Monday, January 09, 2006
'Little Viennese Waltz'
[At some point in the early '80's, I was inexplicably moved to do my own translations of Lorca poems from the original Spanish. To this end, I purchased a huge Spanish-English dictionary, a thick paperback of conjugated verbs, and a couple small tomes that purported to explain Spanish grammer and sentence structure, etc.,. I translated seven poems before my ambitions ran out of gas. They later appeared in a paper I wrote for one of those 5 credit Olympic College classes where you make up the study proposal and get an Instructor to agree to it. In the Fall of 1989, six of them were published in the debut issue (also the final issue) of the literary magazine QUICKSILVER. At the risk of becoming a stranger to humility, I've compared my translations to a couple others of supposed note and continue, some 25 years later, to find mine the superior effort.
Photo by daughter Kelly, 2005]
In Vienna there are ten girls whose
shoulders heave with sobs at the slaughter
of doves rent apart in a forest grove.
There are fragments of tomorrow traced
in the museum of frosted windowpanes.
There is a great hall with a thousand shutters.
Alas, alas, alas, alas!
This waltz holds us in its closed mouth.
This waltz, this waltz, this waltz
of consent for the heady liquor of death
that dampens its final note in the sea.
I want you, I want you, I want you,
by the armchair and the dead books,
in the melancholy hallways,
in the dark garret of the lily,
in our moonlit bed
and in the dance that the tortoise dreams.
Alas, alas, alas, alas!
This waltz imprisons us in the depths of its belly.
In Vienna there are four mirrors
that echo the amusement of your lips.
There are murders agreed to at the piano
that scar the young men with blue.
There are beggars who lie in hiding.
There are wreaths newly made for the flood of tears.
Alas, alas, alas, alas!
This waltz is taking its last breath in my arms.
Because I desire you, desire you, my love,
here in the loft where the children played
beneath the antiquated Hungarian lights,
the murmur of a flute in the late afternoon
blows the ewes and the lilies into snowdrifts
that obscure your forehead in stillness.
Alas, alas, alas, alas!
This waltz has taken away your love forever.
I shall dance with you in Vienna
wearing the mask
of a river god.
Behold my banks of hyacinth!
Leave my silent mouth between your legs,
my soul in photographs and white lilies,
and in the dark waves of your movement,
my love, my love, I shall escape both
violin and grave, the fishing nets of the waltz.
# posted by Clear Creek Girl : 3:05 PM
