The Wrath of Divines

Like cartooning, the act of translation has proven dangerous at times. For his role in putting Christian scriptures into English, John Wycliffe’s long-dead bones were dug up, burnt, and chucked into the river by order of churchmen.

… The act of translation itself entails certain claims about the nature of sacred literature. The vernacular, for instance, was once so scandalous that church authorities dug up John Wycliffe’s bones, four decades after his death, setting fire to his skeleton and dumping what was left of him into the River Swift to punish the memory of the man who wanted to make the Bible available in English.

(Casey Cep, “What We Can and Can’t Learn from a New Translation of the Gospels,” The New Yorker, 4-28-21)

The arc of demented piety is brow-furrowing and bends towards homicide. As an impertinent translator of Pablo Neruda I count it a blessing that he has a non-faith-based following.

(c) 2021 JMN

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Neruda LXXXIII

Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada. Cien sonetos de amor
1924, Pablo Neruda y Herederos de Pablo Neruda
1994, Random House Mondadori
Cuarta edición en U.S.A: febrero 2004

[LXXXIII]
Es bueno, amor, sentirte cerca de mí en la noche,
It’s good, love, to feel you near me in the night,
invisible en tu sueño, seriamente nocturna,
invisible in your sleep, seriously nocturnal,
mientras yo desenredo mis preocupaciones
while I untangle my preoccupations
como si fueran redes confundidas.
as if they were confounded nets.

Ausente, por los sueños tu corazón navega,
Absent, through dreams your heart sails,
pero tu cuerpo así abandonado respira
but your body thus abandoned breathes
buscándome sin verme, completando mi sueño
seeking me sightlessly, completing my dream
como una planta que se duplica en la sombra.
just as a plant repeats itself in shadow.

Erguida, serás otra que vivirá mañana,
Standing tall, you’ll dawn among the living,
pero de las fronteras perdidas en la noche,
but something of the borders lost at night,
de este ser y no ser en que nos encontramos
of this to be and not to be in which we dwell,

algo queda acercándonos en la luz de la vida
keeps on moving us closer in life’s light
como si el sello de la sombra señalara
as if the stamp of shadow had branded
con fuego sus secretas criaturas.
with fire her undercover creatures.

Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada. Cien sonetos de amor
1924, Pablo Neruda y Herederos de Pablo Neruda
1994, Random House Mondadori
Cuarta edición en U.S.A: febrero 2004

[English translation by JMN.]

(c) 2021 JMN. All rights reserved

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Word of Thanks

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A glance tells me this blog started in April 2018. This is April 2021. An anniversary month invites breaking the fourth wall for a moment. Brokenly, the endeavor here is twofold: (1) to practice writing; (2) to practice translating. I … Continue reading

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Travesía (10)

Versión castellana del poema “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry” (1856) de Walt Whitman
English text at http://www.poetryfoundation.org
Spanish Interpretation by JMN

[Translator’s note: I’ve arbitrarily divided part 6 into 3 segments. The third of the three segments follows. The poem has 9 parts.]

[6.3]
[I] Was one with the rest, the days and haps of the rest,
Unido fui con los demás, los días y sucesos de los demás,
Was call’d by my nighest name by clear loud voices of young men as they saw me approaching or passing,
Llamado de mi nombre familiar fui en voz alta y clara por los chavales cuando me veían acercar o pasar,
Felt their arms on my neck as I stood, or the negligent leaning of their flesh against me as I sat,
Sentí sus brazos en el cuello estando yo de pie, o bien el apoyo casual de sus carnes contra mí cuando me sentaba,
Saw many I loved in the street or ferry-boat or public assembly, yet never told them a word,
Vi a multitudes que amaba en la calle o en el buque o en la asamblea pública, y no les dije jamás palabra,
Lived the same life with the rest, the same old laughing, gnawing, sleeping,
Viví la misma vida que los demás, el mismo reír, roer, dormir,
Play’d the part that still looks back on the actor or actress,
Hice el papel que todavía recuerda al actor o a la actriz,
The same old role, the role that is what we make it, as great as we like,
El viejo papel de siempre, el papel que resulta ser lo que hacemos de él, tan grande como deseamos,
Or as small as we like, or both great and small.
O tan pequeño como deseamos, o bien grande y pequeño a la vez.

