Jacob Rhodes 
Translator

on Lyrikline: 31 poems translated

from: الكاتالوينية to: الانجليزية

Original

Translation

[Casaré els dies moribunds]

الكاتالوينية | Pol Guasch

Casaré els dies moribunds —hi haurà ferida—,
la porta s’obrirà —la llum més clara—,
i el rostre sense forma —una brasa—
farà que es fongui el plor a sobre el marbre.
La desfeta, una envestida, recordar:
hi ha mirada enllà
una claror
on agafar-se?

© LaBreu Edicions
from: Tanta gana
Barcelona: LaBreu Edicions, 2018
Audio production: Institut Ramon Llull

[I shall marry these moribund days]

الانجليزية

I shall marry these moribund days -there shall be wounds –
the door will open -the brighter light-
and a shapeless face -an ember-
will leave our weeping drooped on the marble floor.
The meltdown, an assault, to remember:
is there anything beyond,
a dawn’s light,
to grab on to?

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

[Jo et diria, amiga meva]

الكاتالوينية | Pol Guasch

Jo et diria, amiga meva,

que no hi ha ni risc, ni mort, ni vida, ni tan sols un altre astre on
puguem desfer el camí i plantar de nou els plataners, plantar de nou les
buguenvíl·lies, plantar de nou arrels molt fondes i fruits sucosos de

vellut que facin els dies molt més amples i les nits molt més brillants;
però si no hi ha ni risc, ni mort, ni vida, ni tampoc un altre oceà on
sucar el cos i no enfonsar-se, ni un altre cel on respirar i no desfer-se,
escolta’m bé que sols vull dir-te:

agafa fort aquest no-viure i el seu arrossegar-se pels camins, agafa’l fort
i digues vine, vine amb mi fns a la fondària del glaçar, fns a l’esvoranc
del precipici, fins a l’entrada del volcà, fns a la punta d’aquell llamp. I
quan siguem just en el límit:

deixem-nos anar la mà.

© LaBreu Edicions
from: Tanta gana
Barcelona: LaBreu Edicions, 2018
Audio production: Institut Ramon Llull

[I’d say to you, my good friend]

الانجليزية

I’d say to you, my good friend,

that there is neither risk, nor death, nor life, not even a star on which we could melt
away the path we have made and plant anew those plane trees, plant anew those bougainvillea, plant anew with deepened roots and juicier velvety fruit to widen the days and brighten the nights;

but if there is neither risk, nor death, nor life, not even another ocean to wet our bodies and not drown, nor another sky to breath from and not come apart, listen well as I merely want to say to you:

hold on tight to this non-life and the constant drag up and down these roads, hold it tight and say, ‘come, come with me to depths of this glacier, till the gaping hole at the precipice, to the volcano’s opening, till the tip of that lightning bolt’. And once at the very edge:

let go of the other’s hand.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

[I quan el foc enceta el fred]

الكاتالوينية | Pol Guasch

I quan el foc enceta el fred
diré què mor, quin és l’espai
           quin és l’espai si és habitable
diré la vall, diré la corba
           on és que acaba aquesta corba
diré el cavall, si és que té sang
si vol més aigua aquesta mar
           diré la mar, si vol més aigua
diré la fosca de l’obaga
           la seva neu, també el seu sol
diré el cim on tot s’ajunta
diré el fong, en llavi teu
           si el fong s’arrapa en llavi teu
i diré els ulls, envellutats,
mil glopades de lava i gel
com quan dibuixes estirada
           el meu perfl, el teu perfl
com quan el foc enceta el fred.

© LaBreu Edicions
from: Tanta gana
Barcelona: LaBreu Edicions, 2018
Audio production: Institut Ramon Llull

[And when fire ignites the cold]

الانجليزية

And when fire ignites the cold
I’ll speak to you of what has to die, where is the space
            where is the space if it is habitable
I’ll speak of the valley, I’ll speak of the curve
            where this curve must end
I’ll speak of the horse, if it has blood
if this sea wants more water
            I’ll speak of the sea, if it wants more water
I’ll speak of the darkness in the shade
            of its snow, and of its sun
I’ll speak of the peak where everything joins up
I’ll speak of the fungus on your lip
            if the fungus clamps on to your lip
and I’ll speak of those eyes, velvety,
a thousand gulps of lava and ice
as when you sketch lying on one side,
            my profile, then your profile
as when fire ignites the cold.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

[Conduíem sota la pluja]

الكاتالوينية | Pol Guasch

Conduíem sota la pluja,
de nit, tornàvem no sé d’on
encara — l’autopista era
un riu, dèiem: aquest camí
no ens durà enlloc. Sobtadament
vam encegar-nos amb el so
d’un tro, després la llum del llamp.
Vam situar-nos en un altar
des d’on tot ho vèiem: el lloc
exacte en què neix la descàrrega,
aquell angle del núvol que
crea la matèria informe.
Teníem el xassís vibrant d’electre,
el tro, el llamp, un crit enmig
la fosca de la nit, el groc
mig resseguint les vies mortes,
deixant de rastre pols lumínica
pel riu, tenyint-lo tot daurat,
ens dèiem: aquest camí no
ens durà enlloc.

