Sastera Amerika Latin

marquez

Secara ringkas.

Letusan sastera Amerika Latin ('the boom') bermula dengan kemunculan Jorge Luis Borges (1899 - 1986), seorang autodidak polimath, yang mula menulis cerita-cerita genre fantastik sekitar tahun 1940-an. Sebelum itu beliau lebih dikenali sebagai seorang penyair gaya modernis, dan penulis pojok di majalah-majalah sastera di Argentina. Koleksi cerpen fantastik Borges, yang bermula dengan 'El Jardin de senderos que se bifurcan' (Taman Lorong Bercabang? Taman dengan Lorong Bercabang?) bukan sahaja telah mengubah lanskap sastera dunia malah telah menyusup dan mempengaruhi penulisan naskhah-naskhah bukan fiksyen. Tetapi sekitar tahun 40-an dan 60-an tulisan Borges (dan lain-lain penulis awal Amerika Latin seperti Jorge Amado, Machado de Assis, dsb) hanya boleh dinikmati oleh penggemar berat sastera atau mereka yang memahami bahasa Sepanyol.

Khalayak cuma mula mengenali karya-karya Amerika Latin apabila 'Cien Anos de Soledad' (Seribu tahun kesepian) tulisan Gabriel Garcia Marquez (1928- ) diterjemahkan (oleh Gregory Rabassa) dan diterbitkan dalam bahasa Inggeris pada tahun 1969. Novel yang telah diangkat sebagai salah sebuah karya terbaik dunia moden, menceritakan tentang kehidupan sebuah keluarga disebuah kampung khayalan yang terpencil yang bernama Macondo. Novel ini juga telah memperkenalkan istilah 'realiti magis' dalam penulisan. Istilah 'realiti magis' mula diperkatakan pada tahun 1925 tetapi untuk menggambarkan seni lukis (visual arts). Sifat utama 'realiti magis'. mengikut seorang teoris ialah 'kebolehan untuk menghasilkan pengertian magis (atau luar biasa) dengan melihat benda-benda biasa dengan cara yang luar biasa'.

Selain Marquez, yang memenangi hadiah Nobel pada tahun 1982, antara penulis Latin Amerika yang dikenali ramai ialah Julio Cortazar (dari Argentina) yang jelas dipengaruhi Borges dari segi idea, tetapi mempunyai cara menulis yang amat original, Carlos Fuentes (dari Mexico), Mario Vargas Llosa (dari Peru), Octavio Paz (dari Mexico) dan Pablo Neruda (dari Chile). Paz dan Neruda lebih dikenali sebagai penyair.

Mereka yang mahu mencuba karya-karya dari Amerika Latin saya cadangkan bermula dengan koleksi cerpen Gabriel Garcia Marquez (Collected Stories, Penguin 1996) atau koleksi cerpen Jorge Luis Borges (The Aleph and Other Stories, Penguin 1999, terjemahan Andrew Hurley) atau koleksi puisi Pablo Neruda (Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair).

M-

thanks a lot
leh paste excerpts of poems ke
or better still..
... leh pinjam semua buku tu ?
..tgh mode opportunist ni .........

marquez

Terjemahan Ringkas salah satu cerita Marquez.

Lelaki Tua Bekepak Gergasi
-sebuah cerita untuk kanak-kanak

Pada hari ketiga hujan turun, mereka telah membunuh begitu banyak ketam di dalam rumah hingga Pelayo terpaksa merentas lamannya yang lencun dan membuang ketam-ketam tersebut ke dalam laut. kerana suhu badan anak mereka yang baru lahir telah naik sepanjang malam. Sangka mereka ia disebabkan oleh bau tengik jasad-jasad ketam tersebut. Dunia mula berduka sejak Selasa lepas. Laut dan langit kelihatan seperti satu jasad kelabu-arang, dan pasir di pantai, yang sejak malam Mac berkilau seperti serbuk cahaya, telah menjadi seperti sup lumpur dan kerangan.  Cahaya tengahari begitu pudar hingga, begitu sukar untuk Pelayo melihat sesuatu yang sedang bergerak dan merintih di belakang laman rumahnya ketika pulang,.Hanya apabila sudah hampir barulah lembaga tersebut dilihat jelas; rupa-rupanya ia seorang lelaki tua yang telah tersungkur di dalam lumpur. Beliau sedang berusaha bangun tetapi sukar sekali kerana disekat-sekat oleh kepaknya yang amat besar.
        Kerana takut akan mimpi ngeri yang dilihatnya ini, Pelayo berlari mendapatkan Elisanda, isterinya, yang sedang membalut badan anak mereka yang sedang sakit, dan membawa Elisanda ke laman di belakang rumahnya. Mereka berdua tergamam melihat jasad yang tersungkur itu. Pakaiannya compang-camping. Hanya beberapa helai rambut liar kelihatan di kepalanya yang sudah botak, dan giginya pula sudah hamper tiada. Rupanya yang amat menyedihkan ini, umpama seorang datuk yang basah lencun, telah menyebabkan segala kehebatannya luntur. Kepak helangnya yang besar, kotor dengan bulu-bulu yang banyak hilang telah begitu terpalit dengan lumpur. Mereka melihatnya begitu lama, dan begitu teliti, hingga kejutan yang mulanya dirasai Pelayo dan Elisanda hilang sama sekali. Mereka memberanikan diri untuk bercakap dengannya , dan dia menjawab dalam loghat kasar seorang kelasi yang tidak boleh difahami. Mungkin kerana itu mereka terlupa akan kehadiran kepak di belakang lelaki tersebut dan merumuskan bahawa beliau terdampar di sini dari sebuah kapal asing yang telah karam akibat taufan yang melanda. Lalu, mereka memanggil seorang jiran wanita yang mengetahui segalanya tentang hidup dan mati untuk melihat orang tua tersebut. Sekilas pandang sahaja beliau telah dapat mengubah fikiran pasangan suami-isteri tersebut.
        慏ia seorang malaikat,

