Tuesday, 14 February 2017

Real poets only lie to themselves

There’s nothing more unfair than to translate a poem, for it loses so much of its essence, more than any other writing form. That is why, whenever I can, I try to read in each one’s own language. Although, this writer in particular did write a lot in English, and I must say, I’m quite happy with whomever translated this poem:

"The poet is a faker
Who’s so good at his act
He even fakes the pain
Of pain he feels in fact.

And those who read his words
Will feel in his writing
Neither of the pains he has
But just the one they’re missing.

And so around its track
This thing called the heart winds,
A little clockwork train
To entertain our minds."

Edited: translation by Richard Zenith, 2006, NYC

Original:

“O poeta é um fingidor.
Finge tão completamente
Que chega a fingir que é dor
A dor que deveras sente.

E os que lêem o que escreve,
Na dor lida sentem bem,
Não as duas que ele teve,
Mas só a que eles não têm.

E assim nas calhas da roda
Gira, a entreter a razão,
Esse comboio de corda
Que se chama o coração.”

By Fernando Pessoa

Thursday, 9 February 2017

The Penelopes

So, Charlie told me these guys are playing tomorrow at the Lexington. Questions:
First of all... plural? Really?! There's only one Penelope, ya hear me? "There Can Be Only One." Muahaha!
Secondly... when did I aprove this? Where's the memo? Ya know, a simple 'thank you' note would also suffice.
But no, nonono, you didn't even tell me you're coming. How rude! No matter, we will meet one day, and you, misters, will have some explaining to do. Throwing another Muahaha!
Oh, wait, this just reminded me... I've met a really nice guy this weekend who goes by Penny on stage.
Awww, my names are so loved!... Good for you, Names!!
No more Muahahas.

The Penelopes