PABLO NERUDA POETRY

Meghan de Chastelain, Sasha Soomro,, Rachael Seabourne, Katrina Dods, Serisha Iyar

John Felstiner Went to Stanford in 1965 Professor of English Taught North American poetry in Chile in

1967-68 and that led to Translating Neruda: The Way to Macchu Picchu (1980)

Won Commonwealth Club of California Gold Medal

Forrest Gander Majored in geology Received an MA in literature from San

Francisco State University Translator and has an interest in poetry

from Spain, Latin America, and Japan

Robert Hass American poet Graduated from St. Mary's College in

Moraga, California in 1963 Received MA and Ph.D in English from

Stanford University Recognized as leading critic and

translator

Jack Hirschman Earned degrees from City College of New

York and Indiana University Comparative literature Professor at UCLA in the 1970s Communist since 1980 Russian, French, German, Greek, Italian,

Spanish, Albanian, Yiddish, Vietnamese, and Creole

The Fable of the MermaidEdited by Mark Eisner Estravagario (ie. Mr. Stewart)

All these gentleman were there inside when she entered, utterly naked. they had been drinking, and began to spit at her recently come from the river, she understand nothing she was a mermaid who had lost her way the taunts flowed over her glistening flesh obscenities drenched her golden breasts a stranger to tears, she did not weep a stranger to clothes, she did not dress they pocked her with cigarette ends and with burnt corks rolled on the tavern floor with laughtershe did not speak, since speech was unknown to herher eyes were the colour of faraway love her arms were matching topazes her lips moved soundlessly in coral light and ultimately, she left by that door scarcely had she entered the river than she was cleansed gleaming once more like a white stone in the rainand without a backward look, she swam to her dying.

All those men were there inside, When she came in totally naked. They had been drinking: they began to spit. Newly come from the river, she knew nothing. She was a mermaid who had lost her way. The insults flowed down her gleaming flesh. Obscenities drowned her golden breasts.Not knowing tears, she did not weep tears. Not knowing clothes, she did not have clothes. They blackened her with burnt corks and cigarette stubs, and rolled around laughing on the tavern floor. She did not speak because she had no speech. Her eyes were the colour of distant love, her twin arms were made of white topaz. Her lips moved, silent, in a coral light, and suddenly she went out by that door. Entering the river she was cleaned,

Shining like a white stone in the rain, and without looking back she swam again

Walking AroundTranslated by Donald Walsh Translated by Robert Bly

I happen to be tired of being a man. I happen to enter tailorshops and moviehouses withered, impenetrable, felt like a swan navigating in a water of sources and ashes.  

The smell of barbershops makes me wail. I want only a respite of stones or wool, I want only not to see establishments or gardens, or merchandise, or eyeglasses, or elevators.  I happen to be tired of my feet and my nails and my hair and my shadow. I happen to be tired of being a man.  Nevertheless it would be delightful to startle a notary with a cut lily or kill a nun with a blow to the ear. It would be lovely to go through the streets with a sexy knife and shouting until I froze to death.

It so happens I am sick of being a man. And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.  The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs. The only thing I want is to lie still likes stones or wool. The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens, no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.  It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails and my hair and my shadow. It so happens that I am sick of being a man.  Still it would be marvelous to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily, or kill a nun with a blow on the ear. It would be great to go through the streets with a green knife letting out yells until I died of the cold.

Translated by Donald Walsh Translated by Robert Bly

I don't want to go on being a root in the dark, vacillating, stretched out, shivering with sleep, downward, in the soaked guts of the earth, absorbing and thinking, eating each day.  I do not want for myself so many misfortunes. I do not want to continue as root and tomb, just underground, a vault with corpsesstiff with cold, dying of distress.  This is why Monday day burns like petroleum when it sees me coming with my jailbird face, and as it passes it howls like a wounded wheel, and it takes hot-blooded steps toward the night.  

And it pushes me into certain corners, into certain moist houses, into hospitals where the bones stick out the windows, into certain shoestores with a smell of vinegar, into streets as frightening as chasms.

