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Saturday, August 17th, 2013
My father's language
is my mother tongue
and the tongues of those around me
are not my own
nor their teeth
my mouth it moves
and forms the words
the moving pen has left behind
nor all your Piety and Wit
too late to say
posted morning of August 17th, 2013: 3 responses
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Another Zupcic story, another Osner translation: "Tescuco, Italy" is printed in the Fall 2013 issue of Metamorphoses, the journal of the five colleges faculty seminar on literary translation.
posted morning of August 17th, 2013: Respond
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Thursday, August 15th, 2013
by Jeremy Osner
The optimal discipline consists
in self-awareness, self-negation
in a parody of cleanliness.
The optimal discipline consists
in self indulgence, self-correction
in a parody of obediance
obeisance,
and the optimal level of discipline
the one we seek
but never quite attain
a balance
calm condolence
over situations we never asked for
were taxed for
avoided all semblance of discipline
in meditation
like a form of recreation
resurrection
and ultimate truth.
AND IT'S NOW! so
why not do it? With a
howl you pounce
into the fiction before you
teeming fiction where you're jostled
cheek by jowl they crowd you
louder now they're grumbling
and muffling you with their scowls
now you're struggling to escape
to leave this sea of narrative
to lift your glance
to glance away
and break your concentration
and not worry about the implicit snub
to your host the author.
posted evening of August 15th, 2013: Respond
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Tuesday, August 13th, 2013
A house at Mount Irazú
by Eduardo Valverde
tr. Jeremy Osner
These little stars, stars setting in the rivers and the streams,
working their way loose from our fingers and our wallets, stars flowing out like water;
and there will be no one to pay the check
nor to tally the coins.
His ashtray has a leak in it,
it's a little cardboard cup with water in it from a bottle.
You can picture the scorching agony of the fire -a little scream-
that split its fibers.
Green is the green, and leaden all the gray.
The girls are playing, they're laughing, out on the deck;
the women are waiting - just a few more minutes-
for them to come back in without a scratch, as big as life.
We were not sleeping.
I know it because I could hear them out the window
fumbling, impatient
those shapes in the dark. Maybe that's how cows dream,
but us, no.
Us, we weren't sleeping.
So many times, I could swear
he just snubbed us;
indifferent to the whisky
and to the electric skillet,
to the mint tea and the conversation.
Cold reigned
like the silence that volcanoes impose.
And the stairs,
stairs shy and ominous in the night,
downstairs to the morning -- sleeping still,
she's ready to arise.
Don't freak,
in this house
no-one yet has died.
posted evening of August 13th, 2013: 1 response
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Saturday, August 10th, 2013
Looking through Mirar al agua to see what will catch my interest... I'm startled and intrigued by this story, which starts out fast-paced dialog and keeps being that with no narration for 12 pages!
posted morning of August 10th, 2013: Respond
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Friday, August second, 2013
Decir que uno no entiende
la conversación en que se está
sumergiendo
decir que Ay, no puedo
escuchar
estos poemas que ando leyendo
que los poemas en que se esté
dispersando/ sean ininteligibles
serÃa últimamente
no justificable
y por éso, debo
pedir
perdón
posted evening of August second, 2013: 1 response
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What I'm looking for is that the spectator, too, that he take the time to reflect. I bid him place himself before some images that demand he look at them from within. ... that he make the effort to wonder what's coming; or better, how to perceive what has come. Look, you see nothing. It's completely abstract: an image composing itself.
Juan Carlos Bracho
Sólo cerrando puertas detrás de uno se abren ventanas hacia el porvenir por JCB
posted morning of August second, 2013: 2 responses
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Sunday, July 28th, 2013
por Jeremy Osner
en sà mismo se refleja múltiples veces
demasiadas
no se puede tomarlo
en serio
no me puedo contarme
el relato
pero sÃ, esculpiéndome debo
admitir
los caracteres
(es decir,)
mi sentido tenue
de personalidad
requiere
que estas sensibilidades
alrededor de mÃ
se permitan ser
válidas
posted afternoon of July 28th, 2013: Respond
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Saturday, July 27th, 2013
por Félix Fojas
tr. Jeremy Osner
Pica pica
Rasguña
El amor es herido
Y la lujuria es costra
posted evening of July 27th, 2013: Respond
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por J Osner
(compárese)
ahora estoy en mi habitation
esperando
que se termine de llover
mientras suena
el teléfono.
contesto y me dices
que eres furiosa
pero no se me importa
ni un carajo.
ya largo tiempo
estoy de pie en la calle
enfrente del teatro
esperando que se termine
esta acción tanto larga
pero no apenas
ha empezao.
posted evening of July 27th, 2013: Respond
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