Translingual Magazine Fall 2014 Issue by Translingual Magazine

TRANSLINGUAL ISSUE 5 FALL 2014 TRANSLINGUAL.ORG

Photo by Zeke Caceres

Letter From the Editors

Contents

Dear reader, Welcome to the fifth issue of Translingual Magazine! Come into our world, flip through our pages, take in our words, and make yourself at home. All the writers, editors, and photographers of this magazine have committed a part of themselves to this collection, and we hope that each of you can find something familiar here. Translingual, a magazine that began in the fall of 2012, has come a long way in the last five semesters. With every issue, we hope to bring something new and unique to the table. In this volume, we have published in 14 languages, with pieces that span a variety of forms and styles of writing. The beautiful pictures you see throughout the pages were contributed by members of the well-travelled Middlebury community.

The Papers/Os Papeis

5/6

My Grandparents/Mis Abuelitos

The World/El Mundo/Die Welt

An Echo/Eine Rückmeldung

9/10

En Correspondance/In Transit

11/12 Letters To And From A Previous Self 13/14 Nothing Twice/Nic dwa razy 15/16 Accents/Acentos

Translation is an imperfect art, so we ask that you treat these pieces as works in progress and enjoy their infinite incompleteness. Writer Salman Rushdie once said, “It is normally supposed that something always gets lost in translation; I cling, obstinately to the notion that something can also be gained.” We, too, think that translation is its own special form of creation, and that these works are, in their own ways, wholly new, with windows into worlds beyond.

Wild Islands/Дикие острова

Deer Park/鹿柴

We’ll say it again: step in. Read each word, read between the lines, read however you would like – our translations are yours. We hope you enjoy perusing this issue as much as we enjoyed putting it together.

23/26 In the Burning Darkness/En La Ardiente Oscuridad 27

Lens /鏡頭

Yours,

The Hollow Words/欲說還休

Fall Day/Herbsttag

Arrival and Departure/Ankunft und Abgang

The Translingual Editors-in-Chief Eliza Jaeger, Jiya Pandya, and Kalya Koltes Meet The Staff: Eliza Jaeger/Co-Editor-in-Chief, German Editor Jiya Pandya/Co-Editor-in-Chief, English Editor Kalya Koltes/Co-Editor-in-Chief, German Editor Joy Zhu/Layout Designer, Chinese Editor Alaa Abdelfattah/Arabic Editor Alvaro Machuca Recalde / Spanish Editor Andrew Smith/ Portuguese Editor Bernardo Portillo Andrade/ Portuguese Editor James Min/ Italian Editor Julia Angeles/ French Editor Maddy Dickinson/ French Editor Morag McKenzie/ English Editor Natalie Figueroa/ Spanish Editor Shane Healy/ Japanese Editor Tamri Matiashvili/ Russian Editor Winnie Yeung / Chinese Editor 1

19/20 The Search 21

Arabic piece

30 Cartoon 31/32 Untitled/ Senza titolo 33/34 The Continuation of the Dream/ 夢の続き」著シェイン・ヒリ 35/36 “Abaporu”, Presidential Election in Brazil, and Renato Russo/“Abaporu”, Eleição Presi

dencial no Brasil e Renato Russo

37/38 ΙΘΑΚΗ /ITHACA 39

Liberal Arts

41/42 日曜の地震で亡くなったフランス人アーティス/French Artist Killed in Sunday’s Earthquake 43

RED LAND/TĀL CHĪLTIK

44 Absent/Ausente 45/46 Wish She’d Come Back/Gostaria que ela voltasse 47/48 The Heart 49 (Brackets)/Klammer 2

Os Papeis Espreite além da borda do papel se você arrisca e veja a queda. Está longe, melhor ter cuidado, essa hesitação que sente, vendo que o lugar onde põe seu pé está lá embaixo. E ó, a melhor parte da coragem pode ser não se inclinar. Às vezes, a pessoa que diz “Sou rainha” tem mais medo, e isso é porque ela fica no papel, segura, superior, sozinha. Você tem que sentir pena de um rei ou rainha, e de qualquer um que possa olhar apenas para baixo e que nunca ande facilmente com os comuns, mesmo vestido em trapos para não ser visto. Nossos dedos estão neste papel que compartilhamos e DNA, pare de formigar com vida The Papers ligada a todos outros tempos. Tudo num plano, esta página, do caminho à borda brilhante. Peer over the edge of the paper if you dare and see the fall. It’s far, better Keats e Shakespeare sentiam sua dor be careful, that hesitation you feel, seeing também, e foi queimada a evidência. the place to put your foot is down. And oh the better part of valor might be not leaning. Sometimes, the one saying “I’m Queen” feels more afraid and that’s why she stays on the page safe, superior, alone. You have to feel sorry for a king or queen, and any who can look only down and never walk easily with the common, even dressed in rags so they won’t be seen. Our fingerprints are on this page we share and DNA, creases crawling with life linked to all other times. All on one plane, this page from path to shining edge. Keats and Shakespeare felt your pain too, and it burned away the evidence… By Andrew Smith [Portuguese-English]

Photo by Eliza Jaeger

Mis Abuelitos When the rain penetrates the earth, My grandparents celebrate one more day together. When the roosters crow at dawn, My grandparents drink coffee with humitas. When their children smile, The sky is a wonderful blue and their house shines with a unique radiance. My grandfather: a man with a Samson-like strength and limitless wisdom. His hands, which lifted my little sister when we lived in Larama, Are the same hands that take care of his beautiful roosters. His voice, resonant and powerful, guides me in bad times, illuminating my eyes to see beyond. My grandfather, whom I can no longer hear play solitaire, I thank him for my family, for lifting up my sister, for taking care of his roosters, for shining the light that I need in this life. My grandmother: a lady with a heart so humble, so caring, and at the same time noble. She was the beating heart in our family — mother, wife, protector. In the eyes of a woman like my grandmother, Humanity will always be like the bolero that brings her sorrow, but at the same time happiness because something so perfect exists. Even though my grandfather fell asleep first, my grandmother stayed awake a little longer. A little longer, my grandmother stayed. And in that short amount of time, I was able to caress her translucent hands, Wake her up with a ‘good morning’ and a kiss on her forehead, and tell her about my dreams, like I imagined I did when we lived in Larama. The mother of the Tenicela-Celi family, my respect for you is infinite, like my love. And when I find myself in this strange place, I can hear the cards touch the table, And the bolero in the living room. A familiar emotion, Unforgettable.

My Grandparents Cuando la lluvia penetra la tierra, Mis abuelitos celebran un día mas juntos. Cuando los gallos cantan en la madrugada, Mis abuelitos toman cafe con humitas. Cuando sus hijos sonríen, El cielo es un azul maravilloso y su casa brilla con un único resplandor. Mi abuelito: un señor con una fuerza de Sansón, y una sabiduría ilimitada. Sus manos, que alzaron a mi hermana pequeña cuando vivíamos en Larama, Son las mismas que cuidan los hermosos gallos. Su voz, resonante y poderosa, me guía en malos momentos, iluminando mis ojos para poder ver mas allá. Mi abuelito, a quién ya no escucho jugar solitario, le agradezco por mi familia, por alzar a mi hermana, por cuidar sus gallos, por darme la luz que necesito en esta vida. Mi abuelita: una señora con un corazón tan humilde, tan cariñoso, y al mismo tiempo noble. Ella era el corazón palpitante en nuestra familia—la madre, la esposa, la protectora. En los ojos de una mujer como mi abuela, la humanidad siempre será como el bolero que le causa tristeza pero al mismo tiempo felicidad que existe algo tan perfecto. Aunque mi abuelito se durmió primero, mi abuelita se quedo un poquito mas. Solo un poquito mas, se quedo mi abuelita. Y en ese poquito tiempo, yo pude acariciar sus manos translucientes, levantarla con un ‘buenos días’ y un besito en la frente, y contarle de mis sueños, como imaginaba cuando vivíamos en Larama. La madre de la familia Tenicela-Celi, mi respeto para usted es infinito, tal como mi amor. Y cuando me encuentro en este lugar tan extraño, Puedo escuchar las cartas tocar la mesa y el bolero en la sala. Es un sentimiento familiar Un sentimiento inolvidable.

By Francys Veras [Spanish-English]

Photo by Zeke Caceres

El Mundo Un hombre del pueblo de Neguá, en la costa de Colombia, pudo subir al alto cielo. A la vuelta, contó. Dijo que había contemplado, desde allá arriba, la vida humana. Y dijo que somos un mar de fueguitos. El mundo es eso -reveló- Un montón de gente, un mar de fueguitos. Cada persona brilla con luz propia entre todas las demás. No hay dos fuegos iguales. Hay fuegos grandes y fuegos chicos y fuegos de todos los colores. Hay gente de fuego sereno, que ni se entera del viento, y gente de fuego loco, que llena el aire de chispas. Algunos fuegos, fuegos bobos, no alumbran ni queman; pero otros arden la vida con tantas ganas que no se puede mirarlos sin parpadear, y quien se acerca, se enciende. Eduardo Galeano, El Libro de Los Abrazos

Translated By Samantha Vila [German-English] Original by Eduardo Galeano [Spanish]

A man from the town of Neguá, on the coast of Colombia, was able to ascend to heaven. After returning, he told his story. He said that he had contemplated the human life from up above. And he said that we are a sea of little fires. Such is the world - a lot of people and a sea of little fires. Each person shines with their own light amongst others. No two fires are alike. There are big fires and little fires and fires of all colors. There are people with serene fires that do not even notice the wind, and there are people with crazy fires who fill the air with sparks. There are some fires, dumb fires, which do not light or burn; but there are others that burn life with such ardent fervor that one cannot look at them without blinking, and whoever gets too close, catches fire.