© LaBreu Edicions
from: Tanta gana
Barcelona: LaBreu Edicions, 2018
Audio production: Institut Ramon Llull

[We drove in the rain]

الانجليزية

We drove in the rain,
it was night, coming back from
I don’t remember where – the motorway
was a river, we said: this road
won’t lead us anywhere. Suddenly
a belting thunder blinded us
with in its sound,
then the flash of lightning.
We gathered our bearings on an altar
from where we spied everything: the precise point
where the discharge was born,
the angle on the cloud that
created this shapeless matter.
The chassis pulsing electric,
the thunder, the lightning, a cry in the midst
of the dark night, its yellowness
partly following the dead roads,
leaving particles of light
drifting along the river, dying it gold,
we said: this path
won’t lead us anywhere.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

[Tinc no només els secrets]

الكاتالوينية | Pol Guasch

Tinc no només els secrets
que guardo al puny clos
des que vaig veure’t, sinó
també les sagetes preparades,
just sospeses entre l’aire,
congelades, apuntant-te;
també els dits gastats
d’assenyalar-te sempre
—que sempre és massa—
d’assenyalar-te el camí
que jo no vull i sempre
agafes —millor la daga
que el naufragi, vares
dir-me, però ni de talls
ni de marees puc parlar-te—,
i fuges camí enllà,
només secrets que guardo
al puny —ja no et serveixen—,
inhàbils, les sagetes cauen a terra,
i veig com te’n vas,
i lentament faig cloure
l’altre puny, com si em guardés
algun secret que ja no tinc
per oferir-te, ara que
marxes.

© LaBreu Edicions
from: Tanta gana
Barcelona: LaBreu Edicions, 2018
Audio production: Institut Ramon Llull

I have kept not only secrets

الانجليزية

I have kept not only secrets
in my closed fist since
I last saw you, but also
readied arrows,
suspended in air,
frozen, aimed at you;
and worn out fingers
from always having to point at you
- always is too much-
from showing you the path
that I do not wish to take
but you always do – better the dagger
than a shipwreck, you once
told me, but I am no more able to talk
about cuts than ocean tides -,
so you flee up the path,
only secrets held in my
fist – they are no longer any good to you –
useless, the arrows fall to the floor,
I watch you as you go,
and slowly I squeeze
my other fist, as if I were hiding
some other secret that is not mine
to offer you, now that you are
leaving.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

[Quan camino i és de nit]

الكاتالوينية | Pol Guasch

Quan camino i és de nit,
duc la fama dins del pit,
que em guia com la llanterna,
com el fum, l’udol, el crit,
com una veu, dins, eterna,
la fulla verda, perenne,
el camí que jo no he escrit.
I la veu que diu: parlem-ne.

© LaBreu Edicions
from: Tanta gana
Barcelona: LaBreu Edicions, 2018
Audio production: Institut Ramon Llull

[When I go for a stroll at night]

الانجليزية

When I go for a stroll at night,
I carry the flame tucked in my chest
that guides me like a lantern,
like smoke, a howl, a shriek,
like an interior voice, eternal,
a green leaf, perennial,
the path I did not write.
And the voice that utters: let’s talk.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

[Hi ha]

الكاتالوينية | Pol Guasch

Hi ha
una manera de fer que va més enllà
d’aquesta nostra forma d’assenyalar
els buits que deixen les coses quan les fem
desaparèixer. Hi ha l’arquitectura d’aire
que el talp forada sota terra. I la ceguesa
amb què obre camins desconeguts. Així
podríem nosaltres assenyalar les coses
quan encara hi són: amb la mateixa sort
amb què el corc habita dins
un moble que ha desballestat
inquietament.

© LaBreu Edicions
from: Tanta gana
Barcelona: LaBreu Edicions, 2018
Audio production: Institut Ramon Llull

[There is]

الانجليزية

There is
a way to go about things that supersedes
our very own manner of pointing out
the voids left in the wake of those objects we have made
disappear. There is the architecture to the very air
a mole mines for itself underground. And the blindness
with which it opens unknown paths.
And so we could also point out those things
while they are still in fact there:
with the same luck of a woodworm,
which has managed, restlessly,
to render useless an entire piece of Furniture.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

L'ordinador

الكاتالوينية | Joana Raspall

Avui a l’ordinador
M´han sortit lletres estranyes
i signes que no he vist mai
i quan hi he volgut escriure
no hi he trobat cap espai.
Sembla que mentre dormia
l’Spiderman i la bruixa
i el Doraemon hi ha entrat
amb les bessones i en Potter
i quin sarau hi han armat.
Jo volia escriure un conte per Sant Jordi
que a l’escola el celebrarem demà,
si l’ordinador no em deixa esborrar aquell jeroglífic,
hauré d’escriure’l a mà.

© Hereus Joana Raspall C.B.
from: El meu món de poesia
Vilanova i la Geltrú: El cep i la nansa, 2011
Audio production: El cep i la nansa

The Computer

الانجليزية

Today on the computer
some strange letters appeared
and signs I had never seen before
and when I tried to write there
I couldn’t find any space at all.
It seems that as I slept
Spiderman and the witch
along with Doraemon had all come in,
not forgetting the twins and Potter
and what a rumpus they stirred up!
I hoped to write a story for Saint George’s
which we are celebrating tomorrow at school,
and if the computer shan’t let me erase these hieroglyphics
hand and pen shall be my tools.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

Nou i vell

الكاتالوينية | Joana Raspall

És una camisa nova;
l’han deixada de racó:
és massa polida i blanca
i la volen de color.
Uns pantalons nous de trinca
també estan arraconats,
que els texans ara són moda
descolorits i gastats.

