then you guess right – London Bridge.
Bridges built over a state of panic.
Late evening on a clear night.
Shall we find the horizon
by looking at where it is absent?

1.
Por vezes é quase um estado.
Quase uma árvore, quase um lago.

2.
Um lugar no sítio certo.
Qualquer coisa no sítio errado.
Nem árvore, nem lago.
A negação por completo.

3.
Deixa que tudo siga.
Adivinha-se então – London Bridge.
Pontes por sobre o pânico.
Serão em noite clara.
Vamos adivinhar o horizonte
em negação interrogada?

© Translated by Ana Hudson, 2011. I changed Hudson’s translation.
in Agora que falamos de morrer, 2006

Advertisements

“How the River” by Julia Runcie

Beautiful view of city and backlands. I like the poem better starting in the middle. The whole poem is at the bottom.

Julia Runcie

HOW THE RIVER


I know the city is not less simply
because I want less of it.
But how different it is, now,
to wade across the tumbled creek
when once I crossed
the out-flung arms of bridges
and was speechless at their beauty
and never for a moment thought
of how the river lay
beneath the bridge.

.

.

http://www.rattle.com/poetry/how-the-river-by-julia-runcie/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+rattle%2FCNOS+%28Rattle%3A+Poetry+for+the+21st+Century%29

The whole poem:

Julia Runcie

HOW THE RIVER

Strange that for so many years
I walked among the peopled buildings
and did not think of mountains.
I took my comfort
in the streetlight
and the stoplight.
I lay not wakeful
for the owl’s low hooting in the canyon.
I know the city is not less simply
because I want less of it.
But how different it is, now,
to wade across the tumbled creek
when once I crossed
the out-flung arms of bridges
and was speechless at their beauty
and never for a moment thought
of how the river lay
beneath the bridge.

“The river is deep… ” by Najam Hosain Syed (Shah Hussein)

The River is deep and the shaky bridge creaks as people step on it. And the ferry is a known haunt of tigers.

[…]

From “Courtesy” by Najam Hosain Syed (Shah Hussein).

“Grandson of a convert weaver, he embarrassed every one by aspiring to the privilege of learning what the revered guardians of traditional knowledge claimed to teach.”

Hat tip: http://razarumi.wordpress.com

urban haikus!

Freeway overpass–
Blossoms in graffiti on
fog-wrapped June mornings

M.R. Collins

The morning paper
harbinger of good and ill
— I step over it

D. McCroskey

They’ve gone…
Where the beach umbrella was
the sand not quite so hot

Dhugal Lindsay

Quiet around the point; ducks;
up down birches
helicopter

Thomas Grieg

The summer river;
Although there is a bridge, my horse
goes through the water

Shiki Masaoka