Maybe, it is something unexpected. A leaf that fell from a tree and suddenly lands before you on the concrete, gray and hard. The leaf is an afterthought, but also a ray of sun. Red against gray. A hope that is growing in your heart.

Die Welt

Ein Mann aus Neguá, einem Dorf an der Küste Kolumbiens, konnte in den Himmel aufsteigen. Als er zurückkam, erzählte er seine Geschichte. Er sagte, dass er dort oben über das Leben nachgedacht hatte. Und er sagte, dass wir ein Meer aus kleinen Feuern sind. „So ist die Welt“ - enthüllte er – „viele Menschen und ein Meer aus kleinen Feuern. Jede Person leuchtet aus der Kraft ihres eigenen Feuers. Kein Feuer gleich dem anderen. Es gibt große Feuer und kleine Feuer und Feuer, die in allen Farben funkeln. Es gibt Menschen mit ruhigen Feuern, auf die der Wind keine Wirkung hat, und es gibt Menschen mit wilden Feuern, die Funken in die Luft sprühen. Dann gibt es Feuer, dumme Feuer, die weder leuchten noch brennen; dafür gibt es andere Feuer, die so eifrig brennen, dass man sie nicht angucken kann, ohne zu blinzeln, und wer ihnen zu nahe kommt, verbrennt sich“.

The World

An Echo

Eine Rückmeldung Vielleicht ist es noch etwas Unerwartetes. Ein Blatt, das vom Baum runterfällt und plötzlich vor dir auf dem Betone landet, grau und hart. Das Blatt ist ein Nebensatz, etwas, das einmal vergessen war. Aber auch ein Sonnenstrahl, rot auf grau. Eine Hoffnung, die im Herzen wächst.

Photo by Eliza Jaeger

By Hannah Pustejovsky [German-English]

En Correspondance (ou bien, « Quand j’étais à Bordeaux… »)

In Transit (or, “When I was in Bordeaux…”)

Cet écrit s’inspire de mes observations pendant l’automne 2013, lors de mon premier semestre à Bordeaux, en France.

This essay is based off my observations from the fall of 2013, written during my first semester in Bordeaux, France.

Ma famille n’a pas possédé de voiture qu’à partir de mes huit ans, mais ça m’était égal. Quand j’étais toute petite, prendre les transports en commun me signalait une sortie en centre-ville avec mes parents, une occasion d’acheter des bonbons au supermarché, ou peut-être un après-midi au cinéma. Quand j’avais douze ans, mes parents m’ont enfin permis de les prendre toute seule, donc les transports sont devenus la voie de la liberté. Pendant mes quatre ans au lycée, je prenais le bus au moins deux heures chaque jour, donc c’était l’occasion de lire, faire mes devoirs, écouter de la musique ou faire une petite sieste.

My family didn’t have a car until I was 8, but it almost didn’t matter. As a child, I remember being excited to get on the bus or subway, because that usually meant going downtown, buying candy at Safeway, or watching movies. At the age of 12, when my parents finally let me take public transportation by myself, I started to associate it with freedom. In high school, when I started taking the bus for an hour each way every day to get to school, the bus became a place where I could read, do homework, listen to music, or even nap.

Maintenant, je m’y suis très habituée, mais pas dans un sens négatif. C’est sûr que certains aspects des transports me gênent. Parfois ça cesse de fonctionner et on doit attendre longtemps pour le bus suivant. Parfois ça pue. Parfois ça donne envie de pleurer. Néanmoins, ça reste souvent à ma disposition pour faciliter mes sorties en ville. A vrai dire, si jamais je perdais ma carte de transports, moi aussi je serais perdue. Ici à Bordeaux, ça me rend à l’aise de prendre le tramway à l’université, au centre commercial, etc. Chaque fois que j’aperçois les rames bleues qui s’approchent, que je me pose devant les portes en attendant qu’elles s’ouvrent et que je valide ma carte TBC, je suis à l’aise. Ces motions me sont familières mais dix fois plus intéressantes car c’est la France, et je n’aurai pas peut-être l’occasion d’y revenir que plus tard dans ma vie. C’est pour ça que je fais plus attention ici quand je suis dans le tram ou le bus. Je cherche de nouveaux mots de vocabulaire. J’essaie de comprendre les petits bouts de conversation en français : la fille qui raconte sa rupture avec son ami, les frères qui parlent de ce qu’ils vont faire après l’école. (Je n’ai pas honte, c’est très bien pour ma compréhension orale !) Je lis les annonces. J’observe les sortes de gens qui montent et descendent le tram à chaque arrêt. Tout ça me fascine. C’est vrai, j’ai des doutes en revenant vers 1h du matin quand il y a souvent du vomit par terre, ou en sortant pendant les heures de pointe quand le tram est bondé. Or je continue à prendre le tram et le bus pour me déplacer en ville, voire pour m’amuser. Ça fait déjà des mois que je connais ce système, mais je n’arrête pas de regarder ce qui se passe autour de moi. Peu à peu, je commence à apprendre plus sur cette ville qui sera « chez moi » jusqu’au mois de mai. Il y a des lycées dans le sud de Bordeaux. Le jardin botanique est à l’autre côté du Pont de Pierre. Quand on quitte Bordeaux centre, les jolis bâtiments restaurés en calcaire donnent lieu à des appartements en béton. Si je suis assez patiente, je saurai bientôt plus, non seulement sur les gens qui habitent ces endroits, mais aussi sur ma mode de vie.

I’ve gotten used to public transportation—but not in a bad way. Sure, there are a lot of things about public transportation that are less than desirable. Sometimes it breaks down and you have to wait a while for the next one. Sometimes it smells bad. Sometimes it just makes you want to cry. But it’s practical and usually convenient, and, most of all, it gets me where I want. To tell you the truth, if I ever lost my monthly unlimited ride pass, I’d be lost myself. Here in Bordeaux, it has been comforting to be able to take the tram or the bus everywhere—to the university, to the mall, you name it. Whenever I spot the blue tramcars coming towards the stop, whenever I stand waiting for the doors to open, whenever I tap my card against the machine, I feel at ease. I’ve done this thousands of times before, and yet there is just something about doing it here in France—a country I might not be in again for a long time—that makes a difference. And so I cherish the moments where I am in the tram or the bus. I scan the posters for new vocabulary. I try to listen in on people’s conversations—to the girl telling her friend about her recent breakup, to the brothers talking about what they’re going to do after school. (No shame—it’s been great for my listening comprehension!) I read the scrolling marquee for announcements. I see who gets on and off, and where. It’s fascinating enough to make me ignore the puke on the floor at 1am and the lack personal space during rush hour. On separate occasions, just for fun, I’ve even taken the tram from end to end. Long after I’ve finally gotten used to things, I’ve just never stopped being aware of what is happening on the tram. Slowly, I’ve begun to learn about this city that I’ll call home until May. I could tell you that there are high schools in the southern part of Bordeaux, or that there’s a botanical garden across the river, or that the buildings change radically from limestone to concrete once you reach the outskirts of the city. I’m sure that with time, I’ll come to learn even more—about the people who live here, certainly, and about myself, as well. When I leave Bordeaux, I know I’ll miss taking public transportation here—but I guess that just means that I will have to come back to this place that I now call home.

Quand j’aurai quitté cette ville, je sais déjà que ces transports me manqueront. Je devrais donc revenir à « Bordeaux ma ville » dans l’avenir, n’est-ce pas ?

By Julia Angeles [French-English]

Photo by Eliza Jaeger

Letters To And From A Previous Self Dear ---- : The leaves are changing here. I can feel the chill creeping into the air day by day. Do you remember the smell of imminent winter? Of course you do. It used to be paired with the smell of cherry gummy bears and coal fires. Now it’s just cows and old leaves. But I’m okay with that, I think. These days, I have to say, I don’t think about you much. I know that sounds harsh, but I think you’ve started to feel the same way. I’ve started to forget your little idiosyncrasies. I can’t imagine your ride home from school anymore. I can’t hear the chatter of the schoolyard anymore. Words that once played around your ears like gnats finally found their way to your brain and took root there. They’re leaving mine now, one by one. I tried to convince them to stay, but other words were vying for my attention. More familiar words. Words that our mother murmured to us when we were one person. But now, you see, I’m one person again. And the vestiges of you seem incongruous with my life. I think it’s time to let go. Maybe I’ll see you again, maybe I won’t. I loved who you were, and I like who I am. Liking seems to be an easier verb to deal with. There’s less to miss when the feeling dissipates. Yours, ----