-Què farem -diu la camisa-
per poder-nos valorar?
-T’esquitxaré de pintura!
-El llexiu t’aclarirà!

Com dos bons amics s’ajuden,
“jo per tu i tu per mi”.

Ara ja els veuran de moda
I els trauran a presumir.

© Hereus Joana Raspall C.B.
from: El meu món de poesia
Vilanova i la Geltrú: El cep i la nansa, 2011
Audio production: El cep i la nansa

New and Old

الانجليزية

It is a new shirt;
They’ve left abandoned in the corner:
so white and bright
but they want to see come colour.
A pair of brand new trousers,
also shoved away,
now that jeans are all the rage,
and the more washed out and used the better.

“What ever should we do?” says the shirt,
“so we may be of value?”
“I’ll squirt you with paint!”
“The bleach shall brighten you!”

As good friends help each other out,
“I scratch you and you scratch me.”

Soon you’ll see them back in fashion,
flaunting the streets with glee.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

L'estel bellugadís

الكاتالوينية | Joana Raspall

Dins de l’aigua de l’estany
un estel fa pampallugues
com si es volgués esborrar.
És que el vent hi pren un bany;
quant l’aigua no faci arrugues
el podrem veure ben clar.

© Hereus Joana Raspall C.B.
from: El meu món de poesia
Vilanova i la Geltrú: El cep i la nansa, 2011
Audio production: El cep i la nansa

The Shimmering Star

الانجليزية

In the waters of a lake
a star is blinking freely
as if itself it wants to erase.
But it’s just a bath the wind has come to take;
we will see it nice and clearly
when the water relaxes her wrinkled face.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

Les paraules

الكاتالوينية | Joana Raspall

Si al bosc tinguéssim set,
quina font buscaríem?
La de l’aigua més clara,
més viva i més brillant.
I de l’arbre fruiter,
quina peça voldríem?
La més madura i dolça,
Suau al paladar.
I quin ramell de flors
a l’amor donaríem?
El de colors més bells,
més fresc i perfumat.
Per als amics i amigues,
¿no triarem paraules
entre les més boniques
que al món s’han inventat?

No volem l’aigua bruta,
ni la fruita tarada,
ni fer rams d’esbarzers...
i en la nostra conversa
volem belles paraules
i no pas mots grollers.

© Hereus Joana Raspall C.B.
from: El meu món de poesia
Vilanova i la Geltrú: El cep i la nansa, 2011
Audio production: El cep i la nansa

The Words

الانجليزية

Should we find ourselves thirsty in the woods,
which fount would we look for?
The one with the cleanest water,
alive and gleaming.
And from the fruiting tree,
which piece would we like?
The ripest and sweetest,
soft on the palate.
And what bunch of flowers
should we give to love?
The one with the prettiest colours,
the freshest and most perfumed.
Friends one and all:
should we not choose our words
from among the most beautiful
to have been invented in this world?

We neither care for dirty water,
nor spoilt fruit,
nor making bouquets from brambles…
and in our chatter
we want beautiful words
and not coarse-tongued grumbles.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

La pedreta

الكاتالوينية | Joana Raspall

Tinc una pedreta blanca
sobre el palmell de la mà.
Que coses deuria dir-me,
si entengués el seu parlar!
Deu sentir-se forastera
entre els terrossos del camp;
potser ve de roques altes
destrossades per un llamp,
i les aigües de neu fosa
l’han arrosegada aquí.
No sé si per ella és vida,
haver-se trobat amb mi.
Per mi és una trobada
que no sé com valorar.
La veig tan polida i neta...
No la gosaré llençar.

© Hereus Joana Raspall C.B.
from: El meu món de poesia
Vilanova i la Geltrú: El cep i la nansa, 2011
Audio production: El cep i la nansa

The pebble

الانجليزية

I have a white pebble
on the palm of my hand.
Such secrets it could tell me,
if only I could understand!
It must feel like an outsider
amongst the field’s clods of earth;
perhaps it comes from higher terrain
splintered by lightning,
and the waters from the thawed snow
have dragged it down this way.
I cannot know if this is the life it wants,
having come all this way.
This is a perchance meeting
whose value I cannot say.
Yet, it seems so clean and brightly polished…
I dare not throw it away.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

Una bruixa revellida

الكاتالوينية | Joana Raspall

Una bruixa revellida,
Seca com un escardot,
Ja no sap moure l’escombra;
Prova de volar i no pot.

Veu ocells i papallones
que voleien entre flors...
ella, en lloc de tenir ales,
només té la pell i l’os.
Pensa, amb ràbia, que de jove
dominava el bosc i el prat
i per maldat o caprici
tot ho deixava embruixat.
Ara ja ni gosa riure;
la veurien sense dents
i ja no la temerien
ni fugirien corrents;
-potser i tot l’empaitarien!-

S’amagarà en la foscor,
lluny d’ocells i papallones.
Ara és ella, qui té por!

© Hereus Joana Raspall C.B.
from: El meu món de poesia
Vilanova i la Geltrú: El cep i la nansa, 2011
Audio production: El cep i la nansa

The Withered Witch

الانجليزية

Una bruixa revellida,
Seca com un escardot,
Ja no sap moure l’escombra;
Prova de volar i no pot.

