As with rice grains

Art of poetry

As with
husked rice, a poem
is pounded and polished,
and then winnowed, and then
offered to the public.

As with
rice grains, a poem
is picked and washed
and then put to the fire.

The rice washing was
mixed with bran for the pigs, rice
pickings are feed for the chickens,
chaff and pebbles
are scattered on earth.
What's served on the table
is smoking hot rice.

As with rice grains,
it's not ideal for a poem
to be well-milled and polished.
White rice is delicious,
but brown rice
is rich in nutrients.


(Translation of "Sining ng pagtula", from Kung Baga sa Bigas: Mga Piling Tula by Jose F. Lacaba.)

Bagras

by Mark Angeles

BY THE RIVER, the eucalyptus:
               unspooling
                              the stitches
               of self-wood.

                              A rainbow

undying in shifts
               of versicolor.

                              A nobility changing
               into resplendent raiment.

It cannot be beheld

                              bedecked
               of inlaid braid.

The dress disappears of its own accord.

               Rips out the husk
                              so as to celebrate
               the verdant green
                              of stained
                                             semi-ripeness

               to completely reveal

scraps of blue, purple, and orange.

The river freely accepts the fragments   
               streaming forth,
                              partaken as food
               by its cherished creatures;

sucking in raw exudate

               component
                              of things gum-crafted.

BY THE RIVER, a native:
               dipping clear water
                              with hands joined together.

Her face is sunglint broken
               on rip-tides.
                                             The hems of sea-surface  
                                                            scroll away:                                                        

                                
               shrill reverberations in the universal
                                             mirror.

Witness the vibrating arrows that follow
                              the strike of the bow
                                             in fiery heavens:

                              not fog but conflagration
                                             from burnt petrol.

BY THE RIVER, the eucalyptus accompanied the hymn,
                              music—kumintang—to the rhythms 
                                             kulintang, tagongko, and kapanirong;
                              gurgles of kutiyapi, dayuday, and daguyung.

               The native beguiled by the budyong. Entranced by 

integrity.                                                             

She reached for the kampilan slung from the waist of history.

AGAIN, the eucalyptus shedding its bodice.
               Shedding and shedding.

                                             Incessant rains
                              lashed the ancient river

               but the native stood rooted:

her fixity
               and faith fenced in            
                              by amber light

                                             of eucalyptus resin

               endlessly spilling
                              from shoots to infinity.

        TRANSLATED FROM FILIPINO

Notes:

Bagras is the local name of Rainbow Eucalyptus or Rainbow Gum (Eucalyptus deglupta), a Philippine tree whose bark peels off all year round. The kumintang, kulintang, tagongko, kapanirong, kutiyapi, dayuday, and daguyung are traditional Filipino songs or musical instruments. A budyong is either a conch shell or a flute while a kampilan is a sword. 

The original of the above translation came from Engkantado (“Enchanter”), a chapbook by Mark Angeles, available at this link (pdf). It is part of the collection that won third place in the 2010 edition of Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards. It also appears in Likhaan Journal 5 of University of the Philippines.

Mark Angeles is former vice president for Luzon of College Editors Guild of the Philippines. He is the author of the poetry collections Patikim and Emotero.

“Ang Maisisilid sa Bulsa” (Eugene Evasco)

What Can Be Stored in a Pocket

Our yellowing photographs;
Petals of ylang-ylang;
Wilted leaves of santan;
Three sticky bottle caps;
And a rusted nail bolt.
Bus tickets stuck together;
A brittle letter, torn and tattered;
Postage stamps,
Unused;
And filched songhits.
Worn pencil, cigarette butts
Filthy towel (crusted with sweat)
A scandalous pen
Faded ribbons from a recent gift.
Dusty calling cards, picture of Nora
A foul-smelling wallet, a folded palanca
Tear-stained handkerchief
Soiled.

I cannot store you
In my pocket.




     TRANSLATED FROM FILIPINO

"Dumating ang Takipsilim" (Mark Angeles)

Night Is Upon Him
BY MARK ANGELES


It is such a secret place, this land of tears.
- The Little Prince


Night is upon him
without his expecting it.
And he decides to come back
to the garden, his secret garden—
a glimpse into his own territorial
discovery and embrace;
the garden of tears
which trace each crease
of dried leaves
falling delicately
in autumn season.

