Friday, February 25, 2005

 

I had a dream about Paul Muldoon last night. His hair is even bigger in my imagination.

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Tomorrow, tomorrow, there's always tomorrow. And tomorrow there's a Saturday edition of the Frequency Series, featuring poets from Unpleasant Event Schedule. Go! I command thee! 2:30 at the Four Faced Liar.

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Wednesday, February 23, 2005

 

Always wanted to be ravished by a red-headed architect, but never had a proper surface upon which to suffer such forced advances? Well, wait no more, little objectivist! IKEA has just the thing. Via The Null Device.

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I've run into a bit of a problem with my old tactic of making homophonic translations of poems in Portuguese as a way to generate language for new poems. After doing this for over a year, I find I now can actually read Portuguese. Like so. I took this poem:

Quero um erro de gramatica que refaca
na metade luminosa o poema do mundo,
e que Deus mantenha oculto na metade nocturna
o erro do erro:
alta voltagem do ouro,
bafo no rosto.


And homophonically translated it as this:

I want a new type of grammatical error: one that resurfaces
In luminous metal the poem, the world,
The God that secretly maintains, in half-darkness,
Error upon error,
Conducive gold to cover
The broken and ultimate Word.


Then I looked at an English translation of the poem by people who actually purport to know both Portuguese and English:

I'd like a grammatical error to rewrite
the poem of the world on the side of daylight
while God hides the error of the error
on the dark side --
high-voltage gold,
breath in the face.


Not quite the same, but too close for comfort. I must move on to using poems in a stranger language.

UPDATE: A short test has confirmed that I remain utterly unable to correctly translate anything in Ukrainian. Hooray for Ukraine!

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Finishing up work on Evol. Reading Claudia Rankine's "Don't Let Me Be Lonely." Not much else to say. I am the least lyrical of Americans.

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Monday, February 21, 2005

 

Trapped in C-Ville for an extra day, thanks to bad weather in both New York and Virginia, and a series of broken planes. Oh well! Mark is making his famous feta-and-olive stuffed chicken, so this is a rather pleasant sort of exile.

In the meantime, I've been checking out Tony's Poetry Dailier, Hey Hey Hey's sequel, In Spite of Kryptonite, and thinking good thoughts for all the PBQers down in Philly.

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