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Morton Marcus: Well, I'm here tonight with a very interesting assemblage of eight translators and poets, who have been working at the Summer Institute at UCSC, the Summer Translation Institute, and to tell us-

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Okay, Kevin Kevin Hearle: I'm Kevin Hearle. The Summer Translation Institute is an institute supported by the National Endowment for the Humanities, which brings together professors from around

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the country who do translation as an integral part of their work. It's a ongoing tradition at UC Santa Cruz, which we're trying to build on and we're hoping to bring into the future. The professors talk about bringing translation into their

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pedagogy, the teaching that they do, and also discuss the actual translation work which they're doing among themselves to help build up a community of translators. Beyond that, the best thing that I can do is let you hear from them themselves.

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Morton Marcus: Okay, now this is you can apply for the Summer Institute. But you have to be selected after your application, someone was telling me that maybe a hundred people applied and only around twenty-six were accepted.

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Kevin Hearle: Right, and you have to be- and on top of that you have to be a full time college professor or university professor in the United States to apply. And we did have over a hundred applications and only twenty-six were accepted.

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Morton Marcus: Well, as I think you can realize out there that this is going to be a very interesting evening. Let me just tell you that the translators range in interest from 11th century old French to Tuareg to Spanish, modern Spanish and

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Italian, and they go on from there. So, we will be hearing a great range of poetry and I just want you to sit back and enjoy it. Each of the readers will introduce themselves, tell us a little bit about what they're doing, then read some of the

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poetry in the original language, and then read their translations. So that we can get all of them in, and there are eight people here,let us begin right now. Kevin, why don't you just introduce the first person?

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Kevin Hearle: The first translator that will be reading tonight is Irene Hodgson. Irene Hodgson: I'm from Xavier University in Cincinnati and the poetry that I'm working with is Chilean poetry after the

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military coup in 1973, most specifically from the Chilean poet Javier Campos. Javier's first book published in 1981, "Las Ultimas Fotografias," the last photographs uses a camera image to portray the reality of Chile in the aftermath of the

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coup. Here's one of the poems from that book, first in Spanish ["Las Ultimas Fotografia " read in Spanish] and then in English. The lighted signs tell me that perhaps you are still alive. The

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arrows on the streets lead me to where you are. There are so many lighted buildings that I confuse them with the stars. No one will tell me where to find you. I stopped the buses that traveled to the north in the south of the city. Through the windows, no

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one makes signs to me or even smiles. I think I have lost my way. I think that these people aren't our friends. No one would invite me to drink a glass of wine or to talk. The cars pass by at the speed of light, no one will tell me where to find you.

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The signs "[unidentified] Eldorado hotel with television in every room" increased my melancholy and no one will tell me where to find you. I asked out loud in the streets, I get obscene replies. I'm shot by an open umbrella in the center of

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my heart. I go blindly in the direction where you wait for me. They circle me and give me fliers they take from their pockets. There is no longer any room for love here. And no one, no one will tell me where to find you.

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Javier's second book deals with the experience of exile in the United States and I'm also going to read a short poem from that. The metaphor here for the encounter with the American city is the encounter with the American woman.

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[In Spanish] On a table, there is a white balloon that rises towards your eyes, and your eyes look at the window, and through the window now, nothing can be seen. Only the table has remained where you

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wait for someone who is not I, and I am seated in a chair hoping that you will call me because I am the ashes of your love, the dust of waiting in this house, blame that is going to fall into the sea that's been lost in the city. I am the bird

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of fire burned up in the door of the attic of your kisses. Morton Marcus: And that was Javier a Campo? Irene Hodgson: Javier Campos. Morton Marcus: And are there any books of his in English or are

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you the first person who has been translating? Irene Hodgson: The second book was done in a bilingual edition with my translation. Morton Marcus: Oh, and could you read us the names of both books

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and certainly the second one, Irene Hodgson: Okay, the first one is, "Las Ultimas Fotografias," the last photographs which I'm translating now. And the second one, "La Ciudad En Llamas," the

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city in flames. Morton Marcus: And who is the publisher? Irene Hodgson: It was published in Chile by LAR (Literatura Americana Reunida).

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Morton Marcus: So, you can't, you can't get it in this country? Irene Hodgson: There are some places that are distributing it. And there are two bookstores in Santa Cruz that have it right

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now. Morton Marcus: Oh, really, what are the names? Irene Hodgson: Logos and Bookshop Santa Cruz. Morton Marcus: That's wonderful. And Javier Campos and the

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translator again? Irene Hodgson: Irene Hodgson. Morton Marcus: Thank you very, very much for starting us off. Very, very nice, very nice. And second?

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Fred Fornoff: My name is Fred [inaudible]. I teach at the University of Pittsburgh. Morton Marcus: Now, Fred, you're not coming on, but why aren't you. Okay, try again.

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Fred Fornoff: My name is Fred Fornoff. I teach at the University of Pittsburgh at Johnstown. The poet I'm translating is Laureano Albán, who is a Costa Rican poet born in 1942. The first poem I will read is a four part poem called,

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"Hispania." I will read just the first part in Spanish and then I think I will read the rest just in English. It's a poem that somehow documents his encounter with Spain when he went to Spain in 1978. It's from a book called, "Autumn's Legacy."