marquez

Aku terjemahkan aje dalam masa setengah jam... kalau rasa tak bagus (memang tak berapa bagus pun terjemahan, malas nak edit) baca yang orisinal...

M-

perghhhh besh nyer
lagi lagi lagi
eh thanks

mode: greedy

marquez

ha ha ha, nak buat dua page pun letih... nantlah lepas makan...

marquez

Ini terjemahan Inggeris puisi Pablo Neruda (terjemahan oleh WS Merwin)

"I Like For You to be Still"
By Pablo Neruda

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
and you hear me from far away and my voice does not touch you.
It seems as though your eyes had flown away
and it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth.

As all things are filled with my soul
you emerge from the things, filled with my soul.
You are like my soul, a butterfly of dream,
and you are like the word Melancholy.

I like for you to be still, and you seem far away.
It sounds as though you were lamenting, a butterfly cooing like a dove.
And you hear me from far away, and my voice does not reach you:
Let me come to be still in your silence.

And let me talk to you with your silence
that is bright as a lamp, simple as a ring.
You are like the night, with its stillness and constellations.
Your silence is that of a star, as remote and candid.

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,
distant and full of sorrow as though you had died.
One word then, one smile, is enough.
And I am happy, happy that it's not true.

marquez

Between Going and Staying
Octavio Paz

Translated by Eliot Weinberger

Between going and staying the day wavers,
in love with its own transparency.
The circular afternoon is now a bay
where the world in stillness rocks.

All is visible and all elusive,
all is near and can't be touched.

Paper, book, pencil, glass,
rest in the shade of their names.

Time throbbing in my temples repeats
the same unchanging syllable of blood.

The light turns the indifferent wall
into a ghostly theater of reflections.

I find myself in the middle of an eye,
watching myself in its blank stare.

The moment scatters. Motionless,
I stay and go: I am a pause.

[ Last edited by marquez on 28-7-2003 at 05:13 PM ]

perghhh
i am going to south america after this ...
eh post lagik aa the poems ..
jgn la memalu ...

mode: reali greedy

marquez

If I'm to Live
Julio Cortazar

Translator: Stephen Kessler

If I'm to live without you, let it be hard and bloody,
cold soup, broken shoes, or in the midst of
opulence
let the dry branch of a cough jerk through me, barking
your twisted name, the foaming vowels, and let the
bed sheets
stick to my fingers, and nothing give me peace.
I won't learn to love you and better this way,
but abandoned by happiness
I'll know how much you gave me just by sometimes being
around.
I think I understand this, but I'm holding myself
there'll need to be frost on the lintel
so the one taking shelter in the vestibule feels
the light in the dining room, the milky tableclothes, and the smell
of bread passing its brown hand through the crack.
As for apart from you
as one eye from the other
out of this affliction I've taken on
will be born the gaze that deserves you at last.

We are the clumsy passersby, we push past each other with elbows,
with feet, with trousers, with suitcases,
we get off the train, the jet plane, the ship, we step down
in our wrinkled suits and sinister hats.
We are all guilty, we are all sinners,
we come from dead-end hotels or industrial peace,
this might be our last clean shirt,
we have misplaced our tie,
yet even so, on the edge of panic, pompous,
sons of bitches who move in the highest circles
or quiet types who don't owe anything to anybody,
we are one and the same, the same in time's eyes,
or in solitude's: we are the poor devils
who earn a living and a death working
bureautragically or in the usual ways,
sitting down or packed together in subway stations,
boats, mines, research centers, jails,
universities, breweries,
(under our clothes the same thirsty skin),
(the hair, the same hair, only in different colors).

