PABLO NERUDA POETRY Meghan de Chastelain Sasha Soomro

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 1970 s Communist since 1980 Russian, French, German, Greek, Italian, Spanish, Albanian, Yiddish, Vietnamese, and Creole

The Fable of the Mermaid Edited 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 laughter she did not speak, since speech was unknown to her 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 rain 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 Around Translated 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. 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 smell of barbershops makes me wail. The only thing I want is to lie still likes stones or wool. I want only a respite of stones or wool, The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no I want only not to see establishments or gardens, or merchandise, or eyeglasses, or elevators. no more goods, no spectacles, no 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. 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. 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 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

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 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 do not want for myself so many misfortunes. I do not want to continue as root and tomb, just underground, a vault with corpses stiff with cold, dying of distress. This is why Monday 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, 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. 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. 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.

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 río era una sirena que se había extraviado los insultos corrían sobre su carne lisa la inmundicia cubrió sus pechos de oro ella no sabía llorar por eso no lloraba no sabía vestirse por eso no se vestía la tatuaron 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 All these gentlemen were within when she walked naked they had drunk and start spitting she 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

Huge difference in connotation between “gentle” men and “men Synony ms 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 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, Understand – signifies intelligence is still present; knew suggests she is completely incapable of thought

Why ’twin’ arms? What does Didn’t rolled on the tavern floor and rolled around laughing that signify know how on the tavern floor. and is it to, rather with laughter She did not speak that than being she did not speak, since because she had no important incapable speech was unknown to if it is not of doing it her speech. included in her eyes were the colour Her eyes were the colour the other of faraway love of distant love, Suddenly her arms were matching her twin arms were made translation Perhaps ? – topazes of white topaz. a suggests her lips moved Her lips moved, silent, in a symbol urgency, soundlessly in coral light, of rather and ultimately, she left by and suddenly she went purity? than – out by that door. ultimately that door Perhaps scarcely had she entered Entering the river she was which a saying suggests the river than she was cleaned, in in her own cleansed Shining like a white stone Spanish Very time gleaming once more like in the rain, ? quickly Mark Eisner Estravagario (Mr. Stewart) a white stone in the rain and without a backward look, she swam to her and without looking back she swam again

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?

Tired – annoyed; Sick – unbearable To feel like a swan vs. a swan that is made of felt Wail and sobs have two different connotatio ns Donald Walsh Robert Bly I happen to be tired of being a man. I happen to enter tailorshops and moviehouses It so happens I am sick of being a man. And it happens that I walk Impenetrable into tailorshops and movie - can’t be houses touched; dried up, waterproof, like waterproof – a swan made of felt slides off you steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes. withered, impenetrable, felt like a swan navigating in a water of sources and. Completely ashes. different The smell of barbershops makes me wail. I want only a respite of stones or wool, I want only not to see Rearrangeme establishments or nt of words gardens, or merchandise, or The smell of barbershops Needs relief makes me break into vs. just hoarse sobs. wanting to The only thing I want is to sit down lie still likes stones or (different wool. urgency The only thing I want is to between the 2) see no more stores, no gardens, no more goods, no

Different connotatio n: startle (surprise); terrify (pee -yourpants scared) 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. 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. 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. 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 HUGE difference between sexy and greendied – perhaps of the cold. a Spanish saying? Lovely – stronger adjective than great

Vacillating – wavering; Insecure – not confident 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 don’t want to go on being a root in the dark, insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep, going on down, into the. Soaked vs. moist guts of the earth, taking in and thinking, eating every day. I do not want for myself so many misfortunes. Undergroun I do not want to continue as root and tomb, d – no just underground, a emotion attached; vault with corpses alone – stiff with cold, dying of automaticall distress. y attaches a feeling 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, Grief/distress – of half frozen, dying different grief. meanings

Completely different orders Stick out – present only; fly out – escape Donald Walsh Robert Bly This is why Monday 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. 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 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. And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses, into hospitals where the bones fly out the window, First translation – doesn’t leave a mark; second translation – tracks full of blood Chasms – usually in into shoeshops that rocks; smell like vinegar, cracks in skin and certain streets – specific to body hideous as cracks in the

Donald Walsh Robert Bly There are brimstonecolored 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 sulphurcolored 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 stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything, I walk by, going through I pass, I cross by offices office buildings and orthopedic shops, shoestores, and courtyards with washing hanging from and courtyards where the line: clothes are hanging from underwear, towels and a wire: shirts from which slow underdrawers, towels, dirty tears are falling. shirts that weep slow, dirty tears. 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 Mermaid Edited 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 laughter she did not speak, since speech was unknown to her 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 rain 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 Around Translated 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. 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 smell of barbershops makes me wail. The only thing I want is to lie still likes stones or wool. I want only a respite of stones or wool, The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no I want only not to see establishments or gardens, or merchandise, or eyeglasses, or elevators. no more goods, no spectacles, no 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. 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. 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 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

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 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 do not want for myself so many misfortunes. I do not want to continue as root and tomb, just underground, a vault with corpses stiff with cold, dying of distress. This is why Monday 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, 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. 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. 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.