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Tag Archives: Pablo Neruda

Italy: an exercise in co-writing (and co-translating) poetry

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“And where’s your Fiscal Code?” the lady at the bank barked at me irately in Italian. Fiscal Code? What the Dickens is a Fiscal Code? I thought. Embarrassed, I sheepishly replied,  ”Sorry madam, a Fiscal Code?” I pulled out my passport hoping that it would help. “No, no,” she waved it back to me, dismissing the document altogether. Incredulous, “You don’t have a Fiscal Code?” I don’t. “Sorry. Next!” And repeatedly, in such a manner, my first couple months as a year abroad student in Italy unfolded: tumultuous question after tumultuous question, fired at me with rifle speed. Questions I could barely understand, my mind working overtime to translate, desperately trying to glean any significance I could. Disoriented and dejected, I would return to my residence of six weeks – the youth hostel, go to my room, which I shared with a carousel of always under or over-deodorized travellers, sit on my bed and start asking some pretty serious questions myself: What are you actually doing here? When are you going to get out of this greivous and malodorant youth hostel? Why did you even bother choosing Italian in the first place?

Italy, everything –  it was a quandary of questions.

My fortunes changed when Paolo, a friend of a friend of an acquaintance, who I had hardly met, took pity on me. He was dorming in one of the university accommodations. He said his room-mate had never turned up and that I could come share with him, if I wanted. Well, I think that’s what he said. Anyway, I wanted. Very much so. Anything but this purgatory of a youth hostel where privacy, quite frankly, was non-existent. I moved in shortly afterward.

Paolo had quite the pensive disposition, and although he was studying economics, he was a very literary type; he loved to read novels, comics, and poetry. And having a room-mate who also enjoyed reading made life a lot less awkward, especially when at first, due predominantly to my linguistic ineptitude, we didn’t have much to say to each other. It meant the silences didn’t have to be so uncomfortable; we could just hang out and read, filling our minds – instead of our mouths – with words. After a while, though, and as my Italian improved, the parameters and shape of our friendship grew. We conversed more. I was able to answer his questions, and he mine. Then one evening, as I was coming to the end of a binge on American literature: Ray Bradbury, Edgar Allan Poe, and finally Herman Melville, Paolo introduced me to another Paul, a Chilean poet, Pablo Neruda. He quietly left the book on my bed, turned around and walked out the room. As he was half way out the door, he called back, “E’ interessante, vecchio.” It’s interesting, old friend. Curious I picked it up and read the front cover. Libro delle Domande. I translated: The Book of Questions.

Inside were seventy-odd short poems, each line a question. On one page was the original in Spanish, on the opposite page was the translation in Italian. Many were challenging to understand, but I dusted off my dictionary and worked diligently that evening to translate them. One of my favorites is still poem III:

Tell me, is the rose naked
or is that her only dress?

Why do trees conceal
the splendour of their roots?

Who hears the regrets
of the getaway car?

Is there anything in the world sadder
than a train standing in the rain?

I quickly became enamoured with the book, and the poems became a source of frequent discussion between Paolo and I. And so it happened one evening that we decided to go out for a drink together. The bar was poorly lit and the beer cheap. Its walls and ceilings were completely plastered with prints of famous pieces of art, a modern-day Sistine Chapel of sorts (minus the religious reverence, plus some raucous revelry). At one point during a lull in our conversation Paolo jumped up and went to the bar, and instead of ordering another beer, asked for a pen a paper. He sat back down, wrote something and pushed it towards me. I read it:

Perché il marmo ha scelto lo stesso colore del latte?
E’ possible forse annegare nei suoi pavimenti?

“What does marmo mean?” I asked him. Marble. “And annegare?” To drown. I translated:

Why did marble choose to be the same colour as milk?
Is it possible, then, to drown in its tiles?

And thus began a little experiment in writing poetry together, Neruda style. He’d write a poem in Italian, I’d translate it into English, or vice versa:

What is it about the sea that makes me so sad?
Is it because in its vastness it still seems so alone?

And is the sand not tired of the indecisive tide:
Coming, going, stealing and giving back?

Cosa nel mare mi rende triste?
E’ perché nella sua vastità sembra ancora così solo?

E la sabbia non è ancora stanca dell’indecisione delle maree?
Di questo venire e andare, rubare e restituire?

Then sometimes he’d start a poem and I’d finish it. We’d put it together and translate accordingly:

E perché il vento fa tanta strada per venire a giocare
con un sacchetto di plastica davanti a me?

E da chi andrà dopo?
E con cosa giocherà?
E si sentirà solo dopo avermi lasciato?

And why does the wind blow through so many streets
just to come and play with a plastic bag in front of me?

And to whom will it go next?
And with what will it play?
And will it feel lonely when I walk away?

As far as writing goes, it was a very unique, creative experience. My memories of that period are bright and fond. I admired Paolo’s boldness. It’s not every day you’re sitting in a bar when your friend starts writing poetry for you. I also admired Paolo’s boldness in inviting me to share a dorm with him. In many ways, he saved my bacon.

When I arrived in Italy, I was harangued by the cacophony and headache of  numberless voices and their unintelligible questions, but I found an antidote in friendship and poetry – the euphony and balm of our very own unanswerable questions.


Getting to know each other through literature

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Part of the established pattern of my week is to meet once with two friends of mine. In its strictest parameters, the rendez-vous is a reading/creative writing group; in reality, it’s three guys getting together who may (or may not) share and talk about what they’ve been reading – and on the very rare occasion what they’ve been writing. It should be known, though, that throughout most of my late adolescent and adult life, I have been quite suspicious – and maybe even disdainful – of such intellectual coteries.  Most probably for the reasons of my (hypocritical) disliking of pretense, not wanting to appear less intelligent than my fellow man, and perhaps greatest of all: my fear of  being exposed as a fake.  It’s a peculiar tension I’ve known seeing that I have always studied literature and, for the most part, have felt very affectionate – indeed, passionate – towards it.  I don’t know what exactly it was this time that persuaded me otherwise to join this particular group, but what I want to express now that I have, and what I cannot deny, is that meeting with these two friends of mine to share and discuss literature has had quite an unforeseen and – dare I say it – profound effect on me.  And it’s the word ‘share’ that is the important one here.

Now, without wanting to give a lesson in ethics, sharing, as we all understand, renders a possession immeasurably more satisfying than if it’s kept to oneself (provided our sharing is unbegrudged).  Simply because: sharing brings us closer together – and it is no different with literature.  And the part that I have known to be profound, is experiencing  how literature has been the medium through which I’ve got to know better these two friends of mine; it has allowed me to glimpse further into their lives.  Because hearing how each one understands, say – a poem by Pablo Neruda, or even the nuance of one word, brings me nearer to understanding who they are as individuals.  Or perhaps, as often happens, they’ll reveal how certain images within a given text evoke different memories from their lives, and suddenly you’re learning things about someone you might otherwise never hear; suddenly the richness of someone’s life is woven into the richness of a text, and vice-versa, each imbuing the other with a tangible vivacity.  Not only, then, am I learning something new about this text, I am learning something new about this person.  Depth and meaning are being delightfully saturated.  Sharing literature with people, therefore, discussing it, savoring it, sucking the marrow out of it (to borrow a phrase from a famous poet and favorite film of mine), can be like a two-way lens: one seeking out new meaning in the literature, the other casting light into each other’s lives.