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De roses et d’épines: English, French, & Portuguese

May 29, 2018/in Summer-Fall 2018, Translation, Translation / by Landa wo

[self-translated poetry]

Roses and spines

The widow’s shaven head
Welcomes the knights of the apocalypse

Sunbeams
Arrows of the day
The husband’s soul
Escapes from the body

The widow’s shaven head
Welcomes the knights of the apocalypse

 


Antidote

He was handsome but ”la fille de Joie” [1]
did not let herself go.

Love is a virus with which we inoculate
Ourselves when we have sold the antidote

to the enemy

 


Ignorance

Tchimpadou [2] !
I do not know!

I do not know the accents of my mother tongue
The scattered vocabulary of a language in the twilight of its time.

I do not know the name of the ancestors
From the father of Ngoumini [3] , to the brother of Tchilongo [4] , counter clerks of
the tombs
I do not know the dance steps of millet ears
Of a field yellowed with doubt
Counsel to tales, stories to legends
I do not know the ritual of the widow’s midnight bath
Even less the initiatory direction of the ballet of the circumcised.
I do not know how to interpret dreams
The limits of my culture!
Ah! This girl in agony
I do not know, I do not know yet
How to dialogue with the dead
These heroes pace the corridors of darkness when night has fallen
When the bitter song of a beaten cur rises.

 


Diwangou coffee

My ambition remains imposing.
It is from this that I learn how to cherish
The ground of men with sides lacerated
by the spiteful wires which trample this ground
which has already given all without complaint.

 


Sounds

With naked madwomen,
The clothed men
On the market square,
Take off the last garments of honour.

Strange wish,
Incipient happiness is stretched
In the plain.

Sing your sorrow.
The son in mourning venerates
The reflection of the moon.

The bad spirit
Communicates with its double,
The Ju ju man

The valley hops
In the throats of Diosso
The squirrel becomes wise.

Dance until death
Cry out when we can speak no more,
My language dies.

The day will be born on the hill.
The volcano will be quiet forever.

 

 

De roses et d’épines

Le crâne rasé de la veuve
Accueille les chevaliers de l’apocalypse

Rayons de soleil
Flèches du jour
L’âme de l’époux
S’échappe du corps

Le crâne rasé de la veuve
Accueille les chevaliers de l’apocalypse.

 


Antidote

Il était beau mais la fille de joie
Ne s’est pas laissée allée.

L’amour est un virus que l’on s’inocule
A soi même quand on a vendu l’antidote
A l’ennemi.

 


Ignorance

Tchimpadou [5]  !
Je ne connais pas

Je ne connais pas les accents de ma langue maternelle
Le vocabulaire épars d’une langue au crépuscule de son temps.

Je ne connais pas le nom des ancêtres
Du père de Ngoumini [6] , du frère de Tchilongo [7] , guichetiers des tombes

Je ne connais pas le pas de la danse du mil
Epis d’un champ jauni au doute
Des conseils aux contes, des histoires aux légendes
Je ne connais pas le rituel du bain de minuit de la veuve
Encore moins la direction initiatique du ballet du circoncis.
Je ne connais pas interpréter les rêves
Les bornes de ma culture ! Ah ! Cette fille a l’agonie
Je ne connais pas, je ne connais pas encore
Dialoguer avec les défunts
Ces héros arpentant les couloirs des ténèbres la nuit tombée
Quand s’élève le chant amer d’une chienne battue.

 


Diwangou café

Mon ambition demeure grandiose.
C’est d’elle que j’apprends à chérir
la terre des hommes au flanc lacéré
par les fils ingrats qui piétinent ce sol
qui a déjà tout donner sans plaintes.

 


Sons

Aux folles nues,
Les hommes vêtus, sur la place du marché,
Otent les derniers haillons d’honneur.

Etrange souhait,
Le bonheur naissant s’étire
Dans la plaine.

Chante ta peine.
Le fils en deuil vénère
Le reflet de la lune.

Le mauvais esprit
Communique avec son double,
Le féticheur.

La vallée sautille
Dans les gorges de Diosso
L’écureuil devient sage.

Danser à pâlir
Pousser des cris pour parler,
Mon langage meurt.