[End of part 6]

(c) 2021 JMN. All rights reserved

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Travesía (9)

Versión castellana del poema “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry” (1856) de Walt Whitman
English text at http://www.poetryfoundation.org
Spanish Interpretation by JMN

[Translator’s note: I’ve arbitrarily divided part 6 into 3 segments. The second of the three segments follows. The poem has 9 parts.]

[6.2]
I too knitted the old knot of contrariety,
Yo también tejí el viejo nudo de contrariedad,
Blabb’d, blush’d, resented, lied, stole, grudg’d,
Despotriqué, me ruboricé, me resentí, mentí, robé, envidié,
Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not speak,
Tuve artimañas, enfado, lujuria, deseos calientes que no me atreví a decir,
Was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, sly, cowardly, malignant,
Fui caprichoso, vanidoso, avaro, superficial, taimado, cobarde, maligno,
The wolf, the snake, the hog, not wanting in me,
El lobo, la culebra, el puerco, no faltando en mí,
The cheating look, the frivolous word, the adulterous wish, not wanting,
La mirada infiel, la palabra frívola, el anhelo adúltero, no faltando,
Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, laziness, none of these wanting,
Rechazos, odios, aplazamientos, mezquindad, pereza, ninguno de ellos faltando,[…]

(c) 2021 JMN. All rights reserved

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Travesía (8)

Versión castellana del poema “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry” (1856) de Walt Whitman
English text at www.poetryfoundation.org
Spanish Interpretation by JMN

[Translator’s note: I’ve arbitrarily divided part 6 into 3 segments. The first of the three segments follows. The poem has 9 parts.]

[6.1]
It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall,
No es sobre ti sólo que caen las tachas oscuras,
The dark threw its patches down upon me also,
La oscuridad lanzó sobre mí también sus tachas,
The best I had done seem’d to me blank and suspicious,
Lo mejor que yo hubiera logrado me parecía vacío y dudoso,
My great thoughts as I supposed them, were they not in reality meagre?
Mis supuestas grandes ocurrencias, ¿no eran en realidad ínfimas?
Nor is it you alone who know what it is to be evil,
Tampoco eres tú sólo quien sabe lo que es ser malo,
I am he who knew what it was to be evil,
Soy yo quien supo lo que era ser malo,[…]

(c) 2021 JMN. All rights reserved

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‘Miner of Difficult Truths’

I can study all day Alice Neel’s brushwork and modeling of flesh and features, how she gestures at her subjects’ surroundings with casual precision. Her “Carmen and Judy” has a frank, womanly exactness and searing intimacy that The New Yorker’s pages show, and Hilton Als’ words ponder, with greater authority than I command here:

These great, almost unbearable late works bear witness to a bravura without a trace of self-consciousness. You can see it in “Carmen and Judy” (1972), a portrait of Neel’s cleaning lady nursing her disabled child. The curators point out that it was unusual for a woman of color to expose her body to the artist in this way, and I can vouch for that. Privacy is one of the few defenses there is against poverty and racism. But Carmen was no doubt able to reveal herself to Neel because she knew that Neel would see what she needed to see: Carmen’s trust, Judy’s dependence, all those years of living in a difference that was not difference to the artist, who had her own years of loss, of children’s love, of trying to render this and so much more in works that would continue to live, despite the darkness of her obscurity and then the light of her fame. Looking at Carmen look at Neel, and thus at us, is like staring straight at the sun. We can’t do it, but we try anyway.

One of her early influences was the work of Robert Henri, a founder of the Ashcan School—a movement that challenged the bourgeois prettiness of the work of the American Impressionists. The Ashcan School focussed on what the Impressionists left out—poverty, dereliction, ugliness. Neel’s developing realism went further. She was not Ashcan but emotional gutbucket, a miner of difficult truths.

(Hilton Als, “Alice Neel’s Portraits of Difference,” thenewyorker.com, April 26 & May 3, 2021 Issue)

(c) 2021 JMN

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A-Theology

A poke at Ludwig’s nonsense adumbrates an a-theology that circumvents the mortiferous belch of cassock-and-biretta evangels.

