
This link is to an article by Vicki Warfield and conversation I had with Vicki in December. I hope you read it and enjoy it!
https://us4.campaign-archive.com/?u=4c0f316156312742402b0121c&id=d0fc84805e
This link is to an article by Vicki Warfield and conversation I had with Vicki in December. I hope you read it and enjoy it!
https://us4.campaign-archive.com/?u=4c0f316156312742402b0121c&id=d0fc84805e
BAH FUMISTERIE!
Je n’aime pas les jours de fêtes
Dont toute l’année paraît remplie,
Toutes les choses inaccomplies,
Les choix, qui terminent en défaite,
Des surprises toujours imparfaites
Achetées en pleine frénésie,
Je n’aime pas les jours de fêtes
Dont toute l’année parait remplie.
Même Noel, la fête surfaite,
Est devenu une maladie
De trop d’achats faits à crédit.
Tout ça me laisse insatisfaite.
Je n’aime pas les jours de fêtes.
translation:
BAH HUMBUG!
I dont much like holidays
With which the year seems filled
Everything left undone
Ending in defeat, my choice
Of surprises all imperfect
Bought in a frenzy
I don’t much like holidays
With which the year seems filled
Even Christmas that day of excess
Has become an illness,
too much bought on credit
All this leaves me unsatisfied.
I don’t much like holidays.
I have not shared here how utterly in love with the French language I have become. Last July, and I do not even remember exactly what happened but something did…last July I fell head over heels in love with French and all things Français. Like my other full blown long-term passions — field botany was the first, then poetry, then ——, then art, and now French — the transformation from someone who a few minutes before had no use for whatever it was — French in this case — into someone wildly passionate and devoted to the object of her desires happened in the space of moments. It was as usual truly like a religious “conversion experience”, no other expression adequately expresses this sort of Road to Damascus lightning strike experience. One minute I was just going along, doing art of course, and passionate about it, but having zilch interest in French…then with a nearly audible WHOMP! everything changes, as it changed last July and I literally transformed from someone who was at best lukewarm towards French, and France, to someone passionately in love!
i will write more about such experiences another time. (And never fear, my passion for art remains. ) but for now I wanted to share this poem, originally written in English for my book, LEARNING TO SEE IN THREE DIMENSIONS, but which last night I was moved to try to translate. If you perhaps are francophone and even a native speaker, I would LOVE any criticism or critique you might provide for how the French actually sounds to someone who knows it well.
Be that as it may, the translation in English, that is to say, the original version, is also below.
qui pourrait être assis, comme moi,
dans un fauteuil vert, un thé à la main
regardant à travers de la porche
jusqu’au lampadaire sans lumière au dehors du restaurant,
livre sur les genoux, le mien j’espérerais,
le seul livre que je dois évoquer
si j’évoque aucun livre dans un poème,
au lecteur, le méticuleux,
qui pourrait être se demandant pourquoi
sur la page 47 il y a deux « et »
l’un après l’autre, et à qui est la faute,
et au lecteur qui est peut-être fatigué
après un long trajet en bus chez lui
après un repas qui ne valait rien,
un lecteur qui ramasse mon livre, mais s’endort
avant de l’ouvrir, à tous je dis : Pardonnez-moi
je ne suis qu’une écrivaine, assise
dans un fauteuil vert, un thé à la main,
je ne peux pas expliquer ces deux « et »
ni le lampadaire mystérieux
ni réchauffer les pieds d’un lecteur fatigué
dans son lit. Je ne peux que mettre la musique
et raconter histoires
pour que des films tournent dans la tête,
pour le réveiller avec la compréhension soudaine
que c’est la poésie qui peut faire achever la vie,
eh bien, il peut faire achever ma vie au moins,
et peut être la sienne, et peut-être la vie
d’un méticuleux, et votre vie aussi,
tous ici assis, regardant à travers de la porche
jusqu’au lampadaire sans lumière,
là où ce qui se passe si mystérieusement
est de la poésie –
et la nuit entière est enveloppée
dans les mots dits par deux étrangers
qui là se rencontrent,
ou peut-être les mots non-dits,
ce qui est de la poésie aussi,
et tous qui écoutent, nous attendons
la musique de ce qui se passera.