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HISPANIA Ávila. Toledo. Lágrimas de piedra, ardiendo en la cara del cielo.. That's the epigraph from Blas de Otero Part One.

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Como en las catedrales cuando no queda nadie y arañas de silencio descienden por el coro. Y los reyes y reinas bajo el mármol crispado son una nave de oro que se pudre en la noche Alguien no duerme nunca cuando la piedra duerme. En los frisos

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más altos nacen sombras de demonios y gárgolas. El techo es un umbral soberbiamente mágico y en los vitrales tiemblan los caballos del aire. Hay una leve sangre en los últimos pájaros de la luz, que

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agonizan entre la oscuridad sonora como un ángel. Alguien no duerme nunca cuando la muerte duerme. Vigía del secreto. Testigo. Torre. Arco de doble sombra. Ojo de nadie. Llama de pura soledad. Silencios agrillados. Crucerías como alas

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terriblemente ancladas. Alguien no duerme nunca. Vigilia eterna es todo. Las columnas sostienen un viaje de piedra, una luz aún más alta que el espejo del tiempo. Como en las catedrales del azar, donde todo es mudable.

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Permanente el prodigio. Velocidad la piedra. Y el pájaro, una sonora llama. La vigilia es eterna. Más alta que la roca la palabra palpita. Alta es la infancia. Altos los cedros en los ojos, los

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volcanes remotos al lado de mi padre. Nadie duerme en el mundo. La muerte es un espejo de doble luz en viaje. Sólo el sueño termina continuamente y pasa. Iluminado pasa, desmemoriado pasa.

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Como en las catedrales donde no queda nadie y los pórticos caen separando los cuerpos de su sombra, los días de la solar ausencia de las calles. Nadie duerme en la noche. La muerte es imposible.

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Morton Marcus: As you go to the English, let me stick in one of my comments. Do you know you sound exactly like Pablo Neruda Fred Fornoff: I was trying to. reading?

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Alban is a poet who is influenced by- by Neruda despite his efforts not to be. Morton Marcus: Well, it was a great imitation, I mean you capture the cadence and the eligiac quality of the voice.

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Beautiful. Fred Fornoff: HISPANIA "Ávila. Toledo. Tears of stone burning in the face of heaven." That's the epigraph.

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Part One As in cathedrals when no one is left, and spiders of silence steal down through the choir, and the kings and queens under flexed marble or a golden ship rotting in the night. Someone

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isn't sleeping ever when the stone sleeps. Beneath the top most cornices, shadows stir, demons, gargoyles. The ceiling is the highest threshold of magic, and horses of air pound against the stained glass. The last birds of light are touched

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with blood. They die in the sonorous darkness like an angel. Someone isn't sleeping ever where death sleeps, rock of the secret, witness, watchtower, vault of the double shadow. I have no one. Flame of pure emptiness, ribbed silences,

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Gothic domes like terribly anchored wings. Someone isn't sleeping ever, eternal vigil is all. The columns support a voyage of stone, alight higher than the mirror of time. As in cathedrals of chance, where everything is mutable, wonder

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permanent, stone quick, and the bird an echoing flame. The watch is eternal, higher than rock the word throbs. Infancy is high, high the cedars and the eyes, the far volcanoes by my father's side, no one is sleeping everywhere. Death is a voyage in

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mirror looking all ways. Only sleep comes continuously to an end, passes, illumined it passes, unremembering it passes. As in cathedrals when no one is left, when the porticoes fall, dividing bodies from their shadows, sunless days from their

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streets. No one is sleeping in the night. Death is impossible. Part Two I know olive groves with your name, girl, you have filled the afternoon because your eyes go from fear to wonder, from my

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skin to shadow. Spanning vast clarities of your uncertain hand, love is the air, no one sings in all the air. Journey from the horizon. Behind you, the vespertine breasts of Guadarrama burn. You are sound and flame, you are the edge of

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fire against the wrestling field of wheat. Small villages are like your melancholy, cities which are nothing but church: Daganzo, Ajalvir. Names that ring likevanished Emirates: Almoguera, Almonacid de Zorita. You hold that river of lanterns

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in your eyes and on each finger a flying banner. I can promise you that my astonishment will not end and that there are blessed dreams waiting on the earth. I think my time is up.

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Morton Marcus: Unfortunately, yes. Beautiful, beautiful poem; beautiful translation. The problem we're having here and if you've just tuned in is that we have got so many people from the Translation Institute that we really should be doing two

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shows. But unfortunately, I could not get in touch with Joe to see if he would want to do it next week, since he's not in town this week. And so we're going to have to just continue at this rate of speed and let this whet your appetite. Again,

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if you've just tuned in, we are listening to the people from the Summer Translation Institute at UCSC. And as I think you realize the translations are of an exceptionally high caliber. Who is next?