Veu ocells i papallones
que voleien entre flors...
ella, en lloc de tenir ales,
només té la pell i l’os.
Pensa, amb ràbia, que de jove
dominava el bosc i el prat
i per maldat o caprici
tot ho deixava embruixat.
Ara ja ni gosa riure;
la veurien sense dents
i ja no la temerien
ni fugirien corrents;
-potser i tot l’empaitarien!-

S’amagarà en la foscor,
lluny d’ocells i papallones.
Ara és ella, qui té por!

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

Invitació 2

الكاتالوينية | Joana Raspall

Amic, vols venir?
La tarda és molt clara
l’aire té sentors
de mar i muntanya.
Fugim del soroll
i busquem la calma
on compartirem
les nostres paraules.
Poques en direm
i ben escoltades,
amb pau dins del cor,
llum en les mirades.

Vols venir amic?
La tarda és tan clara!

© Hereus Joana Raspall C.B.
from: El meu món de poesia
Vilanova i la Geltrú: El cep i la nansa, 2011
Audio production: El cep i la nansa

Invitation 2

الانجليزية

Friend, do you want to come?
It is a clear afternoon
and the air is carrying scents
from seashore to mountain.
Let’s flee this noise
and seek out the calm
where we may share
our words.
Few shall be exchanged
albeit well heard,
with peace in our hearts,
and light in our gaze.

Do you want to come, friend?
It is such a clear afternoon!

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

Invitació 1

الكاتالوينية | Joana Raspall

He trobat uns quants mots
al món de la poesia,
no vull quedar-me’ls tots!
Si t’agrada llegir
et farà companyia,
ens els podem partir.

© Hereus Joana Raspall C.B.
from: El meu món de poesia
Vilanova i la Geltrú: El cep i la nansa, 2011
Audio production: El cep i la nansa

Invitation 1

الانجليزية

I found a quite few bits of verse
in my world of poetry,
and I don’t want to keep them all to myself!
If you like reading
my world shall keep you company
and we can share them between us.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

Instant d'èxtasi

الكاتالوينية | Joana Raspall

Estimar l’aigua
que riu i plora,
i, alhora,
la fresca molsa,
i la veu dolça
que sap cantar...
estimar l’aire
que s’esgarrinxa
per les alzines
de punxes fines...
és com resar.

© Hereus Joana Raspall C.B.
from: El meu món de poesia
Vilanova i la Geltrú: El cep i la nansa, 2011
Audio production: El cep i la nansa

Moment of Extasy

الانجليزية

Loving the water
that laughs and cries
and, also,
fresh moss,
the sweet voice
that knows how to sing…
loving the air
rustling through
the knotted trees
with their fines prickles…
is like prayer.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

Enemigues

الكاتالوينية | Joana Raspall

La pilota i la sabata
fa temps què són enemigues.
No voldrien jugar juntes
i sempre hi ha de jugar.
L’una rep les patacades,
l’altra malmet la puntera;
no hi ha més jocs, per a elles,
que aquell de botre i picar.

A la vida tot s’acaba...
i ve el moment que es fan velles.
Després d’estar abandonades
En algun racó polsós,
es retroben dins la panxa
d’un camió de deixalles,
camí dels abocadors:
-Hola, pilota aixafada!
-Hola, sabata esbotzada!
-Fa molt de temps que no et veia;
no tens ganes de jugar?
-Prou que ho faria sabata,
si aconseguien inflar-me;
però i tu?
-Jo no puc moure’m
sense el peu que em fa xutar.
Han callat. Semblen amigues;
no en treuran res de renyir.

Al pas del temps, les baralles
sovint acaben així.

© Hereus Joana Raspall C.B.
from: El meu món de poesia
Vilanova i la Geltrú: El cep i la nansa, 2011
Audio production: El cep i la nansa

Enemies

الانجليزية

The ball and the shoe
have been enemies for quite some time.
They do not want to play together
and one or the other is always there for just that.
One is always getting kicked,
and the other’s toecap keeps getting bent.
There aren´t any other games left for them, however,
than this constant bounce and kick.

In life everything comes to an end…
and the moment arrives when they grow old.
After being left abandoned
in some dusty corner,
they reunite in the binman’s lorry,
last station: the tip.
-Hello, squashed ball!
-Hello, knackered shoes!
-It’s been a long time since I last saw you;
do you feel like playing?
-Oh how I’d love to, shoe,
if only they could reinflate me;
and yourself?
-I can’t move myself
without my foot to help me shoot.
They fell silent. They could almost pass for friends;
nothing else left for them to fall out over.

Over the course of time, rivalries
usually come to this sort of end.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

En Pol

الكاتالوينية | Joana Raspall

És tant ample i vistós, l’aparador,
i tant il·luminades, les joguines,
que s’hi atura, fascinat, en Pol.
Quantes pilotes i construccions...
trens, bicicletes, dinosaures, nines...
i quantes capses de no se sap què!
Potser de màgia o de guinyol,
o de disfresses d’herois i de fades...

Dalt d’un prestatge, un ós de peluix
de grans pupil·les negres i encantades,
sembla que el cridi; l’invita a jugar
prop de la nina de galtes rosades
i llargues trenes de color de sol.
Ell, de bon grat pensa que hi jugaria!,
però la mare diu que és massa gran
per divertir-se amb ossos i nines.
-Què vol dir massa gran?- rumia en Pol.