There’s an amount of life which abounds so abundantly it’s incommensurate with measurement. It amounts to the livelong life force of aliveness that explodes our skulls like an AR-15 would when we try to seize it. It’s the-world-is-everything-that-is-the-case of matter that moves. Not the source of this or that somethingness, but the very ness of it, the preposition in infinity, the suffixing titty of finite. It’s what’s between the equals sign in algebra class.

So it be nameless I name it anyway The amount with a capital T.

Occasionally I kill a few sugar ants while washing dishes. Not on purpose; it’s simply a wrong-place-wrong-time situation for them.

Sugar ants are micro-tiny. Have you seen one? Its carcass is a quasi-speck. Yet I’ve watched teams of them toil relentlessly to hoist a crumb to their lair a league distant in ant world. And when not craning or bulldozing, they haul ass like Lamborghinis.

Here’s the crux of the matter then, the ology part:

The amount beyond origin that can squirt such vitality into a creature the size of a pinhead deserves respect, does it not? Does the portion of life snuffed from the sugar ant not flow from The amount? And my portion too? Is not sister ant my brother in shared life, and I its, for The amount’s bloody sake! And does not The amount not grow less from the ant’s loss, or mine, but rather reclaim our portions and stay the same? Maybe, maybe not?

That’ll do for gospel and scripture.

(c) 2021 JMN

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Neruda LXXXIV

[LXXXIV]
Una vez más, amor, la red del día extingue
One more time, love, the net of day extinguishes
trabajos, ruedas, fuegos, estertores, adioses,
labors, wheels, fires, death rattles, goodbyes,
y a la noche entregamos el trigo vacilante
and we deliver to the night the unsteady wheat
que el mediodía obtuvo de la luz y la tierra.
that midday obtained from light and earth.

Sólo la luna en medio de su página pura
Only the moon in the middle of its pure page
sostiene las columnas del estuario del cielo,
supports the columns of the sky’s estuary,
la habitación adopta la lentitud del oro
the room adopts the sluggishness of gold
y van y van tus manos preparando la noche.
and your hands go to and fro preparing the night.

Oh amor, oh noche, oh cúpula cerrada por un río
O love, O night, O dome closed off by a river
de impenetrables aguas en la sombra del cielo
of impenetrable waters in the shadow of the sky
que destaca y sumerge sus uvas tempestuosas,
which highlights and submerges its stormy grapes,

hasta que sólo somos un solo espacio oscuro,
until we’re simply just a solitary dark space,
una copa en que cae la ceniza celeste,
a goblet in which celestial ashes fall,
una gota en el pulso de un lento y largo río.
a drop in the pulse of a lazy long river.

Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada. Cien sonetos de amor
1924, Pablo Neruda y Herederos de Pablo Neruda
1994, Random House Mondadori
Cuarta edición en U.S.A: febrero 2004

[English translation by JMN.]

(c) 2020 JMN. All rights reserved

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‘Business in Great Waters’

I jotted on the fly several snatches of phraseology that resonated with me today as I watched Prince Philip’s live-streamed funeral service on the BBC.

May what power that is deal graciously with those who mourn, and those who go down to the sea to occupy their business in great waters. (To the coffin:) May thy portion this day be in peace.

Strung together out of order from their hearing and with a slight periphrasis of mine, the phrases devise a hortatory reverential statement that I could imagine uttering, being myself neither practicing religionist nor monarchist.

To be honest, I tuned in for the promised trumpet fanfare. The confession I make is to a weakness for British grand ceremony. What preceded the trumpets had to be got through in order to reach the enjoyment of them.

The sacred music, admirably confined to four voices, was dominant and over-long as always. Several bars of fewer tunes would suffice.

The Dean’s unmannered reading of the text from Ecclesiastes was refreshing. I credit the British with knowing poetry is about words and not performance.

And the phrase “occupy their business in great waters” is what prompted this comment. It reminds me of how gloriously the King James translators foundered over Semitic turns in their source texts. In being literal with strangeness they forged from air the grandiose oddity of “biblical” English that even Englishmen revere.

*Image from WPA Pool/Getty Images, Mike Duff, “Prince Philip Spent His Life With Land Rovers, and This One Will Carry Him to His Funeral,” caranddriver.com, 4-16-21)

(c) 2021 JMN

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