I don’t want to go on being a root in the dark, insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep, going on down, into the moist guts of the earth, taking in and thinking, eating every day.  I don't want so much misery. I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb, alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses, half frozen, dying of grief.  That's why Monday, when it sees me coming with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline, and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.  And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses, into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,

into shoeshops that smell like vinegar, and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

Translated by Donald Walsh Translated by Robert Bly

There are brimstone-colored birds and horrible intestines hanging from the doors of the houses that I hate, there are dentures left forgotten in a coffeepot, there are mirrors that ought to have wept from shame and fright, there are umbrellas everywhere, and poisons, and navels.  I walk around with calm, with eyes, with shoes, with fury, with forgetfulness, I pass, I cross by offices and orthopedic shoestores, and courtyards where clothes are hanging from a wire: underdrawers, towels, shirts that weep slow, dirty tears.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestineshanging over the doors of houses that I hate, and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot, there are mirrors that ought to have wept from shame and terror, there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.  

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything, I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops, and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:

underwear, towels and shirts from which slow dirty tears are falling.

Fábula de la sirena y los borrachos

Fable of the Mermaid and the drunks

Todas estos señores estaban dentro cuando ella entró completamente desnuda ellos habían bebido y comenzaron a escupirla ella no entendía nada recién salía del ríoera una sirena que se había extraviado los insultos corrían sobre su carne lisa la inmundicia cubrió sus pechos de oroella no sabía llorar por eso no lloraba no sabía vestirse por eso no se vestía la tatuaron con cigarrillos y con corchos quemados y reían hasta caer al suelo de la taberna ella no hablaba porque no sabía hablar sus ojos eran color de amor distante sus brazos construidos de topacios gemelos sus labios se cortaron en la luz del coral y de pronto salió por esa puerta apenas entró al río quedó limpia relució como una piedra blanca en la lluvia y sin mirar atrás nadó de nuevo nadó hacia nunca más hacia morir.

All these gentlemen were withinwhen she walked naked they had drunk and start spittingshe did not understand just left the river was a mermaid who had lost insults upon his flesh smoothly running filth covered her breasts gold she did not know why she was not crying mourn dressing did not know why not dress the tattooed with burnt corks and cigarette and laughed until he fell to the floor of the tavern she did not speak because he could not speak his eyes were the colour of distant love his arms constructed twin topazes his lips were cut into light coral and suddenly walked out that door just entered the river was clean shone like a white stone in the rain and without looking back she swam again swam to never die.

Mark Eisner Estravagario (Mr. Stewart)

All these gentleman were there inside when she entered, utterly naked. they had been drinking, and began to spit at her recently come from the river, she understand nothing she was a mermaid who had lost her way the taunts flowed over her glistening flesh obscenities drenched her golden breasts a stranger to tears, she did not weep a stranger to clothes, she did not dress they pocked her with cigarette ends and with burnt corks

All those men were there inside, When she came in totally naked. They had been drinking: they began to spit. Newly come from the river, she knew nothing. She was a mermaid who had lost her way. The insults flowed down her gleaming flesh. Obscenities drowned her golden breasts.Not knowing tears, she did not weep tears. Not knowing clothes, she did not have clothes. They blackened her with burnt corks and cigarette stubs,

Huge difference in connotation between “gentle” men and “men

Understand –

signifies intelligenc

e is still present;

knew suggests

she is completely

incapable of thought

Synonyms

Mark Eisner Estravagario (Mr. Stewart)

rolled on the tavern floor with laughtershe did not speak, since speech was unknown to herher eyes were the colour of faraway love her arms were matching topazes her lips moved soundlessly in coral light and ultimately, she left by that door scarcely had she entered the river than she was cleansed gleaming once more like a white stone in the rainand without a backward look, she swam to her dying.

and rolled around laughing on the tavern floor. She did not speak because she had no speech. Her eyes were the colour of distant love, her twin arms were made of white topaz. Her lips moved, silent, in a coral light, and suddenly she went out by that door. Entering the river she was cleaned, Shining like a white stone in the rain, and without looking back she swam again

Didn’t know how to, rather than being incapable of doing it

Why ’twin’ arms? What does that

signify and is it

that importan

t if it is not

included in the other

translation?

Perhaps a

symbol of

purity? –

Perhaps a

saying in

Spanish?