© Hereus Joana Raspall C.B.
from: El meu món de poesia
Vilanova i la Geltrú: El cep i la nansa, 2011
Audio production: El cep i la nansa

Pol

الانجليزية

It’s so wide and delightful to look at, this shop window,
and they light up so brightly, these toys,
that young Pol, fascinated, stops and stares.
So many balls and buildings…
trains, bikes, dinosaurs, dolls…
and, my oh my, the sheer quantity of mystery boxes!
Perhaps they’re for a magic or puppet show
or disguises of heroes and fairies…

On top of a shelf, a teddy bear
has such spellbinding pupils for eyes, both large and black,
that they seem to be calling out; calling him over to play
close by to the doll with rosy cheeks
and long plaits beaming the sun’s hues.
He would quite happily play along!
yet his mother says he is now too old
to still be playing with bears and dolls.
-What does too old mean?- muses little Pol.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

En Pep

الكاتالوينية | Joana Raspall

En Pep amb la palla dins el tassó
inflava bombolles fines de sabó.
Volia envoltar-se amb la més brillant,
perquè fos més grossa va bufar-la tant,
que va rebentar-se sota un raig de sol,
i ell es quedà en terra,
amb gran desconsol.

© Hereus Joana Raspall C.B.
from: Olor de maduixa
Lleida: Pagès Editors, 2016
Audio production: El cep i la nansa

Pep

الانجليزية

Pep is blowing down his straw into his big boy’s cup
to blow the fine bubbles lathering in the play soap.
He hoped to surround himself by making one even larger
and so to make it bigger he blew even harder,
alas it did pop under the sun’s hot ray
and so he dropped to the floor,
in complete disarray.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

El trobador

الكاتالوينية | Joana Raspall

Penso fer-me trobador,
seguir terres i cantar
a les dames dels castells
que em volguessin escoltar.
Sé que no totes són belles
ni tenen cabells daurats
ni els ulls semblen estrelles
ni els llavis ben dibuixats.
...Alguna deu ser garrella,
i una altra, de cos neulit;
o tenir nas de patata,
ulls de peix o front pansit...
Aquestes, vull! Les boniques,
si escoltaven el meu cant,
no estarien tant contentes
ni m’ho agrairien tant.
Són les menys afavorides,
les fàcils d’acontentar;
volen creure que el cantaire
no les pretén enganyar.
Penso que em correspondrien
amb bon sou i tracte bo,
ja que al món no trobarien
millor cantaire que jo.

Em veuria de les dames
Ben rebut i ben pagat;
...i, de passada, els duria
Un bri de felicitat.

© Hereus Joana Raspall C.B.
from: El meu món de poesia
Vilanova i la Geltrú: El cep i la nansa, 2011
Audio production: El cep i la nansa

The Troubadour

الانجليزية

I have a plan to become a troubadour,
to travel across lands and sing
to all the maidens in castles
who would care to listen to me.
I know that not all are fair
nor bare golden hair
nor do their eyes shine like stars
or possess full and curvy lips.
…one may be bow-legged
and another, scrawny;
or have a potato for a nose,
fishy eyes or a shrunken forehead…
These are the ones I seek! Yet, the pretty ones,
should they listen to my song,
would not be so content
nor would they thank me so.
They are the least favoured,
the easy ones to please;
always wanting to believe that songbirds
are not out to fool them.
I think I would be received
with fair salary and fairer treatment,
as they shall never find a finer songbird
than I in this whole world.

I shall drink on the maidens’ coin,
well received and well paid;
…and, in passing, I should bring them
a touch of joy repaid.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

Cirurgia

الكاتالوينية | Joana Raspall

La papalloneta s’ha trencat una ala;
li cau destrossada al peu del roser.
—Ai, que no hi ha metge que pugui curar-me!
—sospira la pobra—. Ara, què faré?
—No ploris, amiga —li diu una rosa,
la més bella i fresca de tot el jardí—.
Et donaré un pètal que et pugui fer d’ala;
l’aranya té traça i te’l pot cosir.

L’aranya, que és sàvia i tothora fila,
amb amor la feina enllesteix aviat.
... I la papallona torna a fer volades
amb una ala blanca i un pètal rosat.

© Hereus Joana Raspall C.B.
from: El meu món de poesia
Vilanova i la Geltrú: El cep i la nansa, 2011
Audio production: El cep i la nansa

Surgery

الانجليزية

The little butterfly has broken a wing;
it falls in shreds down to the foot of the rosebush.
“Ah, there is not a single doctor who can cure me!”
“breathe poor thing”. “And now, what should I do?”
“No crying, my friend” – a rose tells her,
the fairest and freshest in the garden – .
I shall give you a petal that works as a wing;
the spider has got an eye for these things and shall sew you up nicely.

The spider, wise and always willing to mend,
with the greatest of care is soon done with her work.
… and the little butterfly is soon swooping around
with a white wing on one side and a rose one on the other.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

Dansa de núvols

الكاتالوينية | Joana Raspall

No entendré mai perquè els núvols no canten
quan, tot lliurant-se a caprici del vent,
s’esfilagarsen com un vel de gasa
en giragonses suaus d’un vals lent.

Sento el silenci com l’indesxifrable
compàs de pauses entre violins…
No entendré mai per què els núvols amaguen
les melodies que els bateguen dins.

