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    Charity in its truest sense; the ability for meaning to gain a heightened hold; golden blossoms spring forth from dark mud; laughs in wild winds waiting for the musk to drip ... in the eyes of something massive, heavy breaths and shooting glances. Honoring the living spirit, alive in the night and day alike -- divided and undivided like them. Remonstrance of an accordian moment; then discord through the curtain of night; an egg might be cracking; say it's not the dragon; we fear them all the same; no matter if the breath be fire or of ice; we listen as the frost overtakes the night; while the chips fall from the sky, and we have our mouths wide open. Like hearts. Having the heart, and the ability to set it forth like a fountain, a cannon, a volcano you thought was only a mountain. Let the gushing sweetness cover the giant earth, as footsteps rifted in folly crack in thundering pangs, the laboring earth. Her screams fill the trees, and the shaking branches thrash in torrents and hurricanes. Her lifted up skirt and her lips spit poison, her snake-like limbs moving further, growing despite what isn't there to touch her ends. Like the prayer cast from the heart made of lead, of iron, of metal that just needs to be heated. Hear my cries, my pleas, my prayer: left alone in the night, I sing the same child ... I am the same singing child crying along with the nightsong of frost, the host of our chariot, the little budding leaf upon which sits the dragon-child. Little claws break the skin of the leaf, and deal such blows as would kill any animal around ... soon enough. The eyes drink in the terrible darkness -- such terrible depths and the names of which -- everything in between -- our drunken kiss in the chance, to watch the lightning stretch past her lips:-- and snake past the hinge of wattle, in the throat of roaring fire spewing forth from hers. I can't find whatever I thought was myself; I have a longing to be lost beneath those wings, in the shade of her Night. That song of her untired heart beating forever ... now ... ceaseless. Liquid skin cannot be broken, but her voice is still simmering. Just smoke now. Her smoky lips. You can hear the glittering laughter. Jewels tongue our precious being in the ancient song of the Darkest Sun. Living metals cast forth to froth and spit out each impurity:-- to melt again this passionless mould, to break this part of the night -- completely in half. To watch the bubbles break black abscesses; black death, the night's evil heart exposed, in a witches goblet the bloody wine, her swollen lips chapped with kisses; no breath;-- breathless from your kisses; and the death of the liquid in her mouth. Single me out, before I can even understand what might unite: the sound, the being in predilection, bends; sort of waits for its sack ot secrets, like ore that travels in rings of veins, geometrically spread across the land. Hills of phosphorescence, where she steps and earth responds. Little whispers through the grass, and healthy sprites majestically green dance. In a blur of a dizzy dance, hungry for knowing you; the weight of distance;-- touch what this is. This is nothing I personally was taught. All of my dreams, my enlivened visions, charcoal dust before the creator's brush. The brush crumbles in my hand; my hand also crumbles. Left like the silence which my breath feels as so entirely cold; my dilating pupils see the night alive with the song of God. God's song. Sung by his sons and daughters: that is all we do. That is what we are. Here, this eternal dance. An opposite; ...but a foe? I do not think so. Sands cover the face. The face is the color of sandy deserts. The silk of your lips. I can touch everything, except the poison things. I have eaten from the Poisoned Tree. I have drank the well of endless thoughts. I have expected forever ... in some way or another ... to cover me like sand, like the chopped up bits of what day and night let through them: endlessness, forever, as cold as the stars the singing God has put into being and placement; there where the hurricane swelled, and the night broke like a rock; and you were born. Dragon-child, soon to be more terrible than all the nights combined. But with your bloody fire-tongue you shall paint the bodies so boldly with the lack of shadow; that the truth of being burn them, and the extras be rent -- in twain. The bodies we built from the pain. All of these parts electronically connected: all of the bits and pieces reflecting ... coordinating in tandem these feathered moments we move through. Silence. Is there enough to live ... eternity? Silence. That is what this is. Make the decision. Breathe fire through the cracks in the earth. Feel so near to your face the air, the swirling air. And when morning finally dawns, after the longest night so far ... then you will know he truth of what the Sun's light can do.
    Last edited by tmonk1; 04-30-2018, 09:49 PM.

  • #2
    I wish I had a translation of this! I don't know 'the' language.

