Song of a Reformed Headhunter

Wrote an additional poem today, for Spanish class. My limited vocabulary became a useful constraint. I wrote a poem yesterday. It was a sad poem, very sad. I wanted to tear it up but it was on the computer. I wrote a poem day before yesterday. That one was sad too. In the poem I went to the river but the river had no water in it. I wrote seven poems last week. They were all sad, very sad. They followed me to the river and followed me back home. I wrote a poem in 1992 that was a happy poem. I tried to remember it last night but it has gone down the river. Yo escrib í un poema ayer. Fue un poema triste, mui triste. Lo quise romper pero fue en la computadora. Yo escrib í un poema anteayer. Este uno fue triste tambien. En el poema fui al rio pero el rio no tuvo agua en él. Yo escrib í siete poemas la semana pasada. Ellos fueron todos tristes, mui tristes. Me siguieron al rio y me siguieron a mi c...

Man with umbrella squats against a black background Still studying Spanish A1.2, but thought I'd work on my Spanish by translating today's poem into la castellano. Poetry It’s just a black umbrella bought some time ago from a fella outside the subway but its broken spokes tinkle like a wind chime against pelting rain and roaring drains. Poesia No es más que un paragua negro compré hace bastante tiempo de un tipo a la entrada del subte pero sus rotos radios tintinean como un carillón de viento en contra de lluvia impacto y alcantarilla clamoroso.

A beginner's guide to learning Spanish and writing poetry, in one book. Hugo Hiriat is an amusing and non-fussy guide to writing poetry. The Spanish is scattered all over the book, and so presents an unsystematic but memorable lesson. Hiriat's example of a poem in five-syllable line: Quien fuera parte de la plegaria que solitaria mandas a Dios! His book is a good supplement to more conventional textbooks, whether of the grammatical or conversational sort. It is a reminder of the creativity required to learn a new language truly. Hugo Hiriat, born in Mexico City in 1942, writes for magazines and for the stage.

My Spanish tutor introduced me to Mario Benedetti , an Uruguayan fiction writer, poet and journalist. My homework was to translate his story "The Other I." I don't put my fingers up my nose, at least not in company, but I can certainly see how vulgarity could co-exist with poetry in the same person. Here's a fellow-exile. * It was about a common fellow: in his trousers mended with knee patches, he would read comics, make noise when eating, put his fingers up his nose, snore in his nap. He was called Armando. Common in every thing but one: he had an Other I. The Other I used to have a certain poetry in his eyes, fall in love with the actresses, lie casually, get excited at dusk. The fellow was very worried about the Other I, because the Other I made him feel uncomfortable in front of his friends. On the other hand, Other I was melancholic and, due to it, Armando could not be so vulgar as he wished to be. One evening Armando returned from work, tired, took off his shoes...

I read Sonnet XVIII on the train, and fell in love with it straightaway. It sings of ancient mountains and quarrels. It shoots the arrows of beauty into the heart. My overly literal translation follows the original. I'm learning Spanish, and would be glad to get some tips. XVIII Por las montañas vas como viene la brisa o la corriente brusca que baja de la nieve o bien tu cabellera palpitante confirma los altos ornamentos del sol en la espersura. Toda la luz del Cáucaso cae sobre tu cuerpo como en una pequeña vasija interminable en que el agua se cambia de vestido y de canto a cada movimiento transparente del río. Por los montes el viejo camino de guerreros y abajo enfurecida brilla como una espada el agua entre murallas de manos minerales, hasta que tú recibes de los bosques de pronto el ramo o el relámpago de unas flores azules y la insólita flecha de un aroma salvaje. XVIII Through the mountains you move as the breeze moves, or the brisk stream falling from the snows, your fine h...

Spanish Composition 3: Me gustan los libros de Julian Barnes. Escribe muy bien para los lectores en Inglaterra y por todas partes, pero a los lectores en Francia les gusta más. ¿Por que los lectores francéses lo quieren mucho? El tiene una sensibilidad francésa. Es gracioso cuando escribe sobre las cosas serias y serio cuando escribe sobre las cosas graciosas. Su mejor libro es “El papagayo de Flaubert.” En este libro, una hombre enamorado con la escritura de Flaubert quiere encontrar el papagayo que se sentó en el escritoria de Flaubert por los dias último de su vida. El hombre se preocupa por la sobrevivencia de la papagayo aunque el pájaro es un criatura disecada. Le importa que el papagayo no cae en el olvido. Por suerte, porque es fan de Flaubert no pierde las esperanzas, el papagayo disecado vive.

Pablo Neruda dedicated Cien sonetos de amor ( One Hundred Love Sonnets ) to his wife Matilde Urrutia, and in his dedication he wrote of how their life in the fishing village of Isla Negra (85 kilometers south of Valparaiso, Chile) inspired these sonnets: When I set this task for myself, I knew very well that down the right sides of sonnets, with elegant discriminating taste, poets of all times have arranged rhymes that sound like silver, or crystal, or cannonfire. But—with great humility—I made these sonnets out of wood; I gave them the sound of that opaque pure substance, and that is how they should reach your ears. Walking in forests or on beaches, along hidden lakes, in latitudes sprinkled with ashes, you and I have picked up pieces of pure bark, pieces of wood subject to the comings and goings of water and the weather. Out of such softened relics, then, with hatchet, and machete and pocketknife, I built up these lumber piles of love, and with fourteen boards each I built little ho...

Spanish Composition 2: Él dice hay una agencia gubernamental en cada ciudad que atiende gente quienes mueren sin dejar un testamento. Trabaja para tal agencia pero prefiere pensar que trabaja para esta gente. No, no un trabajador, más como un familiar que los muertos no tienen. Cuándo la llamada teléfonica llega, como se sabe que debe llegar, él conduce a la casa, cerca del lugar de mala muerte, y entra al apartamento con la llave del muerto. Siempre da la vuelta la casa, casi esperando ver al muerto cortando las zanahorias en la cocina o doblando los calzoncillos en el dormitorio, antes de hacer una lista de articulos de valor. Dos floreros chinos. Un escritorio de roble. Ciento setenta y cuatros libros. Un juego de cubiertos de plata. Durante este trabajo cariñoso, se imagina qué va a pasar cuándo muera. ¿Quiénes van a asistir a su funeral? ¿Quién va a decidir qué hacer con su cadáver? ¿Quién va a entrar a su casa y hacer una lista de articulos de valor? Me mira por un pocos segundos...

I started learning Spanish last month, weekly lessons with a tutor who comes to my place. Why Spanish? I don't know, really. Small causes turned the floating needle. Getting to know a Spanish colleague. Reading Octavio Paz and Marquez. Wanting to read Neruda and Lorca. Moving among so many Spanish speakers in NYC. Thinking of visiting Central and South America for the first time. Intrigued by Moorish culture in southern Spain. After putting it off for a couple of weeks (I am not a very good student), I finally wrote, with the help of WordReference.com, my first Spanish composition for my tutor. I found the experience liberating in some ways. Freed from the rage for perfect order, I enjoyed the simple act of putting down one word after another. I was happy to learn that the word for "lovers" is "enamorados," and to remember that "fiesta" means "party." Soy de Singapur, un pais en Asia del sudoeste. Hay seis milliones de gente en este pais, la ...