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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
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Alardea, enfatiza.
¿Tanto así?
Yo no diría.
Su sonrisa, una bailarina en la pista.
Lentejuelas que brillan.
A la noche,
Tu parloteo,
Lejano y sin vida.
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Home she gets and there,
among books she stays.
Feet over the couch,
Table for tea and on her knees the crumbs.
Out she goes and surrounded by tales she works.
Describing every fish and stone, the words.
A lily or headpiece.
A meaningful stream of sorts.
She reaches her hand,
By size or hue,
Flickering they come.
Endless, in white.
Inky and not finite.
Comet like, frail stars.
And as she turns back,
At infinite dark damned waters she stares large.
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Je veux de être le renard.
Je veux de regarder la mer et pensant que je regard ton yeux.
Noirs? La profondeur mere.
Bleus? La couleur de la surface.
Vertes? Le changeume eau.
Le couleur est rien.
Je veux de être apprivoiser.
Je veux de savoir que tu est ici.
Une heure de toujours.
Un toujours de les jours.
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Rain came upon,
I was aware cold was to follow.
Hence I was waiting blossoms to pop.
What I got was rotting,
nothing more.
Am I strong enough to keep sending seeds to the wind?
To patiently seek them sprouts?
Shouldn't I just declare defeat and about?
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Listen to the night,
Chirping high,
Ultrasonic engulfing buzzing b's.
Go to sleep to its lullaby,
The darkness fresher than the scorching light.
Good bye.
Dream about me,
Feet into the star stream.
Mind wandering.
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De colores únicos,
Algunos sin pareja.
Otros que danzan en corro.
Dulces y apetitosos.
Baratijas en el fondo de una caja de galletas.
Brillantes tesoros,
Cuando uno solo;
Lo repara todo.
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Flop flop flop
Up and down.
She runs in black pumps.
Auch, my toe!
Wool unbrushed coat.
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Look around.
The gray invades,
It blurries the trees.
Hides perspectives.
The flowerpots flooded,
The ground barely sprinkled.
Subtle spray to the breeze,
Tickling the leaves.
Growing the day,
The sun beams dissolve its mist.
Sparkles of saturated tints,
Faded to thirst.
And so,
It drizzled.