Liebe ---- : Natürlich kann ich verstehen, dass du mich nicht mehr in deinem Leben haben möchtest. Du hast Recht damit; das Gefühl hab ich manchmal auch. Und hier ist es immer noch schön. Die Gummibärchen werden immer noch um 9 Uhr morgens gekocht, und meine Nase wird immer noch rot, wenn ich auf meinem Fahrrad in die Stadt fahre. Ich freu mich sehr auf Weihnachten; ich hoffe du besuchst mich, wenn du hier bist. Wenn nicht... Naja, dann weiß ich, dass es vorbei ist. Zusammen haben wir viel geschafft... Du warst meine beste Freundin. Ich hab viel von dir gelernt, aber du hast, glaub ich, mehr von mir gelernt. Wenn du jetzt alleine sein willst, kann ich es verstehen. Es ist schwierig eine Person zu lieben, die du wahrscheinlich nie wieder sehen wirst. Vergiss mich aber nicht. Tu das bitte nicht. Ich würde gerne sagen, dass ich immer für dich da sein werde...Aber das stimmt nicht. Ich werde langsam verschwinden. Und das ist okay. Wirklich, mach dir keine Sorgen. Ich hatte ein schönes Leben hier. Wir hatten Spaß zusammen. Sei nicht traurig, ich werde immer ein Teil von dir sein. Deine ----

By Eliza Jaeger [German-English]

[Translation of Letter Above] Dear ----: Of course I can understand that you don’t want me in your life anymore. You’re right; I have that feeling sometimes, too. And it’s still lovely here. They still boil the gummy bears at 9AM and my nose still gets all red when I ride my bike into town. I’m looking forward to Christmas; I hope you’ll come visit when you’re here. If not…well, then I’ll know it’s over. We achieved a lot together…you were by best friend. I learned a lot from you, but I think you learned more from me. If you want to be alone now, I can understand. It’s hard to love someone that you’ll probably never see again. But don’t forget me. Please, don’t. I would like to say that I’ll always be there for you…but it’s not true. I’ll slowly start to dissipate. And that’s okay. Really, don’t worry about me. I had a good life here. We had fun together. Don’t be sad, I’ll always be part of you. Yours, ----

Photo by Achim Baues

Nic dwa razy

Nothing Twice

Nic dwa razy się nie zdarza i nie zdarzy. Z tej przyczyny zrodziliśmy się bez wprawy i pomrzemy bez rutyny.

Nothing can ever happen twice. In consequence, the sorry fact is that we arrive here improvised and leave without the chance to practice.

Choćbyśmy uczniami byli najtępszymi w szkole świata, nie będziemy repetować żadnej zimy ani lata.

Even if there is no one dumber, if you’re the planet’s biggest dunce, you can’t repeat the class in summer: this course is only offered once.

Żaden dzień się nie powtórzy, nie ma dwóch podobnych nocy, dwóch tych samych pocałunków, dwóch jednakich spojrzeń w oczy.

No day copies the day before, no two nights will teach what bliss is in precisely the same way, with precisely the same kisses.

Wczoraj, kiedy twoje imię ktoś wymówił przy mnie głośno, tak mi było, jakby róża przez otwarte wpadła okno. Dziś, kiedy jesteśmy razem, odwróciłam twarz ku ścianie. Róża? Jak wygląda róża? Czy to kwiat? A może kamień? Czemu ty się, zła godzino, z niepotrzebnym mieszasz lękiem? Jesteś - a więc musisz minąć. Miniesz - a więc to jest piękne. Uśmiechnięci, współobjęci spróbujemy szukać zgody, choć różnimy się od siebie jak dwie krople czystej wody.

One day, perhaps some idle tongue will mention your name by accident and I will feel as if a rose were flung into the room, all hue and scent. The next day, though you’re here with me, I can’t help looking at the clock: a rose? A rose? What could that be? Is that a flower of a rock? Why do we treat the fleeting day with so much needless fear and sorrow? It is in its nature not to say today is always gone tomorrow. With smiles and kisses, we prefer to seek accord beneath our star, although we’re different (we concur) just as two drops of water are. Translation By Thomas Gawel [English] Original by Wislawa Szymborska [Polish]

Photo by Eliza Jaeger

Acentos

Translated by Natalie Figueroa [Spanish] Mi mamá agarra su acento Como una escopeta Con dos manos buenos Su lengua toda nudilos de latón Resblasándose entremedio sus labios. Todas sus caderas son risas y palmadas de viento Ella habla un sancocho De español e inglés empujándose hacia arriba y contra de fuego racheado. Mira, no puedes decirle a mi mamá a estar tranquila Mi mamá no sabe tranquilidad. Su voz es un tamaño debe quedar bien a todo, y es mejor que tú no le digas callar. Ella esperó muchos años para que su voz llegue a oír que la necesita organización. Mira, inglés se sienta en su boca como un remix. Así que “strawberry” se pone “eh-strawberry” Y “cookie” se pone “eh-cookie” Y cocina, llavero, y pollo Todos suenan igual. Mi madre no dice sí Dice “AHA!” Y repentinamente los cielos se ponen como una canción de Hector Lavoe. Su lengua no puede extenderse bastante plano para el lenguage inglés. Tiene mucha cadera Mucho hueso Mucha conga Mucho cuatro a paso doble. Tiene muchas teclas del piano Entre sus dientes. Tiene mucha clave Mucha palmada de mano Tiene mucha salsa para quedarse tranquila Es estar ansiosa, niña, A querer hacer plastilina de concreto. Inglés es muy pulcro para su tipo de maravilla. Sus palabras derraman en una conversación entre las mujeres de quién manos son todo que tienen. A veces los manos son todos que tenemos Y accentos que nos recuerdan que todavía somos bombos Todavía plena Dices “Wepa” Y un desconocido se vuelve a su hermano. Dices “Dále” Y un público se vuelve a una reunión familiar. La lengua de mi madre es un telegrama de su madre Decorado con los coquis del campo Así que cuando sus labios apenas se estiran En torno a inglés 15

Photo by Francys Veras

Accents

Original by Denice Frohman [English] My mom holds her accent like a shotgun With two good hands. Her tongue all brass knuckles Slipping in between her lips. Her hips are all laughter and wind clap. She speaks a sancocho Of Spanish and English pushing up and against each other in rapid fire. See, there is no telling my mama to be quiet. My mama don’t know quiet. Her voice is one size better fit all, And you best not tell her to hush. She waited too many years for her voice to arrive to be told it needed housekeeping. See, English sits in her mouth remixed So strawberry becomes “eh-strawberry” And cookie becomes “eh-cookie” And kitchen, keychain, and chicken All sound the same. My mother doesn’t say yes. She says “AHA!” And suddenly the sky in her mouth becomes a Hector Lavoe song. Her tongue can’t lay itself flat enough down for the English language. It got too much hip Too much bone Too much conga Too much cuatro to two step It got too many piano keys In between her teeth. It got too much clave Too much hand clap Got too much salsa to sit still. It’s being anxious, child, Wanting to make play-doh out of concrete. English be too neat for her kind of wonderful. Her words spill in conversation between women whose hands are all they got. Sometimes our hands are all we’ve got And accents that remind us that we are still bomba Still plena You say “Wepa” And a stranger becomes your hermano. You say “Dále” And a crowd becomes a family reunion. My mother’s tongue is a telegram from her mother Decorated with the coquis of el campo So even when her lips can barely stretch themselves around English Her accent is a stubborn compass Always pointing her Towards home.

By Katherine Baughman [Russian-English]

Дикие острова Как возможно жить В городах людоедов, Суши-бары над страшным святым садом Где покойники беспокойно спят; Как удобно жить В городах людоедов, Где к красоте тянется забывание Здесь лет пятьсот грех-горох Растет на изгородях И хлеб на кладбище кладут В городах людоедов

Translated by Morag McKenzie [English] Original by Wang Wei [Chinese]

Wild Islands How can we live In the cities of cannibals, Sushi bars set on sinful saintly seedbeds Where the deceased restlessly sleep, How comfortable to live In the cities of cannibals, Wherein to beauty forgetfulness is drawn, Sin-snap-peas grow on the fences And bread is laid on the graves In the cities of cannibals

Deer Park Lonely mountain, no one in sight, Only the echo of someone passed, And sunlight perforating the deep forest, Shining upon the green moss again.

Photo by Eliza Jaeger

The Search I had faith in God, Faith in the Prophet, and in the book, Meaning in my life, A hope, and a taste of love; The only thing missing was the truth, That bliss which graces only the righteous heart. What I believed was not entirely a deception, My existence was not merely for the sake of a lie, Love is still sacred to me, humanity still holy, Morality still my bedrock, goodness still my purpose; Not an atheist yet, not an unbeliever, That claim requires knowledge; I claim to have none. Somewhere along this arduous journey, I did not even realize; the definition of God changed. The answer to my questions changed. The beginning to every end changed. Am I the keeper of the Kaaba, or an infidel? God only knows; or perhaps, doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t.