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Unknown: I'm next. Morton Marcus: Okay, and your name is? Unknown: My name is Anne Harlowyn(?). I'm from Brown University. I teach English linguistics and philology, and I

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also write fiction and poetry. I'd like to read poems by two contemporary Russian women, both born in Odessa more than a generation apart, and both have spent time in prison camps in Siberia. The first poem I'll read is a popular verse orally

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transmitted from the Stalinist era. The version that I'm reading is that of Ruth Zernova, a contemporary Russian fiction writer now living in Israel. The poem appears in her story, [unidentified] "Travelers," part of a collection called "Women's

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Stories," which I'm currently translating. The poem's subject is the role played by Lidiya Timashuk in uncovering the so called, "Doctor's plot." [In Russian]

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Cogan, Professor dear, doctor mine, you've been hurt, it's clear. Don't pine, nerves shot? Goose cooked? What a switch. All because of Lidiya Timashuk, that bitch. The second poem is quite different in tone. It's by Irina

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Ratushinskaya, a 34 year old Russian woman now living in Chicago. She spent the years from 1983 to 1986 in prison camp in Siberia. She was sent there because of human rights activities within the Soviet Union. In prison, she wrote her

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poems on a bar of soap with a matchstick, memorized them and then washed them away. The poem that I read is from her collection, "Beyond the Limits," it has no title. [In Russian]

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Here again comes December and spreads out its canvas, embroiders the roads with a thick, ornate crust. Even scoured by the harshest of elements we are not safe from it's killing purity. Let our planets run free in their wide

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ancient circles. As for us, we can see the white road clear ahead. Snow licks at our lifelines, still we have time to leave something behind, epilogue for the dead. To set down stubborn steps in a deep printed track, ascending the frozen

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scaffolding of the block, to feel the fierce cold, like a penitent smock settle on our weak shoulders, cleanly as grace. Morton Marcus: Thank you very much. And was that last poem

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rhymed by any chance? Unknown: It has a kind of sporadic rhyme in Russian. It has a pretty distinct meter with- actually, a meter that was very popular with Anna Akhmatova. But Ratushinskaya

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takes considerable liberties with the meter. Morton Marcus: The first poem was rhymed, obviously, that's part of the joke. It has to have the rhyme in it. Do you, and it will be interesting to ask a lot of the people here who are doing

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even more traditional poetries, do you feel compelled to use the rhyme or to really dispense with a piece that just gets in the way of the poetry? Unknown: I try to recreate in the English, the same, let's say

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stance towards the rhyme. In the case of this poem, there's some rhyme but it has no regular pattern, so there's some rhyme in the translation but again, no regular pattern enforced. Morton Marcus: That's setting a problem for yourself.

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Unknown: Yeah. Morton Marcus: Anyway, lovely. Sounds really wonderful. Unknown: Thank you. Morton Marcus: Thank you very much. That was Anne Stuart. And

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next we have Will Wells. William Wells: Hello, I'm Will Wells. I teach English and creative writing at a branch campus of the Ohio State University. And I'm here in Santa Cruz translating poetry

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from a number of Modernist Italian poets, the contemporaries of Eliot and Pound. In particular tonight, I think I'm going to read a couple of pieces, if I may, by Umberto Saba. And one piece by Salvatore Quasimodo. The interest I think,

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for Saba is that he was of Jewish origin, and was sheltered by the Nobel Prize winner, Eugenio Montale, during during World War Two in Florence. And many of his poems come out of the experience there and I'm currently working on that

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collection. I thought I'd read a couple poems very briefly in English by Saba, and then read a somewhat longer poem by Quasimodo. So dispensing with the Italian, this one's called THE GOAT and

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it's probably Saba's most well-known poem. I spoke to a goat. She was alone in a meadow, she was tied, glutted with grass, drenched by the rain, bleating. That steady squall was brother to my sadness. And I replied first in

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jest and then because sadness is eternal and has an unvaried voice. This voice I heard moaning in a lonely goat, in a goat with a Jew's face. I heard a lament for every other misfortune, every other life.

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The next poem is also by Saba, it's called, THE SAPLING. Rain today, day seeming evening, spring seeming fall, and repeated gusts blast the sapling that holds, though not seeming to, firm. A skinny boy among the plants, too tall for his too

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green age. You watch it morning perhaps, all the bright blossoms born-off by the storm and the fruits, next winter's sweet preserves, brought down with these blossoms strewn in the grass. Grief leads us to a vast mothering.

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The next poet is Quasimodo. Both of these poets were born in the 1880s and lived up into the 1950s or 60s. The poem I'm going to read by Quasimodo was written in the 1960s. It was occasioned by a visit to Ireland, so we're going to have a very- this was

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his first trip to Ireland and he was, felt it was a very mystical place and this poem came out of it. I'll read it first in Italian and then in English. GLENDALOUGH

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Los muertos de Glendalough bajo as cruces celtas miran desde u monte cargado de nubes negras y leves. Dicen que huyen de la p imavera, escuchan lentamente l s chaparrones de lluvia y las s mbras de los cuervos que cruzan persiguen allá arriba palabras

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blancas de poniente. Son migos estos muertos de las torre teras, compañeros de la mar ue más allá se arquea de tormentas y engasta las olas n la luna. Los nombres de los celtas son de sobresalto y engañ sos estruendos. Cerca de un

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orrente, bajo el sol, no h brá ni tormenta ni el romántic crepúsculo del mediodía, y s lo un cuervo graznaba desde el ielo, recordando a una Mujer be lísima muerta de GLENDALOUGH

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Under Celtic crosses the dead of Glendalough looked down from a hill, washed with brief black clouds. They speak of the spring that they fled. They listen slowly to the steady rain and to the shadows of crows which pass up there to follow the white

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words of the West. They are friends, these hillside-dead, comrades of the sea, which bends further off to storms and fits the waves to the moon. The names of the Celts are full of alarms and diluted thunder. Near a rushing stream under the sun,

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there was neither a tempest nor the romantic dusk of midday, and only one crow sneered from the sky recalling a lovely lady, dead of love within Saint Kevin's Abbey with its conical roof.