But the trees are not there
anymore, the cradle
that rocked him is not there,
the yellow bulbs that bore
the flowers are not there.
Everything is gone except
the red color of his face.

But he does not shed a tear.

He stands in the center
without pursing his lips
or blinking his eyes.

He stands in the center
and watches the waving
sadness taking shape
in the clouds. He watches
the early morning light,
the ceaseless stream
of life begging to escape
from his grasp.
Something seems not right in that place.
His spirit is leaving
from between his chest.
And everything around him
dissolves like his teeth.

Night falls and the wind blows
and the cold washes his face.
All the stars that night
smile at him. Millions
of distant stars smile
at him that night. The night
shines like broken glass
mixed with sand
and dried under the sun.

Night is upon him
without his expecting it
but he knows what it means.




     TRANSLATED FROM FILIPINO

"Ernesto Cardenal and I" (Roberto Bolaño)

I've added the link to the poem "Ernesto Cardenal and I" to "A guide to online writings of Roberto Bolaño." I somehow missed including this poem whose translation first appeared in Poetry magazine in 2008. The translator is Laura Healy, though she wasn't credited in the Poetry Foundation site. It's also in the collection The Romantic Dogs.

Ernesto Cardenal (b. 1925) was a Catholic priest and poet from Nicaragua. Bolaño also wrote about Cardenal in a flash essay in Between Parentheses (forthcoming in translation from New Directions). He considered him "one of Latin America's greatest poets."

"Papel, Gunting, Bato" (Mark Angeles)

Rock, Paper, Scissors
by Mark Angeles

Rock, Paper, Scissors:
try for a third of throws.
Which heart is yours?
The paper that flies away,
the scissors that shears away,
or the rock that crumbles down?

Rock, Paper, Scissors:
Which heart is yours?




- from Patikim ("First Taste")
Translated from Filipino

The first Duino elegy (in Filipino)

Unang Elehiya
ni Rainer Maria Rilke


Sino, sa aking pagtangis, ang makikinig mula sa orden
ng mga anghel? Maski ang isa sa kanila’y dagli akong itutop
sa kanyang dibdib: Ako’y titiklop sa tanang kapangahasan.
Isa itong kariktang di maitawid sa kagampan. Ito’y simula ng katakutan
na ating sasambahin pagkat tayo’y kanyang lilipulin.
Nakagigimbal ang arkanghel.
Kagyat ako’y nagtimpi at tinikom ang hikbing awit ng
pagsinta. Ah, sino pa ang malalapitan?
Ni tao, ni anghel ay hindi, maging ang hayop na maalam ay dama
na hindi tayo kailanman magiging palagay
dito sa ating kinalakhang mundo. Marahil ang maiiwan na lamang
ay ilang puno sa parang, na siyang dudungawin ng ating
paningin. Marahil ang lakarin kahapon
at ang kinagisnang ugali na panatag na sa atin,
mananatiling tapat at di maiisipang mawalay.
Ah, ang gabi: naririyan sya, may taglay na hanging puspos
ng kawalang hangganan, kumukurot sa ating mukha.
Sinong makatatanggi sa kanya, habang tayo’y
nahihimlay sa kalmada na pinakaaasam
ng nagtatagong damdamin. Ganuon ba
kadali para sa magkaniig? Minarapat nilang magkubli
sa sumamo ng bawat isa. Hindi mo pa ba nalaman?
Iwaksi ang kawalan sa pagdipa ng iyong mga kamay,
patungo sa bawat pagitan ng hininga, nang makamit ng mga ibon
ang bugso ng hangin at lukso ng paglipad.