Suddenly – suggests urgency, rather than ultimately which suggests in her own time

Very quickly

Conclusions Therefore – very obviously different

translations In one – she ‘swims again’ In the other – she swims to her death

The first translation (Mark Eisner) – very polished language All the new lines start with lowercase letters

The second translation (Estravagario) – more simple, easy language More capitals/punctuation (perhaps

intended for a younger audience?

Donald Walsh Robert Bly I happen to be tired of being a man. I happen to enter tailorshops and moviehouses

withered, impenetrable, felt like a swan navigating in a water of sources and ashes.  The smell of barbershops makes me wail.

I want only a respite of stones or wool, I want only not to see establishments or gardens,

or merchandise, or eyeglasses, or elevators.

It so happens I am sick of being a man. And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.  The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs. The only thing I want is to lie still likes stones or wool. The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens, no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

Tired – annoyed; Sick – unbearable

Impenetrable - can’t

be touched;

waterproof – slides off

you

To feel like a swan vs. a swan that is made of felt

Completely different Wail and

sobs have two different connotations

Needs relief vs.

just wanting to

sit down (different

urgency between

the 2)

Rearrangement of words

Donald Walsh Robert Bly I happen to be tired of my feet and my nails and my hair and my shadow. I happen to be tired of being a man.  Nevertheless it would be delightful to startle a notary with a cut lily or kill a nun with a blow to the ear. It would be lovely to go through the streets with a sexy knife and shouting until I froze to death.

It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails and my hair and my shadow. It so happens that I am sick of being a man.  Still it would be marvelous

to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily, or kill a nun with a blow on the ear. It would be great to go through the streets with a green knife letting out yells until I died of the cold.

Different connotation: startle (surprise); terrify (pee-your-pants scared)

Lovely – stronger adjective than great

HUGE difference between sexy and green – perhaps a Spanish saying?

Donald Walsh Robert Bly I don't want to go on being a root in the dark, vacillating, stretched out, shivering with sleep, downward, in the soaked guts of the earth, absorbing and thinking, eating each day.  I do not want for myself so many misfortunes. I do not want to continue as root and tomb, just underground, a vault with corpsesstiff with cold, dying of distress.

I don’t want to go on being a root in the dark, insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep, going on down, into the moist guts of the earth, taking in and thinking, eating every day.  I don't want so much misery. I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb, alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,

half frozen, dying of grief.

Vacillating – wavering; Insecure – not confident

Soaked vs. moist

Underground – no emotion attached; alone – automatically attaches a feeling

Grief/distress – different meanings

Donald Walsh Robert Bly This is why Monday day burns like petroleum when it sees me coming with my jailbird face, and as it passes it howls like a wounded wheel, and it takes hot-blooded steps toward the night.   And it pushes me into certain corners, into certain moist houses, into hospitals where the bones stick out the windows, into certain shoestores with a smell of vinegar, into streets as frightening as chasms.

That's why Monday, when it sees me coming with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline, and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.  And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses, into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,

into shoeshops that smell like vinegar, and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

Completely different orders

First translation

– doesn’t leave a

mark; second

translation – tracks

full of blood

Stick out – present only; fly out – escape Chasms –

usually in rocks;

cracks in skin –

specific to body

Donald Walsh Robert Bly There are brimstone-colored birds and horrible intestines hanging from the doors of the houses that I hate, there are dentures left forgotten in a coffeepot, there are mirrors that ought to have wept from shame and fright, there are umbrellas everywhere, and poisons, and navels.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines

hanging over the doors of houses that I hate, and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot, there are mirrors that ought to have wept from shame and terror, there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.

Different meanings entirely

Donald Walsh Robert Bly I walk around with calm, with eyes, with shoes, with fury, with forgetfulness,

I pass, I cross by offices and orthopedic shoestores,

and courtyards where clothes are hanging from a wire: underdrawers, towels, shirts that weep slow, dirty tears.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything, I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops, and courtyards with washing hanging from the line: underwear, towels and shirts from which slow dirty tears are falling.

Different

Katrina

Different poets apply their own writing styles to poems in

translation Does this lead to a changed

interpretation for the reader?

