We and They

Father and Mother, and Me,

Sister and Auntie say

All the people like us are We,

And every one else is They.

And They live over the sea,

While We live over the way,

But-would you believe it? – They look upon We

As only a sort of They!

 

We eat pork and beef

With cow-horn-handled knives.

They who gobble Their rice off a leaf,

Are horrified out of Their lives;

While they who live up a tree,

And feast on grubs and clay,

(Isn’t it scandalous? ) look upon We

As a simply disgusting They!

 

We shoot birds with a gun.

They stick lions with spears.

Their full-dress is un-.

We dress up to Our ears.

They like Their friends for tea.

We like Our friends to stay;

And, after all that, They look upon We

As an utterly ignorant They!

 

We eat kitcheny food.

We have doors that latch.

They drink milk or blood,

Under an open thatch.

We have Doctors to fee.

They have Wizards to pay.

And (impudent heathen!) They look upon We

As a quite impossible They!

 

All good people agree,

And all good people say,

All nice people, like Us, are We

And every one else is They:

But if you cross over the sea,

Instead of over the way,

You may end by (think of it!) looking on We

As only a sort of They!

 

Joseph Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

Alberto Caeiro’s way

A. Caeiro’s way

The invisible hand of the wind

skirts over the grasses

When it lets go,

jumping between the green intervals

crimson poppies

yellow daisies together

and some other blue flowers

that you couldn’t see straightaway

 

I don’t have whom to love

nor life that I want

nor death that I steal

Through me

like through the grasses

a wind that only bends them

to let them be what they were

passes

Also through me

a desire uselessly blows

the stems of my intentions

the flowers of what I imagine

and everything turns to what it was

with nothing that takes place.

 

Non-official translation from the original in Portuguese: “A mão invisível do vento…(À la manière de A. Caeiro)”, Ricardo Reis (Fernando Pessoa, 1888-1935).

If you want to read the Spanish version of this poem, follow this link:

https://elmatallana.com/2015/10/12/la-mano-invisible-del-vientoa-la-manera-de-a-caeiro/

 

For more information, visit:

http://arquivopessoa.net/textos/2162

http://www.pessoa.eu/

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/fernando-pessoa

 

Poem in Hindi translated into English* and Spanish** – Poema en Hindi traducido al inglés* y al español**

poemaabhi01-12-2016

Abhishek Kiran Dani

 

07.12.2016

 

Again, after another journey, I am standing on the same door

with restlessness: Should I go in or out, another world to explore?

I am afraid to approach the bright light that is ahead

in the familiar darkness inside, now I feel, I can rest my head.

 

De nuevo, después de otro viaje, estoy de pie frente a la misma puerta

con inquietud: ¿Debo entrar o salir, otro mundo por descubrir?

Tengo miedo de acercarme a la luz brillante que me espera

en la oscuridad familiar de adentro, siento ahora, puedo descansar mi cabeza.

 

*In the attached image you can see how the original poem in Hindi looks like. I would like to express my immense gratitude to Abhishek Kiran Dani (Abhi), the talented author of this poem. Abhi kindly helped me to translate his work into words that people from many places could understand.

Although it is impossible to translate the visual beauty of this unique poem, I hope these words can help you to nourish your powerful imagination.

 

**En la imagen adjunta puedes ver cómo se ve el poema original en Hindi. Estoy inmensamente agradecido con el talentoso autor de este poema, Abhishek Kiran Dani (Abhi), por ayudarme a traducir su trabajo en palabras que personas de muchos lugares pueden entender.

Aunque es imposible traducir la belleza visual de este poema único, espero que estas palabras te ayuden a alimentar tu poderosa imaginación.

 

El Matallana

Memória/Memory – Carlos Drummond de Andrade

– Original:

 

Memória

 

Amar o perdido

deixa confundido

este coração.

 

Nada pode o olvido

contra o sem sentido

apelo do Não.

 

As coisas tangíveis

tornam-se insensíveis

à palma da mão.

 

Mas as coisas findas,

muito mais que lindas,

essas ficarão.

 

– My non official translation for Johanna von Kietzell:

 

Memory

 

To love what is lost

leaves this heart

confused.

 

The oblivion can´t do anything

against the meaningless

appeal of No.

 

Tangible things

turn to be intangible

at the palm of the hand.

 

But the things that finished,

so much more than beautiful,

those will remain.

 

Carlos Drummond de Andrade (1902 – 1987)

 

For more information:

http://www.projetomemoria.art.br/drummond/

https://www.letras.com/carlos-drummond-de-andrade/818513/

Separación

Te vas a separar

de los árboles de magnolias

y de los regocijados pájaros

 

de tu casa

y de las manos

que la hacen habitable

 

de la obstinada costumbre

de abrir los ojos

y cerrarlos

cuando el sueño te llama

 

de la palabra

que te ha creado

 

Te vas a separar

de tu sombra

que toda la vida

te persiguió en la luz

 

La tierra se va a separar

de ti

y tu amor a ella

 

Traducción no oficial de “Trennung” de Rose Ausländer (1901-1988)

 

Encuentra la versión original en alemán (das Gedicht auf Deutsch):

https://elmatallana.com/2016/04/29/trennung/

Trennung

Du wirst dich trennen
von den Magnolienbäumen
und den jubilierenden Vögeln

von deinem Haus
und den Händen
die es bewohnbar machen

von der hartnäckigen Gewohnheit
die Augen aufzuschlagen
und zu schließen
wenn der Traum dich ruft

vom Wort
das dich erschaffen hat

Du wirst dich trennen
von deinem Schatten
der dich lebenslang
verfolgte im Licht

Die Erde wird sich trennen
von dir
und deiner Liebe zu ihr

 

Rose Ausländer (1901-1988)

 

Die Übersetzung ins Spanische (la traducción en castellano):

https://elmatallana.com/2016/04/29/separacion/

Soneto de Fidelidade

De tudo ao meu amor serei atento
Antes, e com tal zelo, e sempre, e tanto
Que mesmo em face do maior encanto
Dele se encante mais meu pensamento.

Quero vivê-lo em cada vão momento
E em seu louvor hei de espalhar meu canto
E rir meu riso e derramar meu pranto
Ao seu pesar ou seu contentamento

E assim, quando mais tarde me procure
Quem sabe a morte, angústia de quem vive
Quem sabe a solidão, fim de quem ama

Eu possa me dizer do amor (que tive):
Que não seja imortal, posto que é chama
Mas que seja infinito enquanto dure.

Vinicius de Moraes (1913-1980)