By Bilal Ansar Khan [Urdu-English]

Photo by Eliza Jaeger

Translated by Alaah Abedelfattah [English] Original by Salah Jaheen [Arabic]

Photo by Zeke Caceres

“In the Burning Darkness” Excerpts from a Play by Antonio Buero V Allejo Act I

Translated By Shane Healy [English]

JUANA – (Emotionally moved). I don’t know what to say to you... Nor do I want to lie to you, either... But respect and appreciate, at least, our good intention. Stay! Try... IGNACIO – No. JUANA – Please! You can’t leave now; it would be scandalous. And I... can’t get the words right. I don’t know how I could convince you. IGNACIO – You cannot convince me. JUANA – (With her hands together, agitated). Don’t leave. I’m very clumsy, I understand... You succeed in giving me the feeling of my impotence... If you go, everyone will know that I spoke with you and did not achieve anything. Stay! IGNACIO – How vain! JUANA – (Pityingly). It’s not vanity, Ignacio. (Sadly). Do you want me to ask you on my knees? (Brief pause). IGNACIO – (Very coldly). Why on your knees? They say that this gesture causes a great impression on the sighted... But we do not see it. Don’t be stupid; don’t talk about things you are ignorant of, don’t imitate those who truly live. And save me your disagreeable weakness, please! (Long pause). I’ll stay. JUANA – Thank you! IGNACIO – Thank you? You do bad business. Because you all are too pacifistic, too insincere, too cold. But I am burning on the inside; burning with a terrible fire that does not let me live and that can make you burn, all of you... Burning in this, that the sighted call “darkness”, which is horrifying... because we do not know what it is. I am going to bring war and not peace. JUANA – Don’t talk like that. It hurts me. What is essential is that you stay. I am sure that it will be good for everyone. IGNACIO – (Mockingly). Clumsy... and stupid. Your opinion and your blindness are the same... the war that consumes me will consume you all. JUANA – (Newly agitated). No, Ignacio. You shouldn’t bring us any war. Will it not be possible that we all live in peace? I don’t understand you well. Why do you suffer so? What is the matter with you? What is it that you want? (Brief pause). IGNACIO – (With tremendous contained energy). To see! JUANA – (Separates from him and remains, startled). What? IGNACIO – Yes! To see! Although I know that it is impossible, to see! Although this desire consumes my entire life in vain, I want to see! I cannot conform myself. We shouldn’t conform ourselves. And even less smile! And resign yourself to their stupid joy of the blind, never! (Pause). And although there is no woman with a heart that is capable of accompanying me in my torment, I will march on alone, denying myself of living resignedly, because I want to see!

“En La Ardiente Oscuridad” Extractos de Una Obra Por Antonio Buero Vallejo Acto Primero JUANA. – (Conmovida). No sé qué decirte... No quiero mentirte tampoco... Pero respeta y agradece, al menos, nuestro buen deseo. ¡Quédate! Prueba... IGNACIO. – No. IGNACIO. – No puedes convencerme. IGNACIO. – ¡Vanidosa! JUANA. – ¡Por favor! No puedes marcharte ahora; sería escandaloso. Y yo... no acierto con las palabras. No sé cómo podría convencerte. JUANA. – (Con las manos juntas, alterada). No te vayas. Soy muy torpe, lo comprendo... Tú aciertas a darme la sensación de mi impotencia... Si te vas, todos sabrían que hablé contigo y no conseguí nada. ¡Quédate! JUANA. – (Condolida). No es vanidad, Ignacio. (Triste). ¿Quieres que te lo pida de rodillas? (Breve pausa). IGNACIO. – (Muy frío). ¿Para qué de rodillas? Dicen que ese gesto causa mucha impresión a los videntes... Pero nosotros no lo vemos. No seas tonta; no hables de cosas que desconoces, no imites a los que viven de verdad. ¡Y ahórrame tu desagradable debilidad, por favor! (Gran pausa). Me quedo. JUANA. – ¡Gracias! IGNACIO. – ¿Gracias? Hacéis mal negocio. Porque vosotros sois demasiado pacíficos, demasiado insinceros, demasiado fríos. Pero yo estoy ardiendo por dentro; ardiendo con un fuego terrible, que no me deja vivir y que puede haceros arder a todos... Ardiendo en esto que los videntes llaman oscuridad y que es horroroso..., porque no sabemos lo que es. Yo os voy a traer guerra y no paz. JUANA. – No hables así. Me duele. Lo esencial es que te quedes. Estoy segura de que será bueno para todos. IGNACIO. – (Burlón). Torpe... y tonta. Tu optimismo y tu ceguera son iguales... La guerra que me consume os consumirá. JUANA. – (Nuevamente afligida). No, Ignacio. No debes traernos ninguna guerra. ¿No será posible que todos vivamos en paz? No te comprendo bien. ¿Por qué sufres tanto? ¿Qué te pasa? ¿Qué es lo que quieres? (Breve pausa). IGNACIO. – (Con tremenda energía contenida). ¡Ver! JUANA. – (Se separa de él y queda sobrecogida). ¿Qué?

Act II (ELISA leaves, crying, for the back of the stage. JUANA, agitated and hurt, vacillates in following her. IGNACIO rises). IGNACIO – Juana. (She stifles a yell and turns to face IGNACIO. He arrives.) I was here, and I heard you. Poor Elisa! I have no resentment for her. JUANA – (Trying to suppress her trembling). Why did you not alert us? IGNACIO – I do not regret it. Juana! (Takes her hand). You have given me my first moment of happiness. Thank you! If you knew how wonderful it is to feel understood! What good you have foretold in me! You are correct. I suffer much. And this suffering brings me... JUANA – Ignacio... Why don’t you try to restrain yourself? I know very well that you don’t wish for harm, but you are doing it. IGNACIO – I cannot contain myself. I cannot let people stay in the lies when they ask me... The deception in which they live in horrifies me! JUANA – War you have brought us, and not peace! IGNACIO – I told you so... (Suggestively.) In this exact place. And I am prevailing... Remember that you wanted it. (Brief pause.) JUANA – And if I asked you now, for your own good, for mine and that of everyone, that you leave? IGNACIO – (Slowly.) Do you really want that? JUANA – (In a very weak voice.) I beg it of you. IGNACIO – No. You do not want it. You want to alleviate my pain with your sweetness... and you’re going to give it to me! You will give it to me! You, who has understood and defended me. I love you, Juana! JUANA – Be quiet! IGNACIO – I love you, and none of these others. You, and from the first day! I love you for your goodness, for your charm, for the tenderness of your voice, for the softness of your hands... (Transition.) I love you and I need you. You know it. JUANA – Please! You should not talk like this! You forget about Carlos... IGNACIO – (Ironically.) Carlos? Carlos is a fool who would leave you for somebody sighted. He believes that our world and that of theirs is the same... He would want another Lady Pepita that sees for him... He would desire a complete woman, and he has you like a lesser evil. (Transition.) But I do not want any woman but a blind one! A blind one from my world of the blind, that understands! You. Because you alone can love a blind man truly, not a poor dreamer that believes himself normal. It is me who you love! You do not dare to say it to me... You would be the exception. You don’t dare to say “I love you”. But I will say it for you. Yes, you love me; you are guessing it at this very moment. The emotion in your voice gives it away. You love me with me anguish and my sadness, to suffer with me with our faces to the truth and with our backs to all the lies that pretend to mask our disgrace! Because you are strong for that and because you are good! (He embraces her passionately.) JUANA – (Suffocated.) No! (IGNACIO seals her mouth with a prolonged kiss. JUANA hardly resists.)

Acto Seguendo JUANA. — (Tratando de reprimir su temblor.) ¿Por qué no avisaste? IGNACIO. – ¡Sí! ¡Ver! Aunque sé que es imposible, ¡ver! Aunque en este deseo se consuma estérilmente mi vida entera, ¡quiero ver! No puedo conformarme. No debemos conformarnos. ¡Y menos sonreír! Y resignarse con vuestra estúpida alegría de ciegos, ¡nunca! (Pausa). Y aunque no haya ninguna mujer de corazón que sea capaz de acompañarme en mi calvario, marcharé sólo, negándome a vivir resignado, ¡porque quiero ver! (ELISA se va, llorando, por el foro. JUANA, agitada y dolida, vacila en seguirla. IGNACIO se levanta.) IGNACIO. —Juana. (Ella ahoga un grito y se vuelve hacia IGNACIO. Él llega.) Estaba aquí y os he oído. ¡Pobre Elisa! No le guardo rencor. IGNACIO. — No me arrepiento. ¡Juana! (Le coge una mano.) Me has dado mi primer momento de felicidad. ¡Gracias! ¡Si supieras qué hermoso es sentirse comprendido! ¡Qué bien has adivinado en mí! Tienes razón. Sufro mucho. Y ese sufrimiento me lleva... JUANA. — Ignacio... ¿Por qué no intentas reprimirte? Yo sé muy bien que no deseas el mal, pero lo estás haciendo. IGNACIO— No puedo contenerme. No puedo dejar en la mentira a la gente cuando me pregunta... ¡Me horroriza el engaño en que viven! JUANA. — ¡Guerra nos has traído y no paz! JUANA. — ¿Y si yo te pidiera ahora, por tu bien, por el mío y el de todos, que te marcharas? IGNACIO. — (Lento.) ¿Lo quieres de verdad? JUANA. — (Con voz muy débil.) Te lo ruego. JUANA. — ¡Calla! JUANA. — ¡Por favor! ¡No debes hablar así! Olvidas que Carlos... IGNACIO. — Te lo dije... (Insinuante.) En este mismo sitio. Y estoy venciendo... Recuerda que tú lo quisiste. (Breve pausa.) IGNACIO. — No. No lo quieres. Tú quieres aliviar mi pena con tu dulzura... ¡Y vas a dármela! ¡Tú me la darás! Tú, que me has comprendido y defendido. ¡Te quiero, Juana! IGNACIO. —Te quiero a ti, y no a ninguna de esas otras. ¡A ti y desde el primer día! Te quiero por tu bondad, por tu encanto, por la ternura de tu voz, por la suavidad de tus manos... (Transición.) Te quiero y te necesito. Tú lo sabes. IGNACIO. — (Irónico.) ¿Carlos? Carlos es un tonto que te dejaría por una vidente. Él cree que nuestro mundo y el de ellos es el mismo... Él querría otra doña Pepita. Otra fea doña Pepita que mirarse por él... Desearía una mujer completa, y a ti te tiene como un mal menor. (Transición.) ¡Pero yo no quiero una mujer, sino una ciega! ¡Una ciega de mi mundo de ciegos, que comprenda!...Tú. Porque tú sólo puedes amar a un ciego verdadero, no un pobre iluso que se cree normal. ¡Es a mí a quien amas! No te atreves a decírmelo, ni a confesártelo... Serías la excepción. No te atreves a decir “te quiero”. Pero yo lo diré por ti. Sí, me quieres; lo estás adivinando ahora mismo. Lo delata la emoción de tu voz. ¡Me quieres con mi angustia y mi tristeza, para sufrir conmigo de cara a la verdad y de espaldas a todas las mentiras que pretenden enmascarar nuestra desgracia! ¡Porque eres fuerte para eso y porque eres buena! (La abraza apasionadamente.) JUANA. — (Sofocada.) ¡No! (IGNACIO le sella la boca con un beso prolongado. JUANA apenas resiste.)