Katrina Poems differ in:

Poetic flow

Directness of language

Grammatical style Word connotation

Uses of different imagery and motifs

The Fable of the MermaidEdited by Mark Eisner Estravagario (ie. Mr. Stewart)

All these gentleman were there inside when she entered, utterly naked. they had been drinking, and began to spit at her recently come from the river, she understand nothing she was a mermaid who had lost her way the taunts flowed over her glistening flesh obscenities drenched her golden breasts a stranger to tears, she did not weep a stranger to clothes, she did not dress they pocked her with cigarette ends and with burnt corks rolled on the tavern floor with laughtershe did not speak, since speech was unknown to herher eyes were the colour of faraway love her arms were matching topazes her lips moved soundlessly in coral light and ultimately, she left by that door scarcely had she entered the river than she was cleansed gleaming once more like a white stone in the rainand without a backward look, she swam to her dying.

All those men were there inside, When she came in totally naked. They had been drinking: they began to spit. Newly come from the river, she knew nothing. She was a mermaid who had lost her way. The insults flowed down her gleaming flesh. Obscenities drowned her golden breasts.Not knowing tears, she did not weep tears. Not knowing clothes, she did not have clothes. They blackened her with burnt corks and cigarette stubs, and rolled around laughing on the tavern floor. She did not speak because she had no speech. Her eyes were the colour of distant love, her twin arms were made of white topaz. Her lips moved, silent, in a coral light, and suddenly she went out by that door. Entering the river she was cleaned,

Shining like a white stone in the rain, and without looking back she swam again

Walking AroundTranslated by Donald Walsh Translated by Robert Bly

I happen to be tired of being a man. I happen to enter tailorshops and moviehouses withered, impenetrable, felt like a swan navigating in a water of sources and ashes.  

The smell of barbershops makes me wail. I want only a respite of stones or wool, I want only not to see establishments or gardens, or merchandise, or eyeglasses, or elevators.  I happen to be tired of my feet and my nails and my hair and my shadow. I happen to be tired of being a man.  Nevertheless it would be delightful to startle a notary with a cut lily or kill a nun with a blow to the ear. It would be lovely to go through the streets with a sexy knife and shouting until I froze to death.

It so happens I am sick of being a man. And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.  The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs. The only thing I want is to lie still likes stones or wool. The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens, no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.  It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails and my hair and my shadow. It so happens that I am sick of being a man.  Still it would be marvelous to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily, or kill a nun with a blow on the ear. It would be great to go through the streets with a green knife letting out yells until I died of the cold.

Translated by Donald Walsh Translated by Robert Bly

I don't want to go on being a root in the dark, vacillating, stretched out, shivering with sleep, downward, in the soaked guts of the earth, absorbing and thinking, eating each day.  I do not want for myself so many misfortunes. I do not want to continue as root and tomb, just underground, a vault with corpsesstiff with cold, dying of distress.  This is why Monday day burns like petroleum when it sees me coming with my jailbird face, and as it passes it howls like a wounded wheel, and it takes hot-blooded steps toward the night.  

And it pushes me into certain corners, into certain moist houses, into hospitals where the bones stick out the windows, into certain shoestores with a smell of vinegar, into streets as frightening as chasms.

I don’t want to go on being a root in the dark, insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep, going on down, into the moist guts of the earth, taking in and thinking, eating every day.  I don't want so much misery. I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb, alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses, half frozen, dying of grief.  That's why Monday, when it sees me coming with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline, and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.  And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses, into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,

into shoeshops that smell like vinegar, and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

Translated by Donald Walsh Translated by Robert Bly

There are brimstone-colored birds and horrible intestines hanging from the doors of the houses that I hate, there are dentures left forgotten in a coffeepot, there are mirrors that ought to have wept from shame and fright, there are umbrellas everywhere, and poisons, and navels.  I walk around with calm, with eyes, with shoes, with fury, with forgetfulness, I pass, I cross by offices and orthopedic shoestores, and courtyards where clothes are hanging from a wire: underdrawers, towels, shirts that weep slow, dirty tears.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestineshanging over the doors of houses that I hate, and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot, there are mirrors that ought to have wept from shame and terror, there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.  

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything, I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops, and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:

underwear, towels and shirts from which slow dirty tears are falling.