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Morton Marcus: Thank you, Will. You yourself are having a book of poetry out this year, aren't you? William Wells: Yeah, I was notified last December 1st that I had won the Anhinga Award sponsored by Florida State

00:26:14.060 - 00:26:25.190

University. And my book, "Conversing with the Right-" "Conversing with the Light," will be issued sometime this month. Morton Marcus: And that's from the University of Florida Press?

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Morton Marcus: Florida State Press, right. Well, thank you William Wells: Florida State. very much. We are listening to and talking with eight translators and poets from the Summer Translation Institute at

00:26:38.500 - 00:26:53.290

UCSC. And we will return after a musical break with four more translators and we're yet to hear from the Tuareg and I believe we're going to have some Afghani or Farsi and we're also going to have some old friends from the 11th century, so stay

00:26:53.290 - 00:27:27.350

tuned to the Poetry Show. A short musical interlude now. This is Mort Marcus again with a Poetry Show and only one announcement this week, and that is the Zachary Readings, the National Writers Union readings at Zachary's, sponsored by Local

00:27:27.350 - 00:27:42.230

Number Seven. The oldest and most enduring literary series in Santa Cruz is now at Zachary's at 819 Pacific Avenue, the first Wednesday evening of every month on August 3rd, that's two days from now, I think- no, it's tomorrow. Zachary's readings

00:27:42.230 - 00:28:00.350

features Candida Lawrence, Will Staples and Diana Bassist, as well as readings of work in progress and an open mic. The event begins at 7:30pm and admission is $2, so try to make it down to the readings at Zachary's tomorrow night. In

00:28:00.350 - 00:28:16.730

future on September 7th, Charles Atkinson, Sarah Walsh and Gary Young. Then on October 5, Carol Statica, Phil Doherty and Kiva, so keep the readings in mind and remember that Zachary's is the place for readings in Santa Cruz, the first Wednesday of

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every month. We have been talking to the people at the Summer Translation Institute at UCSC. All college professors who have been selected out of a hundred people, twenty-six have been selected to come to the conference and to work on their

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translations from a variety of different languages. And we are going to continue right now with Lina Brock, did I pronounced that correctly Lina? Okay, now I'm gonna have to ask you to sit closer to the- that's it. Let's see, am I registering?

00:28:50.450 - 00:28:55.520

Lina Brock: How's that? Morton Marcus: No, I'm not registering. Why am I not registering? Little more. Lina Brock: How's that?

00:28:56.630 - 00:29:11.040

Morton Marcus: Okay, that's better Lina. What are you is your area of translation and why don't you introduce yourself and then get underway? Lina Brock: All right. I teach at Sarah Lawrence College. And

00:29:11.070 - 00:29:29.580

the translations, which I'm going to read are poems from the Tuareg. Tuareg are Berber people of the central Sahara, and West African Sahel. Tuareg has a rich tradition of authored poetry which is transmitted orally. And the first poem I'm going to read

00:29:29.610 - 00:29:46.340

is by [unidentified], who is a very famous poet who lived in the at the end of the 19th century, which was the heroic epic of Tuareg society and oral tradition. I'll read it in Tuareg and then in English.

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[In Tuareg] No force cools the seed within the fruit, nothing lights grass-tufted hills with gold the way the night sky parts into around the mother of a son of my close kin. She's worth more than

00:30:38.490 - 00:30:57.360

a narrow ravine near [unidentified] or [unidentified] where gazelle live, whose gate never ceases to quiver. Here I'm complete. Her shoulders hung with necklace, her skin so oiled, so smooth and soft to touch. But I want to gaze down

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on her until night again covers our breasts. The second poem I'm going to read is by a contemporary Tuareg poet, whose name is Hawad, who comes from the Aïr Mountains on the southern edge of the Sahara. Hawad was born in 1950. And he

00:31:18.600 - 00:31:34.560

currently lives in Aix-en-Provence in the south of France. He writes his poetry and it's been adapted by himself and his wife, Helene Hawad-Claudot into French from the original Tuareg.

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Morton Marcus: Well, come, pardon my ignorance and possibly the listeners out there, now as far as I knew the Tuareg were nomadic people in the Sahara. Lina Brock: That's right.

