Me parece que el traducir de una lengua a otra es como quien mira los tapices flamencos por el revés, que aunque se ven las figuras, están llenas de hilos que las oscurecen, y no se ven con la lisura y tez del haz; y el traducir de lenguas fáciles, ni arguye ingenio ni elocución, como no le arguye el que traslada ni el que copia un papel de otro papel––dijo don Quijote.
Y aún así le dije a Enrique Fierro, simpatizante de los rinocerontes––Tomemos prestada la pelota de ping-pong de nuestros amigos Lorenzo y Margarita, y aquí escribámonos y traduzcámonos el uno al otro. Pero, tejamos reversos, traducciones traidoras, como falsos amigos, des faux amis que se miran, pero no se reconocen.

Wednesday, July 8, 2015

the suspension of the points proved too weighty for me,
one for each year,
each bobbing on a different Bethel pond where Papa once fished.
"down cork, Emmitt!" yells the wife in his story,
her emotion at the sight of that battle for buoyancy,
               between wanting and taking, a nibble and a bite,
then reeling, from so much silence,
the point where the line intersects the plane moves closer to shore,
its concentric ripples stretch like taffy,
droplets slip down the link to the long submersed.
best not guess the catch by the resistance.
only participate in the articulation, a piece pulling and being pulled when the time is right.
  sean manning
  At 12:05 PM

1 comment:

  1. daniel heideAugust 4, 2015 at 8:23 AM

    Beautiful poem about fishing, Sean (¿pronounced Shawn?) I am not aquainted with contemporay poetry, I suppose its a nice methaphor of life, I would like to learn more about new poetry. I love enrique but i dont know if I can deal with your crazy blog. Whose blog is it? Enrique´s creation? Seems so..

    ReplyDelete

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)