Claro de reloj, The Light of the clock, Federico Garcia Lorca (#translation #illustration)

Tags

Federico Garcia Lorca, POETRY, Translation

By Phil Gennuso

Mi senté
en un claro del tiempo.
Era un remanso
de silencio,
de un blanco
silencio,
anillo formidable
donde los luceros
chocaban con los doce flotantes
números negros.

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I sat
in the clearness of time.
It was a place
of silence,
of white
silence,
a enormous ring
where the stars
collided with twelve floating
black numbers.

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(From Primeras canciones, 1922)

This early poem took quite awhile to both translate and illustrate. It is so brief, only ten lines, yet it reflects influences, directions, and meanings, many times that magnitude. Here we immediately detect the symbolist, the surrealist, the romantic, and perhaps most importantly, the young artist beginning to gain complete confidence and trust in his talent and mission.

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LAS CINCO (FIVE O’CLOCK) by Federico Lorca (#art #poetry #translation)

Tags

Art, Federico Lorca, Illustration, Las Cinco, Phil Gennuso, POETRY, Suites, Translation

By Phil Gennuso

Por la calle sin gente
pasa un caballo negre,
el caballo errabundó
de los malos sueños.

El aire del poniente
viene a lo lejos,
una ventana gime
con el viento.

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On a street without people
a black horse passes by,
the wandering horse
of our bad dreams.

The breezes from the west
arrive from far away,
a window sighs
with the wind.

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An early poem by the great Spanish poet, Federico Lorca.

Noviembre by Bruno H. Piche (Paragraphs #1, #2)

Tags

Bruno H. Piche, English Translation, Fiction, Noviembre, Phil Gennuso, Poetry/Prose, Spanish, Translation

Paragraph #2 Original

***** Paragraph/Page I. English translation
I have my reasons. I am a poet and a guerrilla, whether this is a bad or good combination is not important. What is important, however, is what will happen in this story.
*****

***** Paragraph/Page II. English translation
I was in a situation of conflict, a situation of war, a situation devoid of all sense of normalcy, even for a poet or a guerrilla.

*****
Noviembre is a short work of poetry/prose written by Canadian author Bruno H. Piche. It is written in Spanish. It consists of thirty-five short paragraphs, each on a single page. I am determined to do a translation of this work, one paragraph at a time. With each new release I will include the Spanish original for the new paragraph, and the English translations of all paragraphs translated thus far.
*****

*****
Comments:
I found this book at a Barnes and Noble, on Rt 17, Northern NJ. It is one of only five B&N stores that has a used book section, and in this case, a very large section at that. With so many used book stores going out of business, this section is a godsend, for a book, and art lover like me! I will tell you right up front – I took three years of Spanish quite some time ago, so I am familiar with the language, but I have to work on the translations.
What intrigued me about this small book, was the first paragraph, particularly the phrase, I am a poet and a guerrilla. Exactly! I too am part of this club! To be a poet in this age, don’t you have to be a guerrilla?

So begins the journey. I hope you will join.

Noviembre by Bruno H. Piche (Paragraph #1)

Tags

Bruno H. Piche, Fiction, Noviembre, Phil Gennuso, Translation

*****
I have my reasons. I am a poet and a guerrilla, whether this is a bad or good combination is not important. What is important, however, is what will happen in this story.
*****

*****
Noviembre is a short work of poetry/prose written by Canadian author Bruno H. Piche. It is written in Spanish. It consists of thirty-five short paragraphs, each on a single page. The only copy I have found of this intriguing work is this paperback edition, limited to 400 copies. I thought it would be worthwhile to translate and hopefully bring it to a larger audience. This is the first paragraph.
*****

Automne Malade from Alcools, by Apollinaire, My Free Hand Translation Into English With An Illustration

Tags

Alcools, Automne Malade, Digital Art, Phil Gennuso, Translation

by phil gennuso

Precious Autumn,
Dying and adored,

You face your inevitable end
When hurricanes batter the roses,
When blizzards of snow,
Fill the gardens

Poor Autumn,
Drowning in white and riches,
Snow and ripe fruit,

As in the deepest, bluest sky,
Magnificent hawks soar
Over laughing nymphs with green hair,
And dwarfs who have never loved

(In the distant wood,
Fresh stags roar)

How I love you Autumn!
How I love your whispers, your rumours!

The ripe fruit falls, wild, unpicked,
The wind and forest weep,
All their tears, Autumn, fall, leaf by leaf

The leaves
that swirl like crowds
The train
that rushes past
Life,
flowing by,
ebbing away.

*****

This poem was translated from the point of view of a New Yorker, living in the 21st century, who loves the New Yrok fall, perhaps more than any other season. As such this translation is contemporary, and has a somewhat Whitmanesque flavor. I would not be surprised if I revised this first try!

The poem comes from Alcools, the first published book of poetry by Apollinaire. I hope to translate all of these poems though this is a somewhat daunting project! I will start with the shorter ones first.