For a long time I said I didn’t like translations and that made me learn many languages so I could afford to read only original versions. Especially poetry. I’ve always been a huge fan of poetry and I couldn’t stand the fact that I wouldn’t be reading the original thoughts of the poet if I read translations.
I’ve been writing in English for a long time and I wouldn’t start to writing in my native language now just because for some alien reason I feel closer to it (would it be the ascension of humanity or the alignment of the planets?). Or so I thought.
I wrote this book, Mulher Poesia, in a week. The title translates to Poetry Woman, because poetry is a feminine noun in Portuguese, but it wouldn’t make sense in English because you don’t separate every word by gender in English. And that’s why I have always hated translations. Each language has its own imagery. As I was writing that book, though, I found context to add some of my English poems in it, translated. And as I translated my own foreign language poems into my mother tongue, I understood how unfair I had been with the craft of translation — which I still have my issues with, but which importance now I can recognise.
So, I present to you the Epilogue of Mulher Poesia, in Portuguese (read the English version after it). I chose the Epilogue to share because I wrote it in Portuguese first and thought it would write well in English; and also, because it is concluded and should be published along the next months in Brazil and Portugal.
O Segredo da Linguagem…
O segredo da linguagem sempre me consumiu E a forma como usa a língua, é tudo que me atrai em um homem Fui por tempos sua Beatriz libertina, mais velha que Beatriz jamais foi Submersa em um mar de palavras excomungadas pelo clero Da aclamada vida doméstica Palavras estas que saíram de sua língua depois de usá-la com tom de professor dentro Ato: A Pequena Morte La petite mort dos morbidamente românticos franceses Me disseram que tenho sabor italiano Gosto di peccato cattolico romano Sigo rumo a l’horloge que me da uma data de validade avec sa voix d'insecte Quebro o relógio e jogo os destroços nas águas dos meus oceanos É uma pena que antes dos 30 e antes de dizer as últimas linhas, Morrera Beatriz O segredo da linguagem sempre esteve entre minhas pernas
And the English version, since it is my own poem, is more than a translation. After all, I like to dream.
The Secret of Language…
The secret of language has always consumed me to the point that The only thing that makes a man interesting to me is his knowhow of the craft of tonguing I’ve been his Beatrice undone, older than Beatrice has ever been Submerged in an ocean of words excommunicated by the clergy Of the acclaimed domestic life Words that came out of his tongue after using it with academic expertise inside L’Acte: La Petite Mort I’ve been told I have sapore Italiano Sapore di peccato cattolico romano But I feel like I was born to mourir la petite mort Every time he introduces his tongue La mise en scène: Simbolism I go towards l’horloge: it gives me an expiration date avec sa voix d'insecte I break it, throw the havoc into the waters of my oceans It’s a pity before thirty, before saying the last lines Beatrice died— The secret of language has always been in between my legs
I hope I can find a way to translate the whole book into English someday. Perhaps when the Present Perfect becomes tired to perfection.
Thank you for reading.
Love,
A
The Translation and The Poem and the book I wrote in a week
I’ve been getting back into Robert Duncan, and the more I read his and your poetry, the more I see a connection. His “Structure of Rime” sequence in particular.