Photos by Eliza Jaeger 欲說還休你為何仰望？他們問。我在找尋你的美麗，更要以你的眼睛跟星光比擬。但是漫天星體卻都比你的瞳孔暗淡。我要為你寫詩文字卻包含不下你聲線的甜美。世界與你的笑聲相比顯得寂寥。我們必須明白每個開端都需要一個結

The Hollow Words Why do you look up? They ask. I search for your beauty, I would compare the stars to your eyes But All the bodies in heaven would not be bright enough. If I wrote verses Then Language could not embody the sweetness in your voice. Compared to your laugh, The world is silent. We must understand that there is an end for every beginning. Why do you look up? They ask. No reason. By David Elber [Chinese-English]

Lens Now it is fall. by fall I mean: iron, huddle, Brooklyn Bridge. have you found anything— special enough for a close examination? don’t speak of the magenta sunset, or yellow cabs; I will shake my head. if you happen to know what I expect, say you see the wind in my hair, the ruby tint of my scarf; your lens are also mine. the love locks, exhibiting their texture—the smallest scale of beauty in the City of Blindness.

By Vera Yu Ke [Chinese-English] 27

鏡頭現在可是秋天。我說秋天，意思是：鐵，擁擠，布魯克林橋。找到了嗎— 任何特殊到值得讓你駐足細察之物？不要說緋紅的落日，或者是黃色出租車﹔我搖頭不語。如果你碰巧了解什麼是我所期盼的，比如你捕捉到撩我頭發的風，染我圍巾的紅﹔ 那麼你的鏡頭也成了我的。情人鎖，展示著它們的紋理—秋毫般微小的美，在這個不察不看的城市裡。

Herbsttag

Fall Day

Original by Rainer Maria Rilke [German]

Translated by Emma McDonald [English]

Herr, es ist Zeit. Der Sommer war sehr groß. Leg deinen Schatten auf die Sonnenuhren, und auf den Fluren lass die Winde los.

Lord, it’s time. The summer was ample. Lay your shadow on the sundials, and in the meadows unleash the winds.

Befiehl den letzten Früchten, voll zu sein; gib ihnen noch zwei südlichere Tage, dränge sie zur Vollendung hin, und jage die letzte Süße in den schweren Wein.

Command the last fruits to be full. grant them two more warm days, urge them to completion, and coax the last sweetness into the rich wine

Wer jetzt kein Haus hat, baut sich keines mehr. Wer jetzt allein ist, wird es lange bleiben, wird wachen, lesen, lange Briefe schreiben und wird in den Alleen hin und her unruhig wandern, wenn die Blätter treiben.

Whoever has no house now, will build one no more. Whoever is alone now, will remain so for a while, will wake, read, write long letters, and wander on the avenues to and fro restless, while the leaves drift.

Arrival and Departure

Ankunft und Abgang

By John Loebs [English-German] Und als ich ankam, War alles glücklich und froh. Aber ich war nicht der Einzige, Der ankam. Nein, es gab auch viele Andere, Die sofort und automatisch angefangen haben, Miteinander zu reden. Und als ich da länger geblieben bin, Habe ich gemerkt, Dass ich der Einzige war, der gar nichts sagte. Und als sie weiter miteinander gesprochen haben, Habe ich gemerkt, Dass ich sie gar nicht verstehen konnte. Und dann dachte ich nur daran, Was ich nie verstehen würde, Und was ich nie erleben würde, Und was ich nie fühlen würde. Und als ich sie verlassen habe,

And when I arrived, Everything was happy and cheerful. But I was not the only one Who arrived. No, there were also many others, Who at once and automatically began To speak with each other. And as I stayed there longer, I noticed That I was the only one saying nothing. And as they continued to speak with each other, I noticed That I could not at all understand them. And then I thought only about What I would never understand, And what I would never experience, And what I would never feel. And when I left them, Artwork by Morag McKenzie

Senza titolo Ragni strisciano sulla sua caviglia spoglia. La sollecitano, ballando sopra polpacci fino a quando non vengono carezzati via. Sforza gli occhi, arcando le fini sopracciglia come sorrisi invertiti che sussurrano “Perché sei ancora qua?” Il suo mondo è annebbiato, simile a quello nei dipinti di Jeremy Mann, dove contorni e coloro si dissolvono come se stessere per ingoiarsi fino quando niente è più a fuoco. Si concentra e si guarda attorno, cercando per qualcosa con cui coprirsi. Il pavimento è completamento travolto da stracci accasatati uno sopra l’altro come colline. Colline che la guardano minacciose mentre le sue secche braccia e gracili dita si smarriscono in cerca di una gonna sciupata, biancheria lurida e abiti sbiaditi. Nuda trascina il suo corpo attraverso il squallore; sotto i suoi magri seni sono incise piccole valli facendola sembrare fragile, non come una giovane ragazza che è, ma come una donna anziana battuta dalle tempeste portate da il peso degli anni . Trova un abito estivo, ingiallito con sprizzi di blue cobalto ormai diventati grigi. Ma per lei non importa, scivola dentro l’abito ignorando le macchie o il puzzo e si porta davanti allo specchio. Odia lo specchio e lui condivide il suo disprezzo. Non la guarda mai in faccia, permettendole solo riflessioni opache a volte per sfida e a volte per onestà delle sue linee sfocate. Ma non importa anche lei non vuole guardare ste stessa. Raccoglie e accende una sigaretta increspata lasciata per terra dal cliente della notte scorsa. Lentamente il fumo riempie la stanza, creando ellittici effimeri che culminano brevemente prima di disparire. Lei vuole vedere la camera bruciare, inghiottita da fuoco sacro; immagina che i suoi lunghi capelli di legno s’infuocano trasformandola in fumo cosi che possa scappare attraverso le fessure. Ma non osa. Le hanno tagliato le ali e già non riesce a sentire l’estremità delle sue dita. Sigaretta in mano accende l’unica luce in tremore come se avesse paura di soffiare via la penombra. Con mani ferme inizia a disegnare una linea di eyeliner per nascondere il suo sguardo impaurito. Ne disegna un’altra, questa volta ci metter più forza fino a quando niente rimane di lei a parte due buchi neri, due blackholes. Non lascia traccia del suo viso ed è soddisfatta.

Untitled Spiders crawl on her naked leg. They tickle her, dancing on her calves before she warily brushes them off. She slits her eyes open, arching her thin eyebrow into upside down smiles that whisper: “What Am I doing here?” Her world is a blur; a Jeremy Mann painting where contours fade and the colors melt, swallowing each other until nothing remains clear. She gathers her thoughts and feels around for a shirt. The floor is full of them. Dirty rags piled like hostile hills that give her headaches as her bony arms and bony fingers get lost in the piles of tattered skirts, dirty underwear and old dresses. She drags her bare body across the room; tiny valleys carved under her tiny breasts, she looks fragile but not like the young girl that she is but like a worn woman weakened by the tide of difficult times. She finds a yellowed summer dress with a cobalt flower pattern turned grey. She puts it on, ignoring the poignant stench and the stains, heading for the mirror. She hates the mirror and the mirror seems to hate her back. It always turns her away, only showing an opaque reflection of her, sometimes in defiance and sometimes because she looks particularly bland that day. But it is fine; she doesn’t want to see herself anyway. She picks up a crinkled cigarette left on the floor by last night’s customer and lights it. Smoke slowly fills the room, drawing translucent ellipticals that crest and disappear. She wants to see the place burn, engulfed in cleansing fire; she imagines the grease in her wooden hair catch flames and turn her into white smoke, allowing her fly out through the creaks. But she doesn’t dare. Her wings are broken and her fingertips numb. She puts on her red lipstick and red shoes. Cigarette in hand, she turns on the only light in the room. The bulb trembles, almost too shy to blow the semi-darkness away. Hands steady, she draws a thin line of eyeliner to hide the glimmers of fear. She draws another one, this time thicker, and thicker, until but two black holes remain on her white face. Wiping the dust off the mirror she checks her renewed self, nothing remains of her and she’s pleased.

