I'll walk that wall.
Leave behind,
Every dream that was trashed.
Plunge into the sea,
Proud and abide.
Linked to my own colour of time.
Everything I wanted untrue by design.
No matter the scars,
I'll look down upon.
Upon that long entrance,
Where darkness gulps you entire.
I'll walk that wall.
That's all I call.
Behind the glass there's past.
Severed.
Unknown.
A great empire.
Outside,
The rain.
Work to be done coming.
Mud to be removed.
It won't be magnificent.
I'll live under the unglory of today,
Pretending not to die till I find my place in world.
Hurry up and disappear,
The human’s here!
But I landed right on it….
Jump, jump, free!
On the wild weeds hidden be.
Unrelentingly curious,
The weeds moved aside.
Black eyes it stared and I:
Just a picture my good Sir?
Thanks, bye.
Plaf plaf plaf.
Bajito bajito.
Apenas como un suspiro,
Aliento de sol de un ratito.
Cuentas de mineral de oxígeno cortando el instante,
La luz era una sonrisa Polaroid.
Guardalo y enmarañalo.
Sácalo del cajón y examina.
Poco a poco hace sentido.
Torcido.
Minado.
Dañado.
Estás ahí,
Con años encima.
Estás así,
Con cobardía de sandía.
No muerto.
No vivo.
Esperando por un día.
Photo by Matthias Zomer on Pexels.com
En el alhajero del bosque,
Con joyas de goma que sueltan esporas.
Y gotas de vidrio que se evaporan.
Los tesoros se suman y se suceden con la fortuna lluvia.
Minucias de seda pobladas de oberones negro-amarilloque devoran las ropas de Titania.
Uno tras otro se develan bajo las cortinas de frondas.
Cabeza abajo,
En oscuros misterios.
Las alas se mueven.
El pico arremete.
Después,
De entre las hojas se pierde.
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Limp.
Hanging from those teeth.
What terror did you feel?
How could I teach?
This wolf turned into bitch,
By years and years of hefting I think.
Back to predator out of dry food's greed.
Euthanasia if you plead.
Disowning perhaps.
Whatever remains.
I'm sure I need to act.
But the fur kid smiles.
How to change what I can't?
Photo by Yves Chaput on Pexels.com
Without a name,
it jumped out the fence.
Its tail green sparks of daytime.
Name after name we got barely to d,
To go back to coop,
And find it just the hen inside.
Where did anonymous go?
Everything in a day,
Sadly the cockerel vanished and we lost our rhyme.
ORDER MATTERS
Thus, the order in which we present the elements does matter. It conditions the imagination to the following movement and the “what” we’re to tell.
Unfortunately, there are no magic formulas to know if 9, 8, 7 or 3, 6, 0 is better when telling a story. It is the writer, or the comic drawer who decides that. It is even your job to decide the cliffhanger. Something readers”hate” but need in order to remain interested.
ABOUT TRANSLATIONS
First, let me clear I demonstrated this in Spanish. English ain’t my mother tongue AND I’m a tad tone deaf. Of the possible 8 tones of the “ma” syllable in Chinese, I listen… None. However, I’m able to distinguish vowels in English. So, trying to figure this out in the atone, toned use of syllables for poetry in English won’t do1. I’ll translate, which probably won’t come through the way it is intended.
BORGES AND MUSICALITY
Borges does explain how the order of words mess up the musicality of verses in the way you will never be able to translate a poem written in a language to that same language, into what you would call a revised version.
<<Otra forma de traducción creo que es imposible, sobre todo si se piensa que dentro de un mismo idioma la traducción es imposible. Shakespeare es intraducible a otro inglés que no sea el suyo. Imaginemos una traducción literal de un verso de Darío:
Borges
«La princesa está pálida en su silla de oro» es literalmente igual a «En su silla de oro está pálida la princesa».
En el primer caso el verso es muy lindo, ¿no?, por lo menos para los fines musicales que él busca. Su traducción literal, en cambio, no es nada, no existe.»
<<Translation becomes impossible within the same language. Shakeaspeare can’t be rewritten in a different English, to his. This is another way in which translation becomes unthinkable. Let’s review a literal translation of a verse by Ruben Darío:
“In her gilded seat the pale princess be” is quite similar to “The pale princess is on her gilded chair”. The first case is lovelier than the second; given its musicality. The literal translation vanishes, it is nothing. 2>>
TO BE CONTINUED
