Reading Spanish Poetry
I have been lucky enough to have seen some of my Mexican friends online the last couple of weeks. It rekindled the desire to go visit Mexico again (a desire that nearly rivals the fluxuating desire to visit Ireland. The desire to actually live in Ireland is stonger once the hypothetical time period is over 2 years, but equal when the time period is 15yrs or more.). With the desire to visit Mexico otra vez, comes different memories of being in Mexico- the traffic, the people, the mountains, the beaches, the food, the colonial archetecture next to barrios. I also remembered being handed several poems in Spanish to read.
I loved being handed these poems. By no means am I fluent in Spanish. I know enough to fake getting by. But the poetry really called out to me, and today, while giving a final, I thought on why that is.
First I have aesthetics that do not immediately call for sense, and are far more interested in the imagery. So the initial frustration of "not getting it" is practically nil. I loved the intangible qualities of my mistaken readings. It was almost like stream of consciousness reading, as each word I didn't know somehow was ascribed a meaning (not always an English translation) quickly and fluidly as I pieced together what I thought I understood. The parts that I knew sprang into a realm between sound and meaning. For lack of any term for this realm (if someone has one, clue me in) I'd call it guessing and hoping. That moment of groundless brilliance that could either be sustained or shattered, when it's just the poem, my instinctual translation based on little experience and me. I'd then feel very selfish when someone else translated the poem and I didn't like it as much as I enjoyed my version. Any other stories of translating/reading poetry in another language? (chris?)
posted by jmcc @ 3:02 PM
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