By James Min [Italian-English]

Photo by Hannah Pustejovsky

“The Continuation of the Dream” Don’t open your eyes Wait a little while Look, inside the dream A wonderful world is there

No matter how fun of a dream it may be It cannot continue forever Just like the day after a festival So lonely that it makes you cry

Play with your friends even more Laugh genuinely even more Because that world is Just a glittering impostor

Someday you will have to wake up, but This time for sure, you will be able to overcome the dream Before the coming “tragedy” Do not be frightened, do not tremble

The false dream is Only your ideal fantasia Only when you wake up will you Be able to understand what it means Even though it’s full of lies, even though it’s covered in wounds There is a soul that will never disappear Only in your memory Will everyone precious to you survive You are still In the hospital bed Writing a story in your head About your beloved friends After that accident, you were The only one who did not disappear Beautiful dreamer Your friends are going to sleep forever But do not cry, do not be afraid Look, inside the dream is still A world without that “tragedy” A world where a miracle has occurred

夢の続き」著シェイン・ヒリ

The continuation of the dream Still seems like it will be painful, but You, who does not even know they are dreaming Will surely be able to withstand it, I believe By Shane Healy [Japanese-English]

目を覚まさないでちょっと待ってほら、夢の中に素晴らしい世界がある

どんなに楽しい夢でも永遠に続くことはないお祭りの次の日のように泣くほどさみしい

もっと友達と遊んでもっと素直に笑ってその世界はただの輝かしい偽物です

いつか起きなければならないけれど今度こそ、きっと、夢を超えることが出来るそのやがてくる「悲劇」の前に怯えないで、震えないで

偽りの夢はただあなたの理想の幻想曲起きた時だけその意味を理解することが出来る

夢の続きはまだ辛そうに見えるけど夢を見ていることさえ知らないあなたはきっと耐えられると信じている

嘘だらけでも、傷だらけでもけっして消えない魂があるあなたの記憶だけに大切な人々は生き残るあなたはまだ病院のベッドの上で大切な仲間について頭の中で話を書いているあの事故のあと、あなただけはたった一人消えなかった美しいドリーマーあなたの友達は永遠に眠り続けるでも泣かないで、怖がらないでほら、夢の中にはまだあの「悲劇」がない世界奇跡が起こっていた世界

“Abaporu”, Eleição Presidencial no Brasil e Renato Russo: Memória dos Últimos Dois Meses na Casa de Português em Middlebury College Outono de 2014 Por Andreana Marchi – Assistente de Português Middlebury College é internacionalmente conhecida por suas escolas de língua e é inegável que ter uma casa de língua ajuda (e muito) o aprendizado de uma língua estrangeira. Nestes últimos dois meses, eu tenho recebido diversos alunos na Casa de Português e os mais variados tipos de eventos têm promovido não somente a interação entre eles, mas também têm mostrado o grande interesse que cada um tem por algum ponto específico da cultura lusófona. Apresento aqui uma pequena contribuição, ou talvez um ponto de vista ou “a vista de um ponto”[1], como diria Leonardo Boff, de uma Assistente de Português nestes últimos dois meses, vivendo e promovendo os mais variados eventos na Casa de Português desde o início do outono de 2014. Vamos começar pela decoração da Casa onde se fala português. Pensei na decoração do cômodo mais visitado como um processo de viver a língua de forma diferente. A sala de estar, onde recebo os alunos e colegas, possui duas obras de arte importantes para o Brasil. A tela “Abaporu”, pintada por Tarsila do Amaral em 1928, é uma forma de apresentar o Brasil com uma cultura própria. Não há como negar que essa obra é uma representação tardia da Semana de Arte Moderna, ou também conhecida como Semana de 22, e que mostra um Brasil “mais brasileiro”. Esta é, sem dúvida, uma clássica pintura do modernismo brasileiro. E o segundo quadro é uma reprodução menor de “Guerra e Paz” de Cândido Portinari. Na realidade, esta obra é formada por dois painéis de 14 metros de altura por 10 metros de diâmetro que estão expostos na Organização das Nações Unidas em Nova Iorque. Foram pintados entre os anos de 1952 – 1956. Foi um presente do governo brasileiro para a ONU. Além dessas obras de arte, também coloquei três mapas nas paredes da Casa de Português. Primeiro, o mapa de Portugal, onde a língua portuguesa “floresceu”. O mapa do Brasil também ganhou destaque na Casa de Português, pois somos o país com maior número de 35

falantes de língua portuguesa no mundo. No total somos 244 milhões de pessoas que falam português em todo o mundo. Ainda, o português é a sexta língua mais falada do globo, mas é a quinta mais usada na Internet e a terceira nas redes sociais Facebook e Twitter. E por último, e não menos importante, um mapa do mundo com destaque para todos os países, nos cinco continentes, onde o português é a língua oficial (são 8 países no total): Angola, Brasil, Cabo Verde, Guiné-Bissau, Moçambique, Portugal, São Tomé e Príncipe e Timor-Leste. Viver a língua através de discussões nos mais variados eventos da Casa é, na minha opinião, não só muito recompensador, mas também produtivo. Gostaria de dar destaque a alguns eventos que promovi na Casa de Português. Tivemos dois eventos de cunho político: falamos das campanhas dos três presidenciáveis mais votados e também assistimos ao último debate entre os dois que permaneceram para o segundo turno, os candidatos Aécio Neves e Dilma Rousseff. Em um outro momento na Casa de Português, lembramos de um artista muito talentoso que deixou o cenário do rock brasileiro há 18 anos: Renato Russo. Este, por sua vez, continua vivo na memória dos brasileiros, principalmente quando muitos foram as ruas para protestar em 2013. A música “Que país é esse?!”, lançada em 1987 pela banda do cantor, Legião Urbana, é a canção de protestos mais lembrada do Brasil. Assistimos a um filme que retrata a vida dele e que apresenta muito bem os grandes sucessos da banda Legião Urbana. E, para finalizar, uma frase de um autor que dispensa introdução e que fará parte dos próximos eventos da Casa de Português, Machado de Assis: “Palavra puxa palavra, uma ideia traz outra, e assim se faz um livro, um governo, ou uma revolução, alguns dizem que assim é que a natureza compôs as suas espécies[2]”. Fica aqui o convite para que conheçam e usufruam da Casa de Português. A Casa onde se fala português, mas se aprende sobre cultura e muito mais! [1] “Todo ponto de vista é a vista de um ponto”. Fonte: BOFF, Leonardo. A Águia e a galinha: uma metáfora da condição humana. 16 ed. Petrópolis, RJ: Vozes, 1998. [2] Citação retirada do conto: “Primas de Sapucaia”, primeiramente publicado em 1884. Machado de Assis.

“Abaporu”, Presidential Election in Brazil, and Renato Russo: Memory of the Last Two Months Portuguese House at Middlebury College Fall 2014 By Andreana Marchi – Assistant in Portuguese Middlebury College is internationally known for its language schools, and it is undeniable that having a language house helps (a lot) learning a foreign language. During these last two months, I have received many Portuguese students in the house, and all kinds of events have not only promoted the interaction between them, but have also shown the specific interests that each of them has in a certain aspect of Lushophone culture. I present here a small contribution, or perhaps a point of view or “a view from a point”, as Leonardo Boff would say, of an Assistant in Portuguese in these past two months, living and promoting various events in the Portuguese House since the beginning of Fall 2014. Let’s start with the decoration of the house where we speak Portuguese. I thought of the decor of the most visited room as a different language learning environment. The living room, where I meet my students and colleagues, has two important artworks from Brazil. The “Abaporu” screen, painted by Tarsila Amaral in 1928, is a way of showing Brazil its own culture. This work is a later representation of the “Week of Modern Art”, also known as the “Week of 22”, which showed a more “Brazilian” Brazil. This is undoubtedly a classic painting of Brazilian modernism. And the second picture is a smaller reproduction of “War and Peace” by Candido Portinari. Two panels constitute this work, which is now at the United Nations in New York. They were painted between the years of 1952 – 1956, and were a gift from the Brazilian government to the UN. Besides these works of art, I also placed three maps on the walls of the Portuguese House. First, the map of Portugal, where the Portuguese language “blossomed”. The map of Brazil also gained prominence in the Portuguese House, because we are the country with the largest

number of Portuguese speakers in the world. There are 244 million people who speak Portuguese worldwide. Portuguese is also the sixth most spoken language in the world, but it is the fifth most used on the Internet and the third on social networks like Facebook and Twitter. And last but not least, a world map highlighting all countries on five continents where Portuguese is the official language (there are 8 countries in total): Angola, Brazil, Cape Verde, Guinea-Bissau, Mozambique, Portugal, Sao Tome and Principe and East Timor. Living the language through discussions in various events of the House is not only rewarding but also very productive. I would like to highlight some events that we promoted at the Portuguese House. We had two events of a political nature: we talked about the campaigns of the three most voted presidential candidates and also watched the last debate between the two that remained for the second turn, candidates Aécio Neves and Dilma Rousseff. In another moment at the Portuguese House we remember a very talented artist who left the scene of the Brazilian rock 18 years ago: Renato Russo. He remains fresh in the minds of Brazilians, especially when many were on the streets last year during the protest. The song “What country is this?!” launched in 1987 by Legião Urbana, is the most remembered protest song in Brazil. We watched a movie that depicts his life and shows very well the great success of the band Legião Urbana. And finally, a quote from an author who does not need introduction and will be part of the upcoming events of the Portuguese House, Machado de Assis: “Word pulls word, an idea brings another, and thus becomes a book, a government or a revolution, some say it is this way that nature has composed its species.” Here is an invitation to get to know the Portuguese House. The house where we speak Portuguese, but also learn about culture and much more!