00:31:43.290 - 00:31:51.030

Morton Marcus: Okay, now he has always obviously no longer nomadic. Lina Brock: That's right. Morton Marcus: Okay and are many Tuaregs living in France, let's

00:31:51.030 - 00:32:01.770

say, I know there is a connection between North Africa say and the old French Empire and that's how he has made his way to France? Lina Brock: Well, his trajectory to arrive in France has been by

00:32:01.770 - 00:32:20.460

way of a Sufi monastery on the Libyan-Egyptian border and Sufi camps in Iraq, so it's been a long sort of trajectory. But it's true that the link between the Tuareg country and the central Sahara, which was a French colony, and contemporary

00:32:20.460 - 00:32:30.570

France is very strong. Morton Marcus: Well, this will be very interesting to see. Does he write traditionally, I mean, does it use traditional forms and call on all the traditions of language, let's say that?

00:32:30.810 - 00:32:51.000

Lina Brock: He uses traditional imagery and mythology, but not traditional forms. His poetry- traditional forms are- follow very regular rhythmic patterns and rhyme patterns and his poetry is much freer than that in its form.

00:32:51.660 - 00:33:00.450

Morton Marcus: And what is, may I ask what he's doing today? Lina Brock: He's writing poetry. Morton Marcus: And but I mean, you know, keep- no one knows? Okay. Yeah, so this is very Interesting.

00:33:00.420 - 00:33:13.230

Lina Brock: He's published several collections of his poetry. And he's also a calligrapher. He does calligraphy in the traditional Tuareg alphabet, which is called Tifinagh. And he's had a number of exhibits.

00:33:14.400 - 00:33:24.290

Morton Marcus: Okay, now one one more thing. He's published several lines of poetry, but if he's in France, is it in a French translation? Lina Brock: Yes, it is. It's in a- an adaptation, really, which

00:33:24.290 - 00:33:33.440

he has done in collaboration with his wife. Morton Marcus: I see. Have you met him or-? Lina Brock: Yes, yes. Morton Marcus: Well, sorry for all the questions, but I'm sure

00:33:33.440 - 00:33:54.770

that the listeners out there are as curious as I am. Lina Brock: No, thank you. The- what I will read is the end of a long poem, which Hawad wrote. It's about an incident, which happened in 1983. When Tuare immigrants were expelled fro

00:33:54.800 - 00:34:13.520

Southern Algeria by the Algeria government, the government o Mali and Niger refused t readmit the refugees, and th Algerians packed everybody in truck and dumped them in th middle of the desert withou water or food or shelter. An

00:34:13.520 - 00:34:31.610

the poem from which I'll rea the end is one that Howard wrot in response to that situation The image in the end of the poe is an image of the mountai range, the Hoggar, which is th traditional home of the Tuare people in southern Algeria. Tha

00:34:31.610 - 00:34:56.630

mountain massif, exploding in o fire in protest over this act f violence against the Tuar g people, and I'll read it n French and in Englis [In French].

00:35:22.550 - 00:36:00.350

In an instant, blink of an eyelash, time that separates two heartbeats, the body of the Ahaggar caught fire, a blaze of copper from her rocky ankles to the crests of the Assekrem. No shadows stood then outside its silhouette. The mountain and the

00:36:00.350 - 00:36:22.130

nothingness around were one giant ember, a blazing woman clad in a cape of flame, there with the night, do you hear? An ember woman repeating the lament from the abyss, strident, rising up like the palm tree's trunk that upholds the arches of

00:36:22.130 - 00:36:33.410

infinity. Morton Marcus: Nice. Now, you have been translating from the Tuareg, though. That was the French, but the original is the Tuareg. Where did you ever learn the Tuareg language?

00:36:34.190 - 00:36:48.800

Lina Brock: Well, I spent two and a half years in the mid 70s living in Tuareg country as an anthropologist. Morton Marcus: Uh huh, wonderful. Well, this is a incredible variety and excellent poetry to my ears. Thank you

00:36:48.800 - 00:36:56.660

very, very much. Lina Brock: Thank you. Morton Marcus: That was Lina Brock. And now we're going to talk to, and tell me if I pronounced it wrong, Jonaid

00:36:56.690 - 00:37:02.650

Sharif. Jonaid Sharif: That's correct. Morton Marcus: Wonderful, Jonaid. Why don't you tell us about yourself and your project?

00:37:03.170 - 00:37:27.020

Jonaid Sharif: Well, I come from Afghanistan originally. And I've been teaching in Fort Valley State College in Georgia, Middle Georgia. I brought with me to the institute two languages in two forms. I have samples from both of these languages. The

00:37:27.020 - 00:37:51.440

first one is Pashto. And the form that I've translated from in Pashto is called Landay, (LAND-ee), and that means short, and that's couplets. So I'm going to read these couplets in Pashto, about five of them, and then my free experimental

00:37:52.070 - 00:38:39.440

translations of them. Then I'll do a couple of ghazals from Farsi. [In Pashto] Now the translation:

00:38:40.500 - 00:38:55.980

Flower in hands, I stand awaiting. Either accept my flower, friend, or grant my leave. Give me an answer to this couplet. My house is on the riverbank, I die of thirst.

00:38:58.350 - 00:39:14.160

Drunk with my empty laughter, young man. If you could kiss me you'd go utterly insane. A maidens mouth is heaven's entrance, to heavens entrance doesn't every Muslim go?

00:39:17.520 - 00:39:30.840

Come come you coward, sit by me. If you are hesitant, I'll come closer and closer. Morton Marcus: Now Jonaid you've chosen not to use the rhyme in your English translation.