© Hereus Joana Raspall C.B.
from: El meu món de poesia
Vilanova i la Geltrú: El cep i la nansa, 2011
Audio production: El cep i la nansa

Cloud Dance

الانجليزية

I won’t ever understand why the clouds won’t sing
when, having handed themselves over to the fickle wind,
they start to unthread into gauze tape
in the seamless twirls of a slow waltz.

I listen to the silence as to the indecipherable
beat of pauses between violins…
I won’t ever understand why clouds should want to hide
the melodies that pulse within.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

Tan bonic i tan negre

الكاتالوينية | Blanca Llum Vidal

No li clavis les dents.
No li regalis la pau.
No li cantis la pena que tens
ni a la cara ni enlloc.
No li diguis finestres.
No li diguis t’espero.
No li diguis l’infern
ni exactament el contrari.
No li diguis que penses
que perquè no et deia res
pensaves que sí,
que es va invertir un precipici,
que es van engabiar molts ocells
i que un règim va caure.
No li piquis la porta.
No li doblis cervells.
No li apaguis el foc.
No li facis un nus.
No li preguntis si la por li ha marxat
o si la por se li escampa.
No li vegis misteri.
No li assenyalis cavalls
ni un futur galopant.
No li mesuris el mal.
No li ensenyis quant pesa
el que dius i el que no.
No li donis verins.
No li donis ferides.
No li rimis dos verbs.
No li vinguis amb flors
que s’esclafen per viure.
No li esquerdis l’esquerda.
No li ballis fiblons.
No li parlis del món
que tremola si el veu.
No li parlis de tant.
No li parlis d’un cel
ple de vols i de bales
ni del cel tan bonic de tan negre.
No li exageris la set.
No li recordis que plou
ni si la pluja és petita
ni si la petita és la mort.
Escriu-li només,
i fes-ho distret, descarat,
descarnat i directe,
que l’amor prefixat
ni t’agrada ni no,
però que sempre t’ha fet
una mica de mandra.

© author
from: Amor a la brega
Pagès Editors, 2018
Audio production: Catalunya Ràdio

So pretty, so black

الانجليزية

Do not bite him.
Do not give him any peace.
Do not serenade him with your woes
neither to his face nor anywhere.
Do not speak of windows.
Do not speak of waiting for him.
Do not speak of hellscapes
nor the exact opposite thereof.
Do not speak of your thinking
of why he did not say anything
when you thought he would,
or that a precipice had inverted,
or that many birds had been caged
and a regime had fallen in-between.
Do not knock on his door.
Do not overthink him.
Do not put out his fires.
Do not tie his knots for him.
Do not ask him if his fear has gone away
or has spread further than ever.
Do not see mystery in him.
Do not show him horses
or galloping futures.
Do not measure his wickedness.
Do not show him the weight
of your silence and your speech.
Do not give him poison.
Do not give him wounds to lick.
Do not rhyme his verbs for him.
Do not come knocking with flowers
that are pressed so as to live on.
Do not shatter his shards.
Do not spin his spurs.
Do not speak of the world
that shakes when he sees it.
Do not speak so much.
Do not speak of a sky
filled with flights and bullets
nor of such a pretty sky, such a black sky.
Do not overplay your thirst.
Do not remind him it is raining
nor if the rain is little
nor if the little one is death.
Just write to him
and discreetly so, cheekily so,
brutally and directly,
and say that you neither like nor dislike
love with a prefix,
but it has always seemed
a bit too much of a hassle.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

La patata

الكاتالوينية | Blanca Llum Vidal

No he donat el meu cor ni sóc cara o barata.
Si es podreix a les mans, què puc fer-ne de nou?
Al racó més tot sol hi ha una amorfa patata
que m’ensenya com grilla, que tot gira i es mou.

Seré fina o abjecta, seré rude o subtil;
tant si faig o desfaig, no vindré a consolar-te:
no seré allò que vols ni de preu ni d’estil,
que ser un cos o ser crossa, enderroca i afarta.

Que ho entenguin per fi els parents i els senyors:
puc fer d’ocell, de peix, de microbi o de mul,
puc ser el món que tremola, puc ser el clot de les pors,
prò no el nom que m’imposis ni a la cara ni al cul.

Que vinguin ficcions ben arran de la vida,
que, així, encarcarada, ennuega i remata.
Com que esteu avesats a contreure’ns la mida,
em declaro deforme i he triat la patata.

© author
from: Amor a la brega
Pagès Editors, 2018
Audio production: Catalunya Ràdio

The potato

الانجليزية

I have not given my heart and am neither cheap nor pricey.
Should it rot in my hands, what can I make anew?
In the loneliest of corners there is a misshapen potato
that teaches me how it sprouts, spins, and moves.

I will be dainty and abject, crude and subtle;
Well or under done, I shan’t come to console you:
I shan’t be what you hoped for in price or type,
as being a body or a crutch is both destructive and filling.

May they finally understand, relatives and gentlemen:
I can play at being the bird, fish, microbe or mule,
I can be the trembling earth and the waking hole of our fears,
but never the names you have ladened me with – neither face nor bum.

May fictions emerge around life,
that, in its rigidity, stifles and slaughters.
As you are all hell-bent on taking our measurements,
I declare myself misshapen and have chosen the potato.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

Amor dels amors

الكاتالوينية | Blanca Llum Vidal

T’enyoro només si cantes que cantes
que fugirem dels lleons i els lleopards,
que creuarem el jardí de les nogueres,
que en l’ull de cap a dins hi haurà serena
i en el de fora el seny ple de rosada,
que mirarem si a cor obert la vall rebrota,
que farem nit per les masies
i que al matí, a sol ixent,
te’n tornaràs sempre a muntanya,
sempre corrent, com la gasela.

