09.23.05| On the Anniversary of Pablo Neruda's Death "A quién engaña la magnolia Translators always refer to the difficulties of transforming ideas between languages. On some insomnia-ridden nights I lie in bed trying to conceptualize the physical nature of words lost in the transition between cultures. I visualize the lost vocabulary as sparks of light spitting from a fire— or as migratory birds scattering overhead in different directions. In the end, the various translations can be seen as a bouquet of flowers, each blossom originating from the same source, the main text— yet each bud appears slightly different shade, a variation of the first concept, each one a different stage of growth and size. |
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Call it irony. Or chance. Or instinct. Or even a haunting in a sense. With vague intentions I selected a book of collected writings by Pablo Neruda. Habitually glancing over the translator's notes I discovered the poet passed away on this day, thirty-two years ago. The date bridges a thin connection between the years; however, the thin path established will quickly and quietly be covered up by brambles and thorns. Neruda's words themselves remain as a presence. Persistent Reminders. |