Oo, ang tagsibol ay nangailangan sa yo. Minsan
may talang dinarasal ang iyong pagtangì; may daluyong
nagmula sa nakalipas, humampas patungo sa iyo;
may biyoling ipinaubaya ang kanyang sarili,
sa pagtapat mo sa harap ng bintana. Ang lahat
ay tinakda. Mamarapatin mo bang tahakin ito?
Manapat ika’y di mapakali sa pag-asam,
na tila sinadyang dumating ng pinakamamahal?
(Saan mo kaya siya maisisilid, kasama
ng makabagong ideya, labas masok at magdamag
naglalaro sa iyong isip?)
Sa sandaling mangulila, awitan mo ang silakbo ng pag-ibig;
pagkat kapusukan nila'y kulang pa sa walang katapusan.
Halos nanibugho ka sa kanila, silang mga nalihis,
silang umibig nang higit sa busog na pag-ibig.
Paulit-ulit na pupunan ang papuring walang kinahinatnan.
Tandaan: ang bayani ay nabubuhay. Ang kanyang pagbagsak
ay daan lamang patungo sa huling pagsilang.
Ang kalikasan naman, kapos at muling aanyaya ng manliligaw,
na tila walang lakas para lumalang ng mga
bagong sugo. Pinag-isipan mo ba ng husto
itong si Gaspara Stampa, nang sa gayon, ang dalagang iniwan
ng kanyang mahal ay mabubuhay sa darang ng isa pang
pag-ibig, habang sa sarili ay sasambit, “Kailan ako magiging ikaw?”
Ang matagal nang dalamhati ay hindi ba dapat
pakinabangan na natin? Di ba’t oras na para pakawalan
ang ating mga sarili sa tanikala ng puso at pagtitiis,
ito’y nanginginig, katulad ng palasong tinitikis ang batak ng búsog
upang sa sandaling paalpasan, ito’y hihigit pa sa
sarili? Marahil wala na tayong patutunguhan.

Tinig, mga tinig. Makinig ka aking puso, gaya ng mga
banal na taimtim nakapakinig: hanggang sa ang tambuli
ay magpalutang sa kanila; kahit binalewala nila, nagpatuloy
silang lumuhod, ang mga wala nang pag-asa:
nakinig nang buong-buo. Hindi nangangahulugang malalampasan
mo ang boses ng Dyos—malabo ito.
Pakinggan mo ang boses ng hangin, ang mensaheng isinahugis
ng katahimikan. Mula sa mga kabataang nasawi,
ito’y bumubulong papalapit sa iyo. Tuwing sasamba ka sa katedral
ng Roma o Napoli, hindi ba marahang nakikiusap
sa iyo ang kanilang mga tadhana?
O kaya nama’y isang elehiya ang iniatas sa iyo
kagaya nung isang taon, nakaukit sa lapida ng Santa Maria Formosa.
Ang tulong na ipagkakaloob ko sa kanila, ang paghuhugas
sa di makatarungan nilang pagkamatay—magkaminsa’y
pumipigil sumandali sa pag-akyat ng kanilang espiritu.

Talagang kaiba kung wala nang tatao sa mundo
na susunod sa mga kinagisnang di madaling natutunan,
na pipitas sa rosas at mga bagay patungkol sa manigong
kinabukasan, na hihilig gaya ng dati sa malilikot na kamay, at sadyang
kalilimutan ang ibinansag na ngalan, tulad ng
pag-iwan sa laruang di na umaandar.
Kaiba kung hindi na papangarapin ang pangarap. Kaibang
mamalas ang mga bagay na dating pinagbuklod, ngayo’y
nagkawatak-watak sa lahat ng dako ng daigdig. Mahirap mamatay,
madaming pagkakaabalahan bago matamasa ang kakaunting
walang hanggan.—Kahit ang mga nabubuhay, mali
ang pakiwari sa talim ng tama at mali.
Malimit (anila) di matanto ng mga anghel kung sila’y nasa piling
ng mga patay o buhay. Saan mang hantungan,
walang humpay, tinatangay ng buhawi ang nagdaraang
panahon, at kinukulong ang kanyang hikbi sa gitna ng dagundong.