ΙΘΑΚΗ Translated by Stella Lentzou [Greek] Σα βγεις στον πηγαιμό για την Ιθάκη, να εύχεσαι νάναι μακρύς ο δρόμος, γεμάτος περιπέτειες, γεμάτος γνώσεις. Τους Λαιστρυγόνας και τους Κύκλωπας, τον θυμωμένο Ποσειδώνα μη φοβάσαι, τέτοια στον δρόμο σου ποτέ σου δεν θα βρεις, αν μέν’ η σκέψις σου υψηλή, αν εκλεκτή συγκίνησις το πνεύμα και το σώμα σου αγγίζει. Τους Λαιστρυγόνας και τους Κύκλωπας, τον άγριο Ποσειδώνα δεν θα συναντήσεις, αν δεν τους κουβανείς μες στην ψυχή σου, αν η ψυχή σου δεν τους στήνει εμπρός σου. Να εύχεσαι νάναι μακρύς ο δρόμος. Πολλά τα καλοκαιρινά πρωιά να είναι που με τι ευχαρίστησι, με τι χαρά θα μπαίνεις σε λιμένας πρωτοειδωμένους· να σταματήσεις σ’ εμπορεία Φοινικικά, και τες καλές πραγμάτειες ν’ αποκτήσεις, σεντέφια και κοράλλια, κεχριμπάρια κ’ έβενους, και ηδονικά μυρωδικά κάθε λογής, όσο μπορείς πιο άφθονα ηδονικά μυρωδικά· σε πόλεις Aιγυπτιακές πολλές να πας, να μάθεις και να μάθεις απ’ τους σπουδασμένους. Πάντα στον νου σου νάχεις την Ιθάκη. Το φθάσιμον εκεί είν’ ο προορισμός σου. Aλλά μη βιάζεις το ταξείδι διόλου. Καλλίτερα χρόνια πολλά να διαρκέσει· και γέρος πια ν’ αράξεις στο νησί, πλούσιος με όσα κέρδισες στον δρόμο, μη προσδοκώντας πλούτη να σε δώσει η Ιθάκη. Η Ιθάκη σ’ έδωσε τ’ ωραίο ταξείδι. Χωρίς αυτήν δεν θάβγαινες στον δρόμο. Άλλα δεν έχει να σε δώσει πια. Κι αν πτωχική την βρεις, η Ιθάκη δεν σε γέλασε. Έτσι σοφός που έγινες, με τόση πείρα, ήδη θα το κατάλαβες η Ιθάκες τι σημαίνουν.

ITHACA Original by Constantine P. Cavafy [English] As you set out for Ithaca hope the voyage is a long one, full of adventure, full of discovery. Laistrygonians and Cyclops, angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them: you’ll never find things like that on your way as long as you keep your thoughts raised high, as long as a rare excitement stirs your spirit and your body. Laistrygonians and Cyclops, wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them unless you bring them along inside your soul, unless your soul sets them up in front of you. Hope the voyage is a long one. May there be many a summer morning when, with what pleasure, what joy, you come into harbors seen for the first time; may you stop at Phoenician trading stations to buy fine things, mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony, sensual perfume of every kind— as many sensual perfumes as you can; and may you visit many Egyptian cities to gather stores of knowledge from their scholars. Keep Ithaca always in your mind. Arriving there is what you are destined for. But do not hurry the journey at all. Better if it lasts for years, so you are old by the time you reach the island, wealthy with all you have gained on the way, not expecting Ithaca to make you rich. Ithaca gave you the marvelous journey. Without her you would not have set out. She has nothing left to give you now. And if you find her poor, Ithaca won’t have fooled you. Wise as you will have become, so full of experience, you will have understood by then what these Ithaca’s mean.

Photo by Eliza Jaeger

Liberal Arts So you found the lock But not the key that college brings And all the trouble of a B.A. in English literature Instead of law or something more practical You traded all your time for money and the blues But no trust fund or daddy doctor What do you have to prove?

Translated by Maddy Dickinson [French]

So you found your joy on Saturdays With friends and film Fingering your girlfriend Your father’s pride was beaming When you bought your first home in Garden City

Alors, vous avez trouvé la serrure Mais pas la clef qu’apporte l’université Et tous les problèmes de faire une licence de littérature anglaise Plutôt que le droit ou autre chose de plus pratique

Stability outwins fashion or attitude Long sober walks upstate You don’t miss a thing, do you?

Vous avez échangé tout votre temps contre l’argent et le blues Même si votre père n’était pas normalien Alors, qu’est-ce que vous avez à prouver?

So you found the lock But not the key that college brings And all the trouble of a B.A. in English literature Instead of law or something more practical You traded all your time for money and the blues But no trust fund or daddy doctor What do you have to prove?

Alors, vous avez trouvé votre joie le samedi Avec des amis et des films Passant la journée avec votre petite amie La fierté de votre père rayonnait Quand vous avez acheté votre première maison à Saint-Tropez La stabilité est meilleure que la mode ou l’attitude Des sobres longues promenades au nord de l’état Rien ne vous manque, n’est-ce pas ? Alors, vous avez trouvé la serrure Mais pas la clef qu’apporte l’université Et tous les problèmes de faire une licence de littérature anglaise Plutôt que le droit ou autre chose de plus pratique Vous avez échangé tout votre temps contre l’argent et le blues Même si votre père n’était pas normalien Alors, qu’est-ce que vous avez à prouver?

This is a translation of the song “Liberal Arts” by Hospitality into French. You can listen to the full song in English here: https://www. youtube.com/watch?v=TP_i6j-xGwc. 39

40 Photo by Eliza Jaeger

日曜の地震で亡くなったフランス人アーティス

French Artist Killed in Sunday’s Earthquake

Translated by Yining Dai [Japanese]

Original by Simon Van Booy from The Secret Lives of People in Love [English]

彼女の人生の最後の瞬間。マリエ・フランソワーはがれきの下に埋もれていた。口のなかには食べていた魚がまだ残っている。彼女の目はもう開かない。まるで闇に閉じ込められたようだ。体はもう何も感じない。魂が抜け出したように、この世から消えるのを待っていた。そして彼女の人生は、雲のように追憶の雨を降らせる。彼女は雨のなか、微動だにしない。祖父母の家のキッチン、盆栽のとなりにある緑の受話器。プラスチックのハンドルが冷たい。耳に当てる感触。受話器の向こうから聞こえてくるのは自分の声だった。母親の靴をベッドルームへ運ぶときの重さ。いつか大人になったらこういうものを履かなくちゃ行けないの。友達に偶然会う。そんな日々があった。そして追憶の雨が止み、闇のなかで彼女の心臓だけがゆっくり鼓動している。まるで自分が水中にいるように。と、追憶の雨がまた降り始め、彼女を浸す：カーテンから透ける朝日。教室の匂い。一杯の牛乳。父への想い、そして私を抱いてくれた感触。朝、彼氏のちょっと冷たい背中に頭を押し当てる。二回ぐらいしたことがある。生まれたことと同じぐらい重要だ。祖父母が裸足で雪泥の中を歩き、埋まった手を踏んだ。戦争の終わり。

フランスのバンガロー。むすめ。まごむすめ。古びた車を運転している時の母のひじ。マリエ・フランソワーは何を感じられず、叫ぶこともできない。音もざわめきもなく、ただ無声映画だけが彼女の頭蓋骨のなかに映された。生きているか死んでいるか、分からない。もっと時間があれば、助けられる望みもあったかもしれない。しかし、彼女の記憶がこぼれ落ちていく。ロウソクを吹く時に失敗した。何歳の誕生日かはもう重要ではない。小さな息で消された時の煙の香りだけが残っている。そしてホールに足音が響いた。裸足の足音。冷蔵庫のドアを開けたまま、祖父がキッチンのテーブルで死んでいた。地面に落ちても割れてなかった卵。祖母の悲鳴。今思い出してはもうそんなに辛くないのだ。彼女の人生の窓は開け放たれた、彼女がチョウチョウ。もし彼女の人生が闇に戻らなければ、今ごろはもうバケーション中で、どこかで泳いでいただろう。冷たい水の中での腕の動き一つ一つは完璧なる彼女の哲学。そして、祖母のコートがキッチンのドアの後ろにバッグとほうきと一緒にかかっているそのコートの匂いがした。もし人生すべてをこの倒れたビルの下で過ごしたとしたら。知らないもう一人の自分が想像してみた。そしてこの死が迫りくるなか、彼女はすぐにこの闇と残された最後の八秒に恋をした。一秒ごとが、飢えた人が口にする一口の食物のように。

The final moments of her life. Marie-Françoise lay crushed under tons of rubble. The fish she had been eating was still in her mouth. Her eyes would not open. She could sense the darkness that encapsulated her. She could not feel her body, as though during the fall, her soul had slipped out and lay waiting for the exact moment when it would disappear from the world. Then her life, like a cloud, split open, and she lay motionless in a rain of moments. The green telephone in her grandparents’ kitchen next to the plant. She could feel the cool plastic of the handle and the sensation of cupping it under her ear. She could hear a voice at the other end of the line that she recognized as her own. The weight of her mother’s shoes as she carried them into the bedroom. The idea that one day she’d be grown-up and would have to wear such things. Running into a friend. That time had passed. And then the rain of her life stopped, and she was in darkness, her heart pushing slowly against her ribs. Muted noise as though she were underwater. Then the rain of moments began again until she was drenched by single esoteric details: Morning light behind the curtain. The smell of classrooms. A glass of milk. The hope for a father and the imagined pressure of his arms against her. Laying her head upon her new boyfriend’s cool back in the morning. She had done it twice. It was as important as being born. Her grandparents again, but characters in their own stories – walking barefoot in the snowy mud and stepping on a buried hand. The end of the war.