© author
from: Punyetera flor
LaBreu Edicions, 2014
Audio production: Catalunya Ràdio

Love of loves

الانجليزية

I yearn for you but only if you sing to sing
of us fleeing both lions and leopards,
of us crossing the gardens lined with walnut trees,
of our inner-eye mired in serenity,
and our outer-eye’s cold reason mired in dew,
of us watching, hearts on sleeves, for the vale’s green to renew,
of us spending the night at the old farmhouse
and at dawn, with the rising sun,
you’ll always run mountain-bound,
always bounding away, like a gazelle.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

Negranit

الكاتالوينية | Blanca Llum Vidal

Grata l’afrau fins que l’entén
i quan que en ell corre el perill
de ser real, se deixa caure
fins a caure fins a l’art
i fent-se mal. Llavors ho diu,
et diu que hi vagis, que la raó
és amb tot l’esgarrapada
i que si cou i si anuncia
depèn de lo fonda que sigui.

© author
from: Punyetera flor
LaBreu Edicions, 2014
Audio production: Catalunya Ràdio

Blacknight

الانجليزية

He scratches at the gash until he understands
and when he runs the real danger
of being real, he lets himself drop
until dropping until art
and getting hurt. Then out loud,
he tells you to go as reason
runs throughout the whole wound
and it may sting and it may stand out
all depending on how deep it cuts.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

Poesia

الكاتالوينية | Blanca Llum Vidal

Ets matussera, sapastre, destralera!
Cosa fina, rebonica, ballarina!
M’agrades així, elegant,
bruta de fang.

© author
from: Visca!
Documenta Balear, 2012
Audio production: Catalunya Ràdio

Poetry

الانجليزية

You are crude, a bungler, and a butcher!
Fine china and a dainty dancer!
I like you just so, elegant,
but caked in mud.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

Jafre

الكاتالوينية | Blanca Llum Vidal

Era l’estepa, el que volies. L’estepa fosca i desolada, el que volia. La pedra seca, el tall de roca, una terra amb ulls de bèstia i llengua llarga, el que volíem. Una plana amb una porta. Una porta sense marc o de marc aire i vora el caire. Una taula de lladre o de dimoni i el pa sec amb ceba crua. Demanar el pot de mel quan ja s’acaba. Gratar els camins i escurar el pot i entrar picant dos o tres cops. Fer-se amic del tigre blanc, agafar l’os de la muntanya, fer-ho sovint, de notar el crani, i dar-li el colze a un ase vell. Repicar el seny i regalar-li al patir un silenci d’esquelles. Era el cor que es fa petit com l’avellana, el coll amunt i el nin a coll, la selva estranya amb la quietud i el vi ranci amb seguidilles. Eren les mans, la lluna negra i un udol de veu humana. Era el mas, trobar la font, seguir el gat seguint la gata. Era llampec. Ajuntar els dits, cercar la nimfa i llegir-li la fòbia. Era partit, serà per a tots, foren les punxes, les branques dels pins foradant-nos la llana i un ocell veient de prop la revinclada.

© author
from: Homes i ocells
Club Editor, 2012
Audio production: Catalunya Ràdio

Jafre

الانجليزية

It was the steppe, what you wanted. The dark and desolate steppe, what I wanted. Dry stone, the jagged rock, an earth bearing beastly eyes and a long tongue, what we wanted. A desert plane with a door. A frameless door or nought but air and border for a frame. A thief’s or a devil’s table along with hard bread and raw onion. Asking for a pot of honey when finished. Skirting along the road while scraping the pot and then walking right in having knocked two or three times. Befriending the white tiger; straggling along the bare mountain bone, peering at its skull and often so, and spurring the old donkey on with your elbow. Ringing common sense and then gifting it, for all its suffering, the silence of cowbells. It was the heart that shrunk as small as a hazelnut, proud necks with children slung around, the forest eery amidst the silence and the table wine with seguidillas. It was those hands, the black moon, and a human howling. It was the farmhouse, finding the fount, stalking the tomcat stalking the pussycat. It was lightning. Closing your fingers, seeking out the nymph and reading her phobia. It was split, enough for everyone, there were its prickles, pine branches pricking into our woolly hides, and a bird observing close-by as they twined in on us.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

Talaiot

الكاتالوينية | Blanca Llum Vidal

Som perfectament conscients,
de cor, de l’existència
de la pell i del verí quan se li clava,
del buirac del propi cos,
del plaer d’entre les cames
i del cervell mirant muntanyes.

Som del tot de vida quan ens morim.
Som del tot figura quan som abstractes.
Som del tot reals quan no ens veiem.
Som. Som l’adagi de les pedres.
Som les mans a cop de sílex.

Som perfectament conscients,
de tot, de l’amplitud
de les onades i de la força de la mar,
del ventet de tramuntana,
de la foscor de dins la cova
i del sol que hi fot a fora.

Som del tot antics quan no hi ha rastre.
Som la boca i la cançó que ja no es veu.
Som. Som el pont de ser pastors.
Som el vers que queda a l’aire...