00:39:30.870 - 00:39:40.010

Jonaid Sharif: Exactly. Morton Marcus: And could you just sort of tell the listeners why you made that choice? Jonaid Sharif: That's because the rhyme scheme in the original

00:39:40.010 - 00:40:03.890

is also very loose. Most of them are nothing but just plural endings in nouns or first person or third person endings in verbs. So that's what makes the form so flexible and more poetic I think, because they can be used in a lot of different

00:40:03.980 - 00:40:17.300

occasion, you know, occasions and for many, many different reasons. The ones that I selected here come from a particular story that I am translating right now for the Institute.

00:40:18.690 - 00:40:36.020

Morton Marcus: Okay, well continue on. Jonaid Sharif: Let me do the for Farsi as well. Now, I have to say that the ghazal is a very strict form and it's established in Farsi, it's Persian, it has been established for ages. I've

00:40:36.020 - 00:40:48.680

been very experimental in trying to imitate the form. Morton Marcus: Could you explain that? This form is, for the reader and listener, is in couplets and usually is very strictly rhymed in couplets.

00:40:48.770 - 00:41:11.030

Jonaid Sharif: The ghazal is anywhere from 14 to 24 lines and all of them have a strict rhyme scheme, every other line ends with the same rhyme. Morton Marcus: And have you chosen that in your translation?

00:41:11.300 - 00:41:21.620

Jonaid Sharif: Yes. Morton Marcus: Oh, this is gonna be interesting. Jonaid Sharif: That- the difference also, another difference is that the ghazals in Farsi are mine so I felt very

00:41:21.620 - 00:42:06.650

confident in taking liberties. Morton Marcus: Oh, that's okay. Wonderful Jonaid Sharif: [In Farsi] In English the title is:

00:42:06.650 - 00:42:24.200

THE FALL This autumn wind delivers how insane, from door to door the story of a stain. They won the game of cunning, what a game. They lost the war of courage, what a game. Witness the grace

00:42:24.200 - 00:42:42.560

of sons sitting by fire, their own mothers abandoned in the rain. October fell and left the branches there that looked upon the garden in disdain. Morton Marcus: Very nice. That was Jonaid Sharif reading his

00:42:42.590 - 00:42:57.350

own ghazal. And do you have one more? Jonaid Sharif: I have a very short one. Morton Marcus: Okay, please read it. Jonaid Sharif: [In Farsi]

00:42:58.970 - 00:43:11.500

Let me just stop with one stanza in Farsi and then go to the English. How much time do I have? Morton Marcus: As quickly as you can do it. Jonaid Sharif: Okay, okay. Last night I, in that rare dream of

00:43:11.530 - 00:43:29.440

years, was on the verge of sinning when she joined the masquerade of pious men in town. The storyteller in his last song, the cup-bearer in his second round, the crawl of a gown muted the sitar. Tonight, my saint of sinners on your mat,

00:43:29.650 - 00:43:40.630

someone has spilt a dark pitcher of wine in seminars are stooping to a cloud. Morton Marcus: Very nice. Thank you very much. That was Jonaid Sharif. And Jonaid, one thing, the imagery you were using was

00:43:40.630 - 00:43:54.370

traditional imagery, wasn't it, from those usually associated with ghazals? Jonaid Sharif: Exactly. It's been thoroughly Sufi poetry. Morton Marcus: Thank you very, very much. We are talking, in

00:43:54.370 - 00:44:05.500

case you've just tuned in, to a wonderful variety of poets and translators from the Summer Translation Institute at UCSC. And we will go right on because time is beginning to wane with Dorothy Gilbert.

00:44:05.740 - 00:44:13.230

Dorothy Gilbert: Yes. I'm Dorothy Gilbert and- Morton Marcus: Dorothy, you're gonna have to sit much, much closer. Dorothy Gilbert: All right. Is this better?

00:44:13.320 - 00:44:24.740

Morton Marcus: Very good. Dorothy Gilbert: Yes. Well, I've been teaching this year at Pitzer College down in Claremont, one of the Claremont Colleges. Now, I'm about to teach at Mills College up in

00:44:24.740 - 00:44:45.920

Oakland, and I'm an English professor, I'm a poet. I'm a medievalist, and I work with Chretien de Troyes, who wrote around 1170. He probably was the- was at the court of Marie de Champagne, who was Eleanor of Aquitaine's daughter, that

00:44:45.920 - 00:45:10.970

should place him pretty much for you. And he was the inventor of the Arthurian romance. He took Celtic legends that had been imported from the the Breton, the storytellers, and from the English would come over after the conquest, and he took those

00:45:10.970 - 00:45:29.210

legends and wove them into long, long stories, many of them about seven-thousand lines long. They're in rhymed octosyllabic couplets in Old French. I've chosen to use rhymed octosyllabic couplets too. And while it's hard to do, it's also

00:45:29.210 - 00:45:47.270

fun to do, so I'm going to read now a very short selection from the Old French and then of my translation of a joust. And I'll read the Old French, which sounds very different from modern French, not at all like the Parisian French some of you

00:45:47.300 - 00:46:06.340

know, you pronounce nearly every syllable and it's full of hisses and snaps. So, in a joust or a fighting situation, it sounds nice and hostile, or at least I hope it does. And so here it is, the joust between Erec, the hero, and the