A bungalow in France. A daughter. A granddaughter. Her mother’s elbows as she drove their old brown Renault. Marie-Françoise could not feel her body and was unable to shout. There was no sound, nothing stirred but the silent movies projected on the inside of her skull. She was not so much aware that she was dying as she was that she was still alive. Had she more time, she may have nurtured a hope f being rescued. Instead, memory leaked out around her. Blowing out candles unsuccessfully – birthday year insignificant, just the aroma of smoke as small fires were extinguished by tiny helping breaths. Then the sound of footsteps in the hall, and creeping barefoot to find her grandfather dead at the kitchen table with the refrigerator door open. An egg unbroken on the floor. Her grandmother’s screams. This memory was not painful to her now. Her life was an open window and she a butterfly. If not for her intermittent returns to darkness – the body’s insistence on life – she could have been on vacation, swimming underwater, each stroke of her arms in the cool water a complete philosophy. And then she smelled her grandmother’s coat, hanging loyally behind the kitchen door with a bag of bags and a broom. She wondered if she had lived her entire life from under the collapsed building. That her life was imagined by a self she’d never fully known. And then with the expediency of the dying, she immediately fell in love with the darkness and the eight seconds she had left in it – each second like a mouthful of food to a starving man.

Ausente TĀL CHĪLTIK Nikitak ka tālchi, kēman yemet ajkēwketa, uk tapujtuk n’ijiīshchichin, uk tachiat ka ikajku. San ne tzūjyak nakatuya tik tēchan. San ne mawi wan tutajtan kēluntuk. San uni, wan ne nunān ka tālchi. Intē kēman nikāk uksēnpa ināwak ne tīt. Chīchīltijtuya ne tāl. Shūchikīstuya chīltik n’inwēyka nūsan. Nikīshketzki. Nēsituya ka āshān temet ne tapishkal. Tejemetsan tāy kitakwaltiskia ne tāl, tāy kitakwaltiskia tutēkuyu wan n’ipīlawan, ush tē?. Yajika techpustekket, techpayānket, techkūmēwket, ush tē? Yajika techajkāwket ka tālchi mā tiwākikan. Ijpak n’ātutūnil, ne mētzti kiyūlkwiuk n’iīshkalyu wan uni intē weliket kimiktiat—n’ijiīshchichin uk tapujtuk. Āshān ka īshpan ini tamimanimet nikāki n’ejēkat kēnhaya uni tūnal ankiānket ne nunān. Sēsan kāwit, sēsan tachishka, sēsan tētzakwiltilūni. Anka anweliket antechitzkiat āshān, man ne tāl intē kēman yu-weli kielkāwa n’itutūnka ini tuesyu ne kūshintuk.

RED LAND I saw her on the ground, when they had left already, her little eyes were still open, still looking at the sky. Only the smell of fire remained in our town. Only the fear and our broken teeth. Only that, and my mother on the ground. I never heard her next to our fireplace again. The earth had turned red. Our bodies had bloomed red as well. I understood; it seemed now that we were the crop. We ourselves would be what feeds the land, what feeds the master and his children, wouldn’t we? That’s why they broke us, and ground us, and tore us out, didn’tthey? That’s why they left us on the ground to dry out. In its reflection on the water, the moon still revives her face, a face they couldn’t kill—her little eyes still open. Now, in front of this firing squad, I hear the wind as I heard it the day you took my mother. The same time, the same color, the same crime. Perhaps you could capture us today, but the land could never forget the warmth of our spilled blood.

By Frank Martínez [Nawat-English]

Te diría como duele, Como se siente estar así Pero ¿para qué? Soy algo pasante, algo no concreto. A veces ausente, a veces presente. Mas se perdió en la guerra, ¿no es cierto? Te dejo saber entre las miradas, Entre el silencio, Entre las palabras, Entre mis labios. ¿Será que lo captas? Como una gota de lluvia que cae, Las moléculas de agua suspendidas por un segundo Antes de explotar silenciosamente contra el frio de la tierra. Un momento aquí y el otro ya no. No parpadees mi amor que ese puede ser el caso. Un momento aquí, el otro ausente.

Photo by Eliza Jaeger

Absent

By Samantha Vila [Spanish-English]

I would tell you how it hurts, How it feels to be like this But for what? I am something that passes, something not concrete Sometimes absent, other times present. More was lost in the war, isn’t that right? I let you know between my gazes, Between the silence, Between the words, Between my lips. Do you understand it? Like a drop of rain that falls, The molecules of water suspending for a second Before crashing silently against the cold of the earth. One moment here and the other gone. Don’t blink my love because that could be the case. One moment here, the next absent.

Gostaria que ela voltasse

Wish She’d Come Back Wish she’d come back. With her I suffer much, but also dance much . Suffer 50 and dance 150. End up with 100 of dance. That's why I want her to come back.

Quando ela está eu sofro muito, mas também danço muito. Sofro 50 e danço 150. Fico a ganhar 100 de dança. Por isso é que quero que ela volte. As mulheres são bonitas, mas ela ainda é mais bonita que as mulheres. Tem pés de bailarina mesmo quando está sentada. E é muito difícil ter-se pés de bailarina quando se está sentada. Quando ela dorme parece que todo o quarto dorme. É como se a própria cama dormisse. É como se os móveis e os lençóis dormissem. As paredes dormem. As portas dormem. As janelas dormem. Tudo dorme. Por isso é que eu gosto tanto dela. Gosto de olhar as coisas quando elas dormem.

Women are beautiful, but she's even more beautiful than women. Has ballerina feet even when sitting. And it's very hard to have ballerina feet when sitting. When she sleeps it seems that the whole room sleeps. As if the bed itself were asleep. As if the furniture and the sheets were asleep. The walls sleep. The doors sleep. The windows sleep. Everything sleeps. That's why I like her so much. I like to look at things as they sleep.

Quando ela adormece, adormece o mundo e aí eu aproveito para viajar. Gosto de viajar quando o mundo dorme Porque assim consigo ver as coisas a respirarem naturalmente. Só se é natural quando se dorme. Quem acorda, acorda os instintos de sobrevivência. É melhor andar por cima da terra quando ela dorme, do que quando ela quer sobreviver.

When she falls asleep, the world falls asleep and I go and travel I like to travel when the world sleeps Because then I can see things breathe naturally. One [AS2] is only natural when sleeping. Who awakens, awakens the instincts of survival. It's better to walk above the earth when it sleeps, than when it wants to survive.

Quando a Natureza dorme podemos correr à vontade pois será impossível tropeçarmos, será impossível sermos lentos ou demasiado rápidos. O nosso ritmo é o certo. Tudo vive no seu sítio e nós observamos, acordados, as coisas do alto.

When nature sleeps we can run freely because it'll be impossible to stumble, it'll be impossible to go slow or too fast. Our rhythm is the right one. Everything lives in its place and we observe, awaken, things from above. That's why I like her. This woman. That's why I wish she’d come back. She puts the world to sleep for me to pass by and only when I'm in total safety does she wake up. It's strange: she protects me when she sleeps. Protects me when she sleeps.

É por isso que eu gosto dela. Dessa mulher. É por isso que eu gostaria que ela voltasse. Ela adormece o mundo para eu passar e só quando eu estou em total segurança é que ela acorda. É estranho: ela protege-me quando dorme. Protege-me quando dorme.

Original by Gonçalo M. Tavares [Portuguese]

Photo by Eliza Jaeger

Translated by Bernardo Portilho Andrade [English]

The Heart He died. Tender hands of his sister did not make his bed; lover’s eyes did not mysteriously look into the bedroom of the sick man; acquaintances did not ask after his well-being; he was not granted pardon from a calm, quiet person in the last minutes of his life, whose powers he did not believe in anymore but still wanted to hear the comforting words from; her mother did not shed tears of grief. He died abroad. - He was sick with thousand illnesses – the doctor was trying to justify his death to his friends.

They cut his body. The professor cried out in astonishment: - Look at this, gentlemen, how did this happen? - Gentlemen, heart, where is the heart? Ashes remained in the place of his heart. His mother, after being informed of his death by a telegram, rushed into an orphaned room of her beloved son, sobbing: - How could put a widow through this much sorrow? Where is your good heart, your good heart that I put so much effort in, to put in its place? A small map answered from the wall: - I withered it! - I burned it! – replied a photo on the desk.

Nobody heard the words.

1908 Original by Niko Lortkipanidze [Georgian] Translated by Tamar Matiashvili [English]

Klammer ich bin ein geschlossene Klammer atemlos, weil ich nicht atmen kann. wir erwarten uns atmenlos.

(Brackets) i am a closed bracket. breathless, because i cannot breathe. we await each other, Breathlessly.

(Joy Zhu)

Photo by Eliza Jaeger

ÂŠ2014 Translingual A Magazine of Middlebury College go/translingual Please send any comments, questions, and submissions to translingual@middlebury.edu Photo by Caroline Owen