Writing
these
odes
in this
year nineteen
hundred and
fifty-five,
readying and tuning
my demanding, murmuring lyre,
I know who I am
and where my song is going.
I understand
that the shopper for myths
and mysteries
may enter
my wood
and adobe
house of odes,
may despise
the utensils,
the portraits
of father and mother and country
on the walls,
the simplicity
of the bread
and the saltcellar. But
that's how it is in my house of odes.
I deposed the dark monarchy,
the useless flowing hair of dreams,
I trod on the tail
of the cerebral reptile,
and set things
-- water and fire -
in harmony with man and earth.
I want everything
to have
a handle,
I want everything to be
a cup or a tool,
I want people to enter a hardware
store through the door of my odes.
I work at
cutting
newly hewn boards,
storing casks
of honey,
arranging
horseshoes, harness,
forks:
I want everyone to enter here,
let them ask questions,
ask for anything they want.
I am from the South, a Chilean,
a sailor
returned
from the seas.
I did not stay in the islands,
a king.
I did not stay ensconced
in the land of dreams.
I returned to labor simply
beside others,
for everyone.
So that everyone
may live here,
I build my house
with transparent
odes.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

that this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

The weary one, orphan
of the masses, the self,
the crushed one, the one made of concrete,
the one without a country in crowded restaurants,
he who wanted to go far away, always farther away,
didn't know what to do there, whether he wanted
or didn't want to leave or remain on the island,
the hesitant one, the hybrid, entangled in himself,
had no place here: the straight-angled stone,
the infinite look of the granite prism,
the circular solitude all banished him:
he went somewhere else with his sorrows,
he returned to the agony of his native land,
to his indecisions, of winter and summer.

Hands shading eyes,
I follow the high flight:
honoring heaven, the bird
traverses
the transparency, without soiling the day.
Winging westward, it climbs
each step up to the naked blue:
the entire sky is its tower,
and the world is cleansed by its movement.

Though the violent bird
seeks blood in the rose of space,
its structure is
arrow and flower in flight
and in the light its wings
are fused with air and purity.

O feathers destined
not to tree, meadow, or combat,
or to the atrocious ground
or sweatshop,
but to the conquest
of a transparent fruit!

I celebrate the sky dance
of gulls and petrels
attired in snow
as though I had
a standing invitation:
I participate
in their velocity and repose,
in the pause and haste of snow.

What flies in me is manifest
in the errant equation of those wings.

O wind aside the black condor's
iron flight in the mist!
Whistling wind that transposed
the hero's murderous scimitar:
you receive the harsh flight's blow
like a coat of armor plate,
repeat its menace in the sky
until all becomes blue again.

The flight of a dart,
every swallow's mission,
flight of the nightingale and its sonata,
the cockatoo and its showy crest.

Hummingbirds flying in a looking glass
stir sparkling emeralds,
and flying through the dew
the partridge shakes
the mint's green soul.

I, who learned to fly with every flight
of pure professors
in the woods, at sea, in the ravines,
on my back in the sand,
or in dreams,
remained here, tied
to the roots,
to the magnetic mother, the earth,
lying to myself
and flying
only within,
alone and in the dark.

A plant dies and is buried again,
man's feet return to the terrain,
only wings evade death.

The world is a crystal sphere,
if he does not fly man loses his way---
cannot understand transparency.
That is why I profess
unconfined clarity
and from the birds I learned
passionate hope,
the certainity and truth of flight

Hermandad         Brotherhood

Homenaje a Claudio Ptolomeo(Homage to Claudius Ptolemy)



Soy hombre: duro poco      I am a man: little do I last
y es enorme la noche.       and the night is enormous.  
Pero miro hacia arribo         But I look up:
las estrellas escriben.          the stars write.
Sin entender comprendo:   Unknowing I understand:
tambiŽn soy escritura          I too am written,
y en este mismo instante     and at this very moment
alguien me deletrea.           someone spells me out.  


Octavio Paz
Translated from the Spanish by Eliot Weinberger

ninoZ

perghhh
mocha dah obsessed dgn latinos..
opss!  i meant latin poems

itu aaa
warghhhhhhhh.....
ni aku nak benci byk org ni

Wind and Water and Stone


The water hollowed the stone,
the wind dispersed the water,
the stone stopped the wind.
Water and wind and stone.

The wind sculpted the stone,
the stone is a cup of water,
The water runs off and is wind.
Stone and wind and water.

The wind sings in its turnings,
the water murmurs as it goes,
the motionless stone is quiet.
Wind and water and stone.

One is the other and is neither:
among their empty names
they pass and disappear,
water and stone and wind.

marquez

Nampaknya takde orang lain berminat dengan sastera Latin Amerika selain saudari Mocha...

M-