© author
from: La cabra que hi havia
Documenta Balear, 2009
Audio production: Catalunya Ràdio

Talaiot

الانجليزية

We are perfectly aware,
at heart, of the existence
of our skin and the poison as the arrow pierces,
of the quiver that is our very body,
of the pleasure pulsing between our legs
and the brain musing over the mountain scenery.

We are fully alive when we die.
We are fully figured when abstract.
We are fully realised when we cannot see ourselves.
We are. We are the stones’ adage.
We are hands striking flint.

We are perfectly aware,
and fully so, of the sheer breadth
of the waves and the vigour of the sea,
the tramontane’s draft,
the dinginess from within the cave
and the glaring sun outside.

We are fully ancient when no trace is left behind.
We are mouth and song made unseen.
We are. We are the bridge to shepherdship.
We are verse suspended mid-air.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

Foguerada

الكاتالوينية | Blanca Llum Vidal

De matinada diràs que, per amor a la brega,
amb els llibres hi parles i amb els llibres, si pots,
ganivetades de llum, però no de poder ni de sang.

De matinada diràs que, per esperit de revolta,
els llibres no es cremen i els llibres, si en saps,
ni tan sols es veneren, ni tan sols t’agenollen.

De matinada diràs que, per escriure després,
has d’escoltar-te el defecte i esquerdar-te, si vols,
la identitat més estable i més recta.

De matinada diràs que ni al profeta més fals se li cremen els ulls,
que una terra no és l’himne, que ‘nosaltres’ no és res, no,
que una terra és la gent, que una terra és els llibres.

De matinada els diré, i et seré, amor, una mena de fona,
que què volen aquesta gent que cremen de matinada?

© author
from: Amor a la brega
Pagès Editors, 2018
Audio production: Catalunya Ràdio

Bonfire

الانجليزية

Before the break of dawn you say, out of love for the brawl,
you’ll speak to them, those books, and with them, if you can,
of knife-slashes of light, but not of power or blood.

Before the break of dawn you say, out of spirit of the revolt,
that books are not for burning and that books, if you know anything,
are not even to be venerated, nor they shall they kneel to you.

Before the break of dawn you say, out of need to record it after,
you must listen to your defects and fracture, if you want to,
the most stable and upright of identities.

Before the break of dawn you will say that not even the falsest of prophets have their eyes burnt out,
That a land is not an anthem, that “we” is nothing at all, no,
That a land is its people, that a land is its books.

Before the break of dawn I’ll tell them, and I’ll be for you, my love, a sort of slingshot,
For what do they want these people who are burning before dawn’s break?

Translated by Jacob Rhodes

Raor de raó

الكاتالوينية | Blanca Llum Vidal

Érem bocins de lluna morta
i no quèiem al pou, ens hi tiràvem.
Si no dormíem, que no dormíem,
decidíem tallar-nos amb destrals de raó.
Segats d’enmig, amb horitzons diferents
i desfets de maneres, no érem ni andrògins.
I a la follia, guardiana amiga,
la fèiem inversa: més folla que folla
i tan folla que no, que ni enfollia.
Cavalca, infinita, cavalca, i sigues fang
sense costella i sigues pols sense principi.
Però de nit la traíem: li obríem la porta
i au vés, vés-hi amb consciència,
havíem gosat poder dir-li.
I nosaltres pensant. I nosaltres petits,
però ocupant massa, recordàvem
la marca i no l’escàndol.
Tocàvem la crosta i oblidàvem
que endins no era el mal, sinó el cor
qui s’atrevia a eixamplar-se.
Si volíem curar-nos la cura era curta
i tan curta no es veia.
Per això ens estripàvem: per veure
que enlloc s’hi fan arrels,
per veure que enlloc hi ha lloc sabut
ni terra natal ni terra prohibida.
I alletàvem, això sí, alletàvem l’inici.
I a la raó: cavalca, infinita, cavalca, i sigues
tall, sí, sigues destral, però amb insurgència.
I el món va fer lloc a un cos petit.
I avesats a trencar-nos, va ser que no.

© author
from: Amor a la brega
Pagès Editors, 2018
Audio production: Catalunya Ràdio

Edge of reason

الانجليزية

We were chunks of dead moon
But rather than fall, we threw ourselves down the well.
Were we not to sleep, and we did not sleep,
we would cut ourselves open with axes of reason.
Scythed in half, we then bore different horizons and were freed of old customs, rendered not even androgynous.
And madness, my guardian friend,
they turned her inside out: madder than mad,
so mad that, no, not even the mind could madden.
Ride on infinite madness, ride on, and be mud
without a rib and be dust without beginning.
But come night came betrayal: we opened the door to
her, and, go on then, go to her with your eyes open,
and we did dare to tell her all.
All the while we thought. And us so small,
but taking up so much room, we recalled
the brand but not the scandal.
We grazed the scab and forgot that underneath
lies not evil but a heart yearning to expand.
Had we wanted to heal, the remedy was quick,
so quick as not to be seen.
As such we tore ourselves apart: to unearth
the realisation that roots will not take to any land,
that no land can contain a known place.
Neither homeland nor forbidden land.
And at our breast we nursed, yes, nursed the beginning.
And to reason we say: ride on, infinite reason, ride on, and be the
blade, yes the axe, but an insurgent one.
And the world did make space for such a little body.
So used to breaking ourselves apart, yet it was not to be.

Translated by Jacob Rhodes