    Comment


    • #3
      Vietnamese

      An old painter guy
      There are paintings and home
      Suddenly fell in love with you
      A very passionate flowers

      And the beautiful people
      To get the money to buy United
      The guy gave sold out
      Both the pics and the whole House

      That's what google translate makes of it but not the best tool for poetry

      Comment


      • amenOra
        amenOra commented
        Editing a comment
        thanks, yeah translations aren't that "accurate" especially for "nuanced poetry".

    • #4
      PS I still think the shape and the language is beautiful "looking" even if I can't read it

      Comment


      • Parkinsonspoet
        Parkinsonspoet commented
        Editing a comment
        I am with you I wish I could read it

    • #5
      This is a vietnamese translation of a Russian poem "A Million Roses" by Andrei Voznesensky.

      I thought I'd have a go at translating it and boy do I have more of a respect for people who do translation work! Do you try to convey meaning? Is that the meaning the original was going for? How can it still be poetic while fitting the original? So many decisions to make but I must admit, it was fun.

      Heart of a Painter

      An old master painter, tired and weary
      Amidst only paintings and home was so dour.
      But lo, there she was, more precious in theory...
      A woman more lovely than flowers.

      Later that evening, his heart pure and true;
      To earn money for his most lovely of flowers
      Went to the market, more money to accrue,
      To sell paintings and house that very same hour.

      With money in hand, he bought millions of roses
      And on her porch we all will soon learn
      Whether there is true love or just poses
      When all is sold for love earned.

      As morning arose so the woman arose
      She stared out in silence at honeybees coursing
      For there on her porch, a forest of roses
      A dreamscape of passion and courting.

      Stunned was she by such opulent largesse
      For who could afford such a forest of red?
      She looked for her wealthy suitor to address...
      But found only a poor painter, dipping his head.

      With money in hand, he bought millions of roses
      And on her porch we all will soon learn
      Whether there is true love or just poses
      When all is sold for love spurned.

      Standing there was a painter, tired and poor;
      Still no lover or wife, no money or house…
      Only a million roses in all their grandeur
      And a life worth living for he wasn’t such a louse.



      So yeah... there's a translation. Also, this is a translation of the Vietnamese of a translation of the original Russian so it's even further away from the original. Rhyming is mediocre, meter isn't great and the poem may or may not accurately represent the original but it was at least a fun learning experience? Also, the original Russian is a really good poem and definitely different than the Vietnamese--about as much as my English is from the Vietnamese I imagine.
      Last edited by Merkavah; 04-27-2018, 06:04 AM.

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      • #6
        Attempt #2 as my first one had an outside link and so was assumed to be spam?

        Anyways... the above poem is a Vietnamese translation of a Russian poem called "Million Roses" by Andrei Voznesensky. Not having realized that until I researched it, I went ahead and tried to do a translation of the Vietnamese translation of the Russian original. Needless to say, my translation is quite different from the original now. I certainly have more respect for translators though, making choices on whether to convey a meaning or a phrase or a rhyme is hard. In the end, my translation has neither amazing rhyming nor good meter, but it was fun to create? So I hope you enjoy it. If you know Russian, read the original.


        Andrei Voznesensky--A Million Roses, Translation--Heart of a Painter

        An old master painter, tired and weary
        Amidst only paintings and home was so dour.
        But lo, there she was, more precious in theory...
        A woman more lovely than flowers.

        Later that evening, his heart pure and true;
        To earn money for his most lovely of flowers
        Went to the market, more money to accrue,
        To sell paintings and house that very same hour.

        With money in hand, he bought millions of roses
        And on her porch we all will soon learn
        Whether there is true love or just poses
        When all is sold for love earned.

        As morning arose so the woman arose
        She stared out in silence at honeybees coursing
        For there on her porch, a forest of roses
        A dreamscape of passion and courting.

        Stunned was she by such opulent largesse
        For who could afford such a forest of red?
        She looked for her wealthy suitor to address...
        But found only a poor painter, dipping his head.

        With money in hand, he bought millions of roses
        And on her porch we all will soon learn
        Whether there is true love or just poses
        When all is sold for love spurned.

        Standing there was a painter, tired and poor;
        Still no lover or wife, no money or house…
        Only a million roses in all their grandeur
        And a life worth living for he wasn’t such a louse.

        Comment

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