Sa katapusan, wala na tayong silbi sa mga pumanaw:
namulat sila ng mga bagay na makamundo, tulad ng unti-unting
pagkawalay sa gatas ng ina. Habang tayong may pangangailangan pa
sa malalalim na misteryo, tayo na kumukuha ng matinding
lakas sa dalita, kaya na ba nating wala sila?
Wala na bang saysay ang alamat na naitala kung saan,
sa matinding hapis kay Linos, ang maigting na pagkamanhid ay tinulos
ng mapangahas na pasok ng tugtog—biglang tumayo at lumakad papalayo
ang binatang matipuno; mula sa nagitlang espasyong iniwan nya,
sa unang pagkakataon, ang kumpas ng kawalan
ay sumasaatin: pumapatnubay, nakikiramay, at nakikiisa.



(salin mula sa Ingles ni Stephen Mitchell at ni William H. Gass)

Rilke

Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'
hierarchies? and even if one of them pressed me
suddenly against his heart: I would be consumed
in that overwhelming existence. For beauty is nothing
but the beginning of terror, which we still are just able to endure,
and we are so awed because it serenely disdains
to annihilate us. Every angel is terrifying.

                                                         - from the Duino Elegies (1923),
                                                           Rainer Maria Rilke,
                                                           translation by Stephen Mitchell
 


The opening of Rilke's classic sequence of elegies. Beautiful, isn't it? Beautiful and scary at the same time.

I recently acquired a book called Reading Rilke: Reflections on the Problems of Translation by William H. Gass. It's classified as both biography and autobiography, an interesting combination. The subtitle alone makes me excited. And it's about translating poetry, one of my interests. A browse of the table of contents will give you some mysterious titles for chapters. They already sound like lines of a poem:
 

Lifeleading
Transreading
Ein Gott Vermags
Inhalation in a God
Schade
The Grace of Great Things
Erect No Memorial Stone
The Duino Elegies of Rainer Maria Rilke

The final chapter, Gass's full translation of Duino Elegies, is the cherry topping. Add to that the translations of some of Rilke's other poems scattered throughout the text, then I can't wait to down the pages of this book.

Gass's translation first came out in 1999; Mitchell's in 1982. In Gass's bibliography a list of 16 more translations of the same poem are given. This German poem surely resists the many rewordings of it, but it also survives miraculously in these interpretations.

A look at the end of Reading Rilke gives the same lines but with a different flavor:

Who, if I cried, would hear me among the Dominions
of Angels? And even if one of them suddenly
held me against his heart, I would fade in the grip
of that completer existence—a beauty we can barely
endure, because it is nothing but terror's herald;
and we worship it so because it serenely disdains
to destroy us. Every Angel is awesome.

I would certainly prefer an awesome Angel over a terrifying one. But not in this poem. "Terrifying" is simply a better choice and this poem ought to be that, terrifying. The poem inhabits various states of terror and tenderness and confusion. There is a searching edge to the voice. Mitchell's version reads well in terms of the forward movement of the lines and the rhythmic elegance of despair.

I am attempting a translation of "The First Elegy" into Filipino, my vernacular language. As my German is nil, I will use the English texts of both Mitchell and Gass. It will thus be a translation of translations. The inaccessibility of German to me is the main reason why I will be translating more the sense of the poem (from English), rather than the words.

I hope to be able to post my own version before the end of the month. August coincides with the Buwan ng Wika, or the National Language Month, in the Philippines. This exercise then will be my way of celebrating the Filipino language. I shall start like this:

Sino, sa aking pagtangis, ang makikinig mula sa orden
ng mga anghel? ...

Second epilogue for variations: “The Lost Detectives” (Roberto Bolaño)

As with "Godzilla in Mexico," wording and phrase substitutions ("Teen Theater" vs. "Theater of Youth") and punctuation in a poem can hint at a subtle change of meaning, a subtle creation of feeling ...

The Lost Detectives -Translation by Laura Healy Detectives lost in the dark city. I heard their moans. I heard their footsteps in the Teen Theater. A voice coming on like an arrow. Shadows of cafes and parks, Adolescent hangouts. Detectives who stare at Their open palms, Destiny stained by their own blood. And you can’t even recall Where the wound was, The faces you once loved, The woman who saved your life.