—————————-
TO THE reader
who may be sitting as I am
in a green recliner with a cup of tea
staring out through the porch
to a darkened streetlamp outside the diner,
with a book in her lap, mine, I hope
the only one I feel I should have to mention
if I mention a book in a poem I write;
to the reader, the nitpicker, the one
who may be wondering why
on p. 47 there are two ands, one
right after another, and whose fault that is;
and to the reader, who may be tired
after a long ride home on the bus
after dark and a meal not worth mentioning
who picks up my book but finds his eyes
closing before he has opened the cover,
I say: Forgive me
I am only a writer sitting in a green recliner
with a cup of tea, I can’t explain
those two ands or the mysterious
streetlamp or warm the feet of a tired
reader in his bed. I can only put music on
and tell him stories to make movies
turn in his head, to let him wake
with the sudden understanding that poetry
may be all it takes to make a life—
well, my life at any rate, and maybe his,
and maybe the nitpicker’s and yours, too,
staring through the porch to the streetlamp
where what happens so mysteriously ispoetry—
and the whole night is wrapped
in the words spoken by two strangers
meeting there, or not spoken, which is poetry too,
and all of us who listen are waiting
for the music of what is to happen.
M.
Phoebe’s translation:
Ever since we were kids,
My friend, we struggled,
But now that we are men
I want to put the oars/ struggles behind us
If tears come to you
Come then, and give them to me
Gypsy men and women
This is what we were made for
Tiago, I have taken the time to write you
A song in a thousand smiles
Tiago I have put in the time to say it
But my friend, I will be here for the worst
Whoever makes fun of you
Also makes fun of me
In 20 years you will see
How we will laugh (about it)
If that turns into a fight
We will play it four-handed
Gypsies
God gives us fists (for this purpose)
Tiago, I have taken the time to write you
A song in a thousand smiles
Tiago I have put in the time to say it,
But my friend, I will be here for the worst.
My friend, Tiago.
(Repeated)
The girlfriend who leaves
And will never return
It’s about time for us to see each other, yes,
And talk about you
If your heart is broken
Bring it here now
Gypsies,
We are good repairmen.
Tiago, I have taken the time to write you
A song in a thousand smiles
Tiago I have put in the time to say it,
But Tiago my friend…
Tiago, I have taken the time to write you
A song in a thousand smiles
Tiago I have put in the time to say it
But my friend I will be here for the worst.
Tiago
including this one
Not sure why link is not working but if you click on it you will get to Disability Arts Onljne, from there go to magazine, then click on newest reviews. The second one in, so far, should be about O-rings and Cathode Rays, that is to say, the review.
i will try posting this address which may copy and paste better than the link does.
see my comment at the bottom of the review
Phoebe Spiro Wagner: Learning to See in Three Dimensions – O-Rings and Cathode Rays
(Sung to the tune of Danny Boy)
Oh Donny boy, republicans are gawking
Your racist house of cards won’t long abide
The Dems are here and Michael Cohen’s talking.
If it’s all true, impeachment’s justified:
The loans you got, the tax bills you evaded
The conning schemes and hushed-up bribes you paid,
Your wall, your wall, which Mexico won’t subsidize
Its clear that you won’t get that Nobel prize…
But we won’t care or listen to your keening
We won’t weep moats for loss of your golf greens
We’ll celebrate by speaking truth to trumpery
We’ll speak it loud, from sea to shining sea.
So slink you back, in orange jumpsuit, cowering,
Mike, Paul and Rog will go to jail unbowed
It’s not fake news we’ve caught you with your panties down
Oh Donny boy, oh Donny boy, who’s winning now?
by phoebe sparrow wagner 3/2019
TCK stories
Ressources, conseils et astuces pour apprendre les langues
An artist should never be a prisoner of himself, prisoner of style, prisoner of reputation, prisoner of success. Henri Matisse
The opinions expressed are those of the author. You go get your own opinions.
What sense in chaos.
A pause to admire nature's unparalleled beauty.
Strange Anatomy, Awkward Perspectives and I, Haiku Books For You
The World's leading success industry
Punishment is just Abuse with an Excuse
Thoughts on all things Autism and mental health
Not your third grade paper mache
art. popular since 10,000 BC
Smidgens
All content copyright (c) 2017-2019 by the author.
Artwork, data analysis, and other projects by Jon
My Life is Art, My Art is Life
“In India when we meet and part we Often say, ‘Namaste’, which means: I honor the place in you where the entire universe resides; I honor the place in you of love, of light, of truth, of peace. I honor the place within you where if you are in that place in you and I am in that place in me, there is only one of us." ~~Ram Dass~~
TCK stories
Ressources, conseils et astuces pour apprendre les langues
An artist should never be a prisoner of himself, prisoner of style, prisoner of reputation, prisoner of success. Henri Matisse
The opinions expressed are those of the author. You go get your own opinions.
What sense in chaos.
A pause to admire nature's unparalleled beauty.
Strange Anatomy, Awkward Perspectives and I, Haiku Books For You
The World's leading success industry
Punishment is just Abuse with an Excuse
Thoughts on all things Autism and mental health
Not your third grade paper mache
art. popular since 10,000 BC
Smidgens
All content copyright (c) 2017-2019 by the author.