Thursday, December 5, 2013

Blog #20 Lexical Translation


Algunas Bestias

By Pablo Neruda

 

Era el crepúsculo de la iguana.
Desde la arcoirisada crestería
su leengua como un dardo
se hundía en la verdura,
el hormiguero monacal pisaba
con melodioso pie la selva,
el guanaco fino como el oxigeno
en las anchas alturas pardas
iba calzando botas de oro,
mientras la llama abria cándidos
ojos en la delicadeza
del mundo lleno de rocio.
Los monos trenzaban un hilo
interminablemente erótico
en las riberas de la aurora,
derribando muros de polen
y espantando el vuelo violeta
de las mariposas de Muzo
Era la noche de los caimanes,
la noche pura y pululante
de hocicos saliendo del légamo,
y de las ciénagas soñolientas
un ruido opaco de armaduras
volvía al origen terrestre.
El jaguar tocaba las hojas
con su ausencia fosforescente,
el puma corre en el ramaje
como el fuego devorador
mientras arden en él los ojos
alcohólicos de la selva.
Los tejones rascan los pies
del río, husmean el nido
cuya delicia palpitante
atacarán con dientes rojos.
Y en el fondo del agua magna,
como el círulo de la tierra,
está la gigante anaconda
cubierta de barros rituales,
devoradora y religiosa.

 

Google Translation:

Some Beasts

 

It was the twilight of the iguana.
From the rainbow cresting
its like a dart leengua
dipped in vegetable
the monastic anteater trod
walk the jungle with melodious ,
guanaco fine as oxygen
in the wide brown heights
he was wearing his shoes gold
while the llama opened candid
eyes in the delicacy
the world of dew.
The monkeys braided thread
endlessly erotic
on the banks of the aurora,
topples a pollen
and shooing violet flight
Butterflies Muzo
It was the night of the alligators ,
pure night and swarming
I snouts out of silt ,
and sleepy marshes
an opaque armor noise
returned to the terrestrial origin.
The jaguar touches the leaves
with its phosphorescent absence
puma running in the branches
as the devouring fire
while burning his eyes on him
spirits of the forest.
Badgers scratch feet
River , sniff the nest
whose throbbing delight
They attack with red teeth.
And at the bottom of magna water
Cirules as land ,
is the giant anaconda
Cover rituals mud,
devouring and religious .

Babelfish translation



It was the twilight of the iguana.
From the arcoirisada your leengua as a DART cresting sank into the vegetable, the monastic anthill trod with melodious foot jungle, fine guanaco as the (English)

oxygen in the wide Brown Heights was wearing Golden boots, while flame opened candid eyes in the delicacy of the dew-filled world.
Monkeys braided endless thread (English)

on the banks of the aurora, tearing down walls of pollen and shooing purple flight of the butterflies of Muzo was night of the Caymans, the night crawling and pure erotic (English)

of snouts out of the silt, and the sleepy marshes opaque armor noise returned to terrestrial origin.
Jaguar played leaves with his phosphorescent absence, puma corr (English)

It runs on the branches as the devouring fire while arden alcoholic jungle eyes on it.
The Badgers scratching their feet (English)
the River, they along the nest whose throbbing delight will attack with red teeth.
And at the bottom of the magna water, (English)
as cirules of Earth, is the giant anaconda ritual barros, devouring and religious. (English)



 




 

Monday, December 2, 2013

Blog #19 Dread

"Dread"

Waiting for the light to turn green a young woman sits in her wore out blue jeans
dreading her time for work.

She knows they will nag her. And why not? Isn’t that what she is there for?
 She wonders if the older one will give her a headache? Why not?

A little pain for a little paycheck.
Perhaps they will answer their own questions remember their own appointments.
Their minds remember more than hers. Whatever happens is alright just got to remember a only six
hours to go.

Perhaps they’ll want to watch a movie with her. That would be great.
Or perhaps I will have to make them many meals. It’s their right. It’s what I am there for.

The Good Lord has a funny way of showing me patience.

And so she waited for that light to turn green with an optimistic view that God would take pity upon her.

Blog # 17 Extra Credit

Who or what is "The Eternal Footman"? Why is this footman or servant snickering at Prufrock?

Prufrock is a self aware individual always wondering what the right decision is or how to behave in certain situations. For example how to approach the ladies.

"In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo."
 
Another situation is when he mentions the bald spot in his head and what the ladies will think of this bald spot.  

"With a bald spot in the middle of my hair-
(They will say: "How his hair is growing so thin.")

Prufrock is so self conscious that he doesn't understand that when the Eternal Footman snickers at him, its because he is a lost cause. The Eternal Footman is like a servant opening the gates to the after life. Prufrock is close to death all this time he thinks he has, is not really true. He is no time left to really undue or reconsider certain situations. He can't rise from the dead like Lazarus, the Eternal Footman is there waiting for him like the Angel of Death.

"Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred in decisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of toast and tea."

With the Eternal Footman following Prufrock around. With the references to the rising of Lazarus Prufrock knows his time is near.

"I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker"

"I grow old...I grow old..."

The greatness of his youth has flickered and gone away leaving the old age to set in. The Eternal Footman waits and snickers for the old man to finally die. The Footman snickers at Prufrock for his misguided thoughts of visions and redemption's. It's too late to fix things when he is on his death bed.

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

Blog # 18

To Be Free

After driving two hours to wilderness,
Sunset strives for one last shine.
And the eyes of the deer
Glow green with understanding.
They shield themselves from more prying eyes,
To hide themselves from me.
We step over the rotted log into the meadow
Where they assume no one will find them.
They stiffen suddenly, unsure of what to do,
Calmed it was nothing they resume.
They graze peacefully together. They are free.
There is no peacefulness like theirs.
At their habitation yet again,
They begin grazing away summer and spring in the last bit of sunlight.
I would like to touch the spotted one,
For it is the smallest one of the herd,
Resembles a baby.
He is gold and brown,
The light reflects the freckles on his back,
His big brown eyes capture mine,
I am lost in another world.
Suddenly I realize
That they are peace, they are free, how can I take it away,
I want to be at peace.





Tuesday, November 12, 2013

Blog # 16 Does poetry matter

I think poetry does matter to our world. Poetry is like an art form, another way of expressing ones self. Poetry gives off emotions. Through poetry you can experience what the writer is feeling or trying to convey. We may never actually know the intent of ones poem, but the feeling and the emotion is there. It's hard to write a poem that a certain number of feet or certain type of poem, but in today's world we don't follow patterns. Nothing is perfect. No one strives to be perfect. Imperfection and the beauty of finding what's different about our own selves, is what our modern day of age is about. Through poetry we get a deep understanding of the character of the writer. Through poetry secrets are revealed or conveyed, if you can figure out the secret. Poetry makes you think about life in ways we never had to before. This makes poetry a turn off for some, but others that love riddles this is for them. Poetry does matter and does have a place in this modern world. Poetry is alive. We see poetry and experience poetry in advertising, movies, and song. Poetry is like a mind it does not rest, you have to let out the feeling of what you are experiencing.

Saturday, November 2, 2013

Blog #14 In a Meadow Far Away

"In a Meadow Far Away"

Tall and strong, silky hair, hidden dark grey blue eyes
magnificently built.

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Blog #13 "His Voice"


"His Voice"
The thrill of his voice

Created a warmth

That rushed from my head

To my tummy within

I had no choice

But to let a swarm

Of butterflies rush in

 

Melted on the inside

Am I by not just your words

But your beautiful smile

Could I gaze upon you endlessly

This is absurd

Could one be so amazingly

Beautiful and talented?