poetry texts, poem archive at plagiarist.com

No one knows exacly what each poet means, which is the beauty. Don't translate it to your interpretation then tell people it's right. translate it exact and let people take their own interpretaion. Don't ruin beauty

The translation is more than fine. Meaning and symbolisms are always sacrificed (a bit) when you translate any document, specially if it's poetry. Really, Mr. Bly's translation of Neruda's Walking Around serves its purcpose of introducing Neruda's brilliance to the English-speaking casual readers and bibliophiles alike. However, there's always some meaning lost due to cultural differences but, that's acceptable... I guess.

The truth of the matter is that poetry can not be translated. This poem is a completley different "work" than the one written by neruda. If you want to really read this poem, learn spanish.

The translation is fine. The strange metaphores are nothing more than a mark of the era. "Walking Around," written in the early to mid thirties, is a text book example of "vanguardismo." This movement, which began around the the same time period as the first world war, was marked by this strange use of "metaforas inutilizadas." When you read this poem, think of a Picasso. It may not make sense line by line, but the images created by the artist paint a very clear picture.

I think making such a preposterous deal about the translation takes away from the poem itself.
The ideas of alienation -the boredom and minutae of our existence- is something that is difficult to express in such a beautiful way.

For all those shallow minds: Instead of looking at the minor mistakes of translation issues, how about reading in between the lines and actually evaluate the true beauty of this poem. Who care about how he kills the nun, it's more about why he kills the nun so let us act mature here alright!
Words of advice

I love this poem, but some lines in it are so bizarre that it almost seems like it wasn't meant to be taken seriously. For example, he says it would be great to go through the street with a green knife letting out yells until he died of the cold. I don't see why that would be great. Maybe you have to be a man to understand.

Also, he complains about umbilical cords. Did he run into umbilical cords all day? Did they get in his way? I don't see why umbilical cords would trouble a person. It seems like he was a fishing for a reason for his hatred, and he couldn't articulate the real reason so he just blamed those darn umbilical cords.

Also, I like "blow on the ear" much better than "earblow," mainly because it flows much better with the poem. I also think it communicates the meaning more effectively cuz most English speakers wouldn't say "earblow," they'd say "blow on the ear." This is mainly due to the fact that "earblow" isn't even a word. At least, it's not in my dictionary. People might think it meant blowing on someone's ear. I think it's a mistake to translate things too literally, cuz a phrase that means something in one language might mean something totally different in another language or nothing at all if it were translated word-for-word. It's the symbols that the words represent that's important, not the actual words themselves. Words are just tools people use to express themselves.

i don't think he is tired of being a man, as opposed to a woman. he is speaking in general terms of the modern human experience, and all of the miserable traps we have created for ourselves. Whether it be consumer goods like socks, or "crucial" services such as haircuts and tailoring, that on a cosmic scope, are infinitely trivial. i read his descanso de piedras o de lana (rest of stones or wool) as a meaningful return to a natural life.

I know that that was posted almost two years ago, but i just came across it.

Neruda? Pablo Neruda? Absence of craft? Do you perhaps mean the absence of the craft of pottery? Certainly you don't mean poetry, right?

I'm not such a big fan of Neruda's, though I appreciate him artistically. It's just a personal thing... he seems to be in love all the time. Anyway, though, I absolutely adore this poem and I particularly love the last line , which seems to repeat itself inside my head constantly.