00:46:06.340 - 00:46:21.640

knight named Yder. La place fu delivre et granz, De totes parz furent les janz. Cil plus d'un arpant s'antresloingnent, Por assanbler les chevaus poingnent, As fers des lances se requierent, Par si

00:46:21.640 - 00:46:40.360

grant vertu s'antrefierent Que li escu percent et croissent, Les lances esclicent et froissent, Li arçon depiecent deriers: Guerpir lor estuet les estriers. Contre terre anbedui se ruient, Li cheval par le chanp s'an fuient. Cil resont

00:46:40.360 - 00:46:57.760

tost an piez sailli, Des lances n'orent pas failli; Les espees des fuerres traient: Felenessemant s'antressaient, Des tranchanz granz cos s'antredonent, Li hiaume quassent et ressonent. Fiers est li chaples des espees: Mout

00:46:57.790 - 00:47:14.110

s'antredonent granz collees, Que de rien nule ne se faingnent. Tot deronpent quanqu'il ataingnent, Tranchent escuz, faussent haubers. Del sanc vermoil rogist li fers. Here's the English:

00:47:14.900 - 00:47:30.860

The field now cleared was spacious, wide, and people stood on every side, more than an acre now these two back off before their rendezvous and rush together on their course. The lance heads cracked with vicious force. The clanging shields are

00:47:30.860 - 00:47:47.180

pierced and battered. The lances bashed to bits and shattered. The saddle bows break up and smash, feed thee their stirrups with a crash, both fall to earth, their stirrups yield, the horses tear across the field. The men leap up, their lances

00:47:47.180 - 00:48:03.980

gone used to good purpose, they fight on. Each from his scabbard draws his sword and with ferocious, cruel accord they hue and prune and carve. They make this helmet sing and crack and break. Furiously, these two irons meet, on necks and

00:48:03.980 - 00:48:20.360

shoulders slash and beat. No second thoughts disturb these men. They harrow, tear and strike again, strike cleanly through the shields. They smash the brightening [unidentified], as they slash, the swords are stained with scarlet blood.

00:48:22.220 - 00:48:33.440

Morton Marcus: A spirited reading and it sounds terrific. I mean, it sounds- sound very, very similar to the Old French. Dorothy Gilbert: I got some of that hostility. Morton Marcus: You certainly did, some of that snappy

00:48:33.440 - 00:48:42.210

hostility. That really is very, very strong stuff. Dorothy Gilbert: Thank you. Morton Marcus: Is that all you're going to read? Dorothy Gilbert: Yes, I think so.

00:48:42.360 - 00:48:53.940

Morton Marcus: Okay, I hate to rush on. I'd like to talk much more about that. I'm teaching medieval English literature this year. Actually, the whole kit and caboodle all the way up from Beowulf on up.

00:48:54.120 - 00:49:04.400

[cross talk] Dorothy Gilbert: Wonderful Arthurian story. Morton Marcus: Anyway, our last reader and translator is Susan Brown. Susan, tell us something and don't rush. If we go over a

00:49:04.400 - 00:49:16.550

minute or two, don't worry about it. The next person on is understanding and a friend. But you've got to come much closer on that microphone. It has a very, very short range. Okay, say it again.

00:49:16.580 - 00:49:28.800

Susan Brown: My poet is Fernando Pessoa. Morton Marcus: Okay. Susan Brown: And he's a Portuguese- the first Portuguese Modernist. His years were 1888 to 1935. And I've been working

00:49:28.830 - 00:49:49.830

in collaboration with Edwin Hoenig. And I'd like to read one poem from, "Alvaro de Campos." And Alvaro de Campos was one- of one of Pessoa's heteronyms, or what he called his drama in characters. And Alvaro de Campos is probably the most interesting

00:49:49.890 - 00:50:07.170

in a psychological way and very much in the tradition of Whitman. And so, because time is short I think I'll read the last part of, "Lisbon Revisited." And then I'll give you the translation.

00:50:07.260 - 00:50:15.600

Morton Marcus: I don't wanna make you nervous, but this is one of my favorite poets in the world. Susan Brown: Do I have time to read the whole thing? Morton Marcus: Um, why don't we do it, right? If you could just

00:50:15.600 - 00:50:24.230

read a little of it in Portuguese, just a little bit. Susan Brown: What if I read a little in English and all of it in Portuguese? Morton Marcus: I would rather introduce the people out there

00:50:24.230 - 00:50:37.640

to your translation of "Lisbon Revisited." Susan Brown: What I'll do then is read the last part in Portuguese where you get- this is what the poet is coming back to his city of his childhood. And there's a great sense of

00:50:37.640 - 00:50:59.130

loss and- and self-exile and he's speaking now to Lisbon. Outra vez te revejo, Cidade da minha infância pavorosamente perdida... Cidade triste e alegre, outra vez sonho aqui... Eu? Mas sou eu o mesmo que aqui vivi, e aqui voltei, E aqui

00:50:59.130 - 00:51:16.020

tornei a voltar, e a voltar, E aqui de novo tornei a voltar? Ou somos todos os Eu que estive aqui ou estiveram, Uma série de contas-entes ligadas por um fio-memória, Uma série de sonhos de mim de alguém de fora de mim?

