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Poetry Translations April 2012
Poetry Translations April 2012
In this section we will be featuring the English translations of living poets originally written in other languages. On this page, translations by Elizabeth Gamble Miller, Walter Ruhlmann



Elizabeth Gamble Miller


Translations of poems by Carlos Ernesto Garcia, Santa Tecla, El Salvador, 1960. Resident of Barcelona, Spain since 1980, Executive Director of C-Duke, a cultural foundation. Poet, writer, journalist, author of 4 volumes of poetry: Hasta la cólera se pudre (Barcelona, 1994), was published that same year in New York under the title Even Rage Will Rot, in English translation by Elizabeth Gamble Miller; a novelized version of travel in China, and a book of interviews of Sandinista excomandantes; guest lecturer in Europe, Asia, Latin America, The United States, his poetry has been translated into 8 languages.


About the Translator:



Elizabeth Gamble Miller
, Ph.D., professor emeritus, World Languages and Literatures, Southern Methodist University, Dallas, Texas, literary translator of contemporary poetry, short story, novel and essay of over thirty authors, with bilingual editions of works by Nela Rio (Argentina), Hugo Lindo, David Escobar Galindo, and Carlos Ernesto García (El Salvador), Jacqueline Balcells (Chile), Antonio Porpetta, Claudio Rodríguez, and Jacque Canales (Spain); on editorial board of Translation Review, Corresponding Member of Academia Salvadoreña de la Lengua, and Asociación Prometeo de Poesía. 


The Mountains Of Fengdu
 
In the mountains of Fengdu
I get ready to cross 
the hanging bridge
reserved for the dead.
 
Below I hear
the charging Changjiang River
whose turbulent waters
rush by like a wild stallion.
 
An aged woman
holding between her hands
a wooden bowl
invites me to drink from a liquid
that will help me in the beyond
to forget the past.
 
 
 
The Tailor Of Xiangtan
 
He pulls over a bench
a wooden one to stand on.
Then he respectfully passes
a measuring tape
along the length of my arms
and the width of my shoulders.
 
Of the thousands
that in another time he made
—he confesses— this
will be the last Mao jacket
he will make.
 
Sometimes
when the European winter hits
I put on the grey jacket
and I still feel
the hands of old Liu
that gently
point the way
to a deep well of loneliness.
 
 
 
My Small Town Guy
 
He gets up early.
He reads the news from the foreign press.
He drinks his coffee.
He tries on the suit
that matches the shoes
the shirt 
the socks.
 
He visits bookstores.
More than Kokoschka or Kandinski
he appreciates Hopper  
the paintings of bars which he eternalized
the naked women in solitary rooms
and the cities where all is silence.
 
In the early morning hours
he gets carried away by the clavicord
playing Bach’s Toccatta and Fugue
while Bushmill burns his throat.
 
He prefers screens of alternative theaters
where one night
he was captivated by the grandeur
of Alexander Nevsky
and the incandescent kisses
of Bogart and Bergman
in Casablanca.
 
He reads Grossman with real passion.
He stays up late with his poetry
and in it sooner or later,
always, the small town guy appears
that I carry inside.



Walter Ruhlmann

Walter Ruhlmann was born in 1974 in France. He currently lives in Nantes where he works as an English teacher. He has been publishing mgversion2>datura (ex-Mauvaise graine) for over fifteen years. Walter is the author of several poetry chapbooks and e-books in French and English and has published poems in various printed and electronic publications world wide. He co-edited and translated poems for the bilingual free verse and form section for the anniversary issue of Magnapoets in January 2011. He is a 2012 Pushcart Prize nominee for his translation of Martine Morillon-Carreau's poem, "Sans début ni fin, ce rêve" published in Magnapoets January 2011 issue.
His blog http://lorchideenoctambule.hautetfort.com 



The Angels' Birth # 17 (Translated from the French)

The white horses send me
thousands of inflamed kisses
and the songs of evil
still in the tea cups
you listen to your heart beating
I listen to the empty ashtrays
crying
and under our blue pillows
hides the loneliness
of Tom Thumb


Out of Phased Sonnet (Translated from the French)

I have known the faces sleeping at dawn
The demons citizens of the doomed lands
The white petrified bodies, the luminous moons,
The secret vampires and the foggy lakes.

In the hypocritical nights I saw asbestos
And in the blemish mornings the skinned skins
Their fluids united in the afternoons
As the faces found out will again.

What have we done to ourselves? We know it no more
I know that I would like to retrieve
The terrible and white cold of the yesteryear faces.

But the beloved painter, faithful love
The cock-crow by my side forbid the abandonment
Of my body brushed by the round faces.



Two Angels under the Moon (Translated from the French)


The monsters, the cyclops
the lustful gorgons
have pierced the blue eyes
of the injured fair angel
and under the palm trees
his grey shadow
still appears sometimes
as the moon
cries out its last tear drops.


Disturbed Sonnet (Translated from the French)

Amazing troubadour, you gather your life
Around your blasphemies, your joys and desires
And beneath your light shadow, night raises up
Serenely walking along the vermilion paths.

And all these days spent making you immortal
Are the broken mirrors, the bits of the sky
To enchant the men dreaming of success
And the forgotten women, left-over roses.

Yet nice Hercules, I have a secret faith
And I have never seen such beautiful conquest
As that of love I who is no Don Juan.

And if you forbid me beware the torment
That could trigger the downing contact
Of our so much amazing naïve spirits.