The Lost Detectives  -Translation by Guillermo Parra The lost detectives in the dark city I heard their moans I heard their steps in the Theater of Youth A voice advancing like an arrow Shadow of cafés and parks Frequented during adolescence The detectives who observe Their open hands Destiny stained with its own blood And you can’t even remember Where you were injured The faces you once loved The woman who saved your life

Epilogue for variations: “Godzilla in Mexico” (Roberto Bolaño)

Here are two versions of  Roberto Bolaño’s “Godzilla in Mexico,” an apocalyptic conversation between a parent and child. Essentially the same, but the subtle differences in word choices and line breaks provide two distinct readings.


Godzilla in Mexico
Roberto Bolaño
-Translation by Laura Healy


Listen carefully, my son: bombs were falling
over Mexico City
but no one even noticed.
The air carried poison through
the streets and open windows.
You'd just finished eating and were watching
cartoons on TV.
I was reading in the bedroom next door
when I realized we were going to die.
Despite the dizziness and nausea I dragged myself
to the kitchen and found you on the floor.
We hugged. You asked what was happening
and I didn't tell you we were on death's program
but instead that we were going on a journey,
one more, together, and that you shouldn't be afraid.
When it left, death didn't even
close our eyes.
What are we? you asked a week or year later,
Ants, bees, wrong numbers
in the big rotten soup of chance?
We're human beings, my son, almost birds,
public heroes and secrets.



Godzilla in Mexico
Roberto Bolaño
-A version by B. H. Boston


Hear me, my son: bombs were dropping

all over Mexico City,

but no one realized.

The air spread poison through

the streets and open windows.

You’d just eaten breakfast and were

watching the detectives on TV.

I was reading in the next room

when I knew we were going to die.

Despite the dizziness and nausea I dragged myself

to the dining room and found you on the floor.

I held you close. You asked me what was happening.

I didn’t tell you we were on death’s telethon

but I whispered, We are going on a journey,

you and I, together, don’t be afraid.

When leaving, death didn’t even close our eyes.

What are we? you asked a week a year later,

ants, bees, wrong numbers

in the great spoiled soup of chance?

We are human beings, my son, nearly birds,

public heroes and secrets.

"Isang Dipang Langit" (Amado V. Hernandez)

An Arm’s Length of Heaven

I was incarcerated by a cruel leader,
asking for the price of my crushed spirit,
the body is weak, so I must surrender,
if spirit is defeated it embraced defeat

I was cornered in a fortress of brute gallows:
stone, steel, bullet, guard’s enmity, the constant knife;
I was spewed out from the entire world of sorrows
And taken for dead when life has not escaped life

In a tiny window, all one can penetrate
is an arm’s length of heaven full of bitter tears,
selfish panorama or a wounded heart’s gate,
flag of my wantonness, kerchief of sneers.

As knife the thunder of guardsman’s rolling eyes,
Fixed on locked door no body dares the length;
A prisoner’s yell in the adjacent sty
Was as a cavern animal’s trapped in its strength.

The entire day was chained to the entire structure,
Dragged as steel ball by shod foot pulped and bloody;
The entire night is a tent of grief and injure,
by the casket which was the only sanctuary.

Once, simple steps trace the cordoned blockade,
The hooks of steel chains are scraping concrete;
under pale sun put out to dry and to degrade,
a thousand shadows spat out by darkest pit

Once the night was suddenly brought to a scare
by an alarm – an escape! – gunshots were flying;
Once the old bell was pealing out in black despair,
in the death chamber, someone’s breath is escaping.

And now this is my only constant universe -
Interred in prison, graveyard of the living;
a decade, or two, or all of the coming scores
of all of my life here consumed while I’m fading.

But my spirit shall conquer fear, ordeal
My blood veins shall still run, my blood flow’s still a stream:
A prison is but part of dealing with evil,
To be imprisoned is to crush surrender’s dream.

Gods and men are not forever asleep
the oppressed shall not be the oppressed of every chance,
this grave injustice has a battle cry to keep,
As long as there’s Bastille, a country exacts vengeance.

And tomorrow, in the same window, I shall see
from the arm’s length of heaven without a single tear,
the provident sun shall rise a shining victory ...
my freed self shall come down to greet my self free!


Muntinlupa Prison - April 22, 1952

(translated from Filipino)