00:51:16.860 - 00:51:32.350

Outra vez te revejo, Com o coração mais longínquo, a alma menos minha. Outra vez te revejo — Lisboa e Tejo e tudo —, Transeunte inútil de ti e de mim, Estrangeiro aqui como em toda a

00:51:32.350 - 00:51:52.600

parte, Casual na vida como na alma, Fantasma a errar em salas de recordações, Ao ruído dos ratos e das tábuas que rangem No castelo maldito de ter que viver... Outra vez te revejo, Sombra que passa através de sombras, e

00:51:52.600 - 00:52:07.960

brilha Um momento a uma luz fúnebre desconhecida, E entra na noite como um rastro de barco se perde Na água que deixa de se ouvir... Outra vez te revejo, Mas, ai, a mim não me revejo! Partiu-se o

00:52:08.560 - 00:52:22.970

espelho mágico em que me revia idêntico, E em cada fragmento fatídico vejo só um bocado de mim — Um bocado de ti e de mim!... Do I have time to read the whole?

00:52:23.690 - 00:52:36.120

Morton Marcus: Let's try to do it. Let's let's try and do it. You've got, I'd say, like two minutes. Susan Brown: Nothing holds me to anything. I want fifty things at once with a meat hungry anguish I yearn for what I don't know,

00:52:36.840 - 00:52:53.100

definitely for the indefinite. Restless I sleep and live in the restless dream of someone who sleeps restlessly, half of me dreaming. They closed all the abstract unnecessary doors on me. They drew the curtains on all the hypotheses I might see

00:52:53.100 - 00:53:08.670

on the street. There's no house on the side street with the number they gave me. I woke to the same life I departed by sleeping. Even my dream army suffered defeat, even my dreams felt false as I dreamed them, even the life I only desire,

00:53:08.910 - 00:53:24.720

even that life coys. I understand in fits and starts. I write between times when I'm not tired. And the boredom that's bored even of itself drags me ashore. I've no idea how the future and fate will treat my aimless anguish. I don't know

00:53:24.720 - 00:53:38.940

what impossible southern islands await me shipwrecked, or what palm-groves of letters will give me at least a line of verse. No, I don't know this, that or anything else. And deep in my soul, I dream what I dreamt, in the furthest recesses of my soul

00:53:38.940 - 00:53:53.970

where I live memory without any reason, in the past is a natural fog of fake tears. On the shortcuts and roads in the fairway woods where I hypothesized my being, the last remnants of my ultimate illusion flee, dismantled. My dream

00:53:53.970 - 00:54:10.590

armies vanquished without ever having been, my latent cohorts shattered to pieces in God. Once again, I see you city of my childhood, terrifyingly lost, city of my sorrow and joy, I dream here again. I, but am I the same person who lived here

00:54:10.590 - 00:54:26.850

once and returned, and came back here again and again. And now come back here again? Am I? Or are we all the eyes, I was or were here, a string of bead strung all together by a memory-strand, a string of dreams of myself, which someone

00:54:26.850 - 00:54:44.490

outside me dreamt up. Once again, I see you with heart more distant and soul less my own. Once again, I see you, Lisbon, the Tagus and all. Useless passerby as you and me, stranger in this place as every other. Accidental in life is in the

00:54:44.490 - 00:55:01.560

soul. Phantom wandering the halls of memory, to the squealing of rats, and the squeaking of boards and the doomed castle where life must be lived. Once again I see you, shadow passing through shadows, shining for one moment in an

00:55:01.560 - 00:55:20.010

unknown generial light, then entering the night like a ship's wake disappearing in water, slowly becoming inaudible. Once again I see you, but myself alas, I fail to see. Shattered, the magical mirror where I saw myself identical and in each

00:55:20.010 - 00:55:36.130

faithful fragment I describe only a piece of myself, a piece of you and of myself. Morton Marcus: That was Susan Brown, who was reading Fernando Pessoa, the great modern Portuguese poet, and we have

00:55:36.130 - 00:55:51.520

been listening to eight poet translators from the Summer Institute at the University of California. Thanks to Kevin who organized this whole thing. To me, it has been a very, very wonderful evening. It's sort of been like hors d'oeuvres, some

00:55:51.520 - 00:56:06.610

wonderful little- eight wonderful hors d'oeuvres and not nearly enough to fill up my appetite. This is Mort Marcus and this is the Poetry Show. Joe will be back with you next week. I would like to say that Plaza Books has provided a grant that

00:56:06.610 - 00:56:21.670

helped make this last half hour of programming possible. Plaza Books is located on the Pacific Garden Mall in Santa Cruz. We appreciate their support. Also, stay tuned, not stay tuned but tune in, at six o'clock in the morning for Morning Edition and

00:56:21.670 - 00:56:35.560

KUSP, local news, national public radio news, and features. I urge you to do that and I also urge you to listen to "Things Ain't What They Used To Be" with Tim Folger, which will be coming at you within the next ten seconds. So, if you are

00:56:35.560 - 00:56:42.280

impatient for him, he is here. This is Mort Marcus saying we'll see you all two weeks from tonight.