Le jour naîtra sur la colline.
Le volcan sera silencieux à jamais.

 

 

Rosas e espinhos

A cabeça rapada da viúva
Dá as boas-vindas aos cavaleiros do apocalipse

Raios de sol
Flechas do dia
A alma do marido
A abandonar o corpo

A cabeça rapada da viúva
Dá as boas-vindas aos cavaleiros do apocalypse

 


Antídoto

Ele era jeitoso mas ”la fille de Joie” [8]
Não se deixou levar.

O amor é um vírus com o qual nos inoculamos
Depois de vendermos o antídoto
ao inimigo

 


Ignorância

Tchimpadou [9] !
Não sei!

Não conheço os sotaques da minha língua materna
O vocabulário disperso de uma língua no limiar do seu tempo.

Não conheço o nome dos antepassados
Do pai de Ngoumini [10] , ao irmão do Tchilongo [11] , amanuenses
das tumbas
Não conheço os passos de dança das espigas de milho-miúdo
De um campo amarelecido com a dúvida
Conselhos para contos, histórias para lendas
Não conheço o ritual do banho da meia-noite da viúva
Ainda menos o sentido iniciático do ballet dos circuncidados.
Não sei como interpretar sonhos
Os limites da minha cultura!
Ah! Esta moça em agonia
Não sei, ainda não sei
Como dialogar com os mortos
Estes heróis percorrem os corredores das trevas quando a noite cai
Quando se levanta o latido pungente de um cachorro maltratado.

 


O café de Diwangou

A minha ambição mantém-se imponente.
É dela que eu aprendo a guardar no meu íntimo
O chão de homens com flancos lacerados
pelos arames rancorosos que esmagam este chão
que já deu tudo sem se queixar.

 


Sons

Com malucas nuas,
O homem vestido
No largo do mercado,
Despe-se das últimas roupagens da honra.

Estranho desejo,
Felicidade incipiente estende-se
Na planície.

Canta as tuas mágoas.
O filho enlutado venera
O reflexo da lua.

O espírito mau
Comunica com o seu duplo,
O homem enfeitiçado

O vale salta
Nas gargantas de Diosso
O esquilo torna-se sábio.

Dança até à morte
Chora quando já não podemos falar,
A minha língua morre.

O dia vai nascer na colina.
O vulcão calar-se-á para sempre.

 

Author’s note:

[1] Prostitute

[2] Female head of the soko clan. Tribe from the dense forest of Central Africa which inherited 1000 words at the start of life. Everyone who dies takes 30 words to go and speak to the dead. Each newborn arrives with one word. The Soko people will only find speech again when the original 1000 words are reunited.

[3] Ancestor

[4] Ancestor

[5] Femme chef du clan Soko. Une tribu de la forêt dense d’Afrique Centrale qui a reçu en héritage mille mots au début du monde. Chaque mort emporte trente mots pour communiquer avec les morts. Chaque nouveau né arrive au monde avec un mot. Le people Soko retrouve la parole seulement quand les mille mots d’origine sont réunis.

[6] Ancêtre

[7] Ancêtre

[8] Prostituta

[9] Mulher chefe do clã Soko. Tribo da densa floresta da África Central que herdou 1000 palavras no princípio do tempo. Cada pessoa que morre leva consigo 30 palavras para falar com os mortos. Cada recém-nascido chega com uma palavra. O povo Soko só voltará a encontrar o discurso quando as 1000 palavras originais forem reunidas.

[10] Antepassado

[11] Antepassado

 

Landa wo is a poet from Angola, Cabinda, and France. His work has previously appeared in Cultura – Jornal Angolano de Artes e Letras, Blackmail Press, Boyne Berries, Cyphers, Nashville Review, Scrivener Creative Review, Star 82 Review, Raleigh Review, Poetry New Zealand, The Cape Rock, and Weyfarers, among others. Landa wo has won a number of awards including first prize in Metro Eireann writing competition 2007, Eist poetry competition 2006, and Feile Filiochta international poetry competition 2005.

 

https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png 0 0 Korilynn Kessler https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png Korilynn Kessler2018-05-29 13:00:172019-06-09 17:04:51De roses et d’épines: English, French, & Portuguese

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