1. Pablo neruda poetry
Meghan de Chastelain, Sasha Soomro,, Rachael Seabourne, Katrina Dods, Serisha Iyar

2. John Felstiner Went to Stanford in 1965 Professor of English
Taught North American poetry in Chile in and that led to Translating Neruda: The Way to Macchu Picchu (1980)
Won Commonwealth Club of California Gold Medal

3. Forrest Gander Majored in geology
Received an MA in literature from San Francisco State University
Translator and has an interest in poetry from Spain, Latin America, and Japan

4. Robert Hass American poet
Graduated from St. Mary's College in Moraga, California in 1963
Received MA and Ph.D in English from Stanford University
Recognized as leading critic and translator

5. Jack Hirschman
Earned degrees from City College of New York and Indiana University
Comparative literature
Professor at UCLA in the 1970s
Communist since 1980
Russian, French, German, Greek, Italian, Spanish, Albanian, Yiddish, Vietnamese, and Creole

6. The Fable of the Mermaid
Edited by Mark Eisner
Estravagario (ie. Mr. Stewart)
All these gentleman were there inside
when she entered, utterly naked.
they had been drinking, and began to spit at her
recently come from the river, she understand nothing
she was a mermaid who had lost her way
the taunts flowed over her glistening flesh
obscenities drenched her golden breasts
a stranger to tears, she did not weep
a stranger to clothes, she did not dress
they pocked her with cigarette ends and with burnt corks
rolled on the tavern floor with laughter
she did not speak, since speech was unknown to her
her eyes were the colour of faraway love
her arms were matching topazes
her lips moved soundlessly in coral light
and ultimately, she left by that door
scarcely had she entered the river than she was cleansed
gleaming once more like a white stone in the rain
and without a backward look, she swam to her dying.
All those men were there inside,
When she came in totally naked.
They had been drinking: they began to spit.
Newly come from the river, she knew nothing.
She was a mermaid who had lost her way.
The insults flowed down her gleaming flesh.
Obscenities drowned her golden breasts.
Not knowing tears, she did not weep tears.
Not knowing clothes, she did not have clothes.
They blackened her with burnt corks and cigarette stubs,
and rolled around laughing on the tavern floor.
She did not speak because she had no speech.
Her eyes were the colour of distant love,
her twin arms were made of white topaz.
Her lips moved, silent, in a coral light,
and suddenly she went out by that door.
Entering the river she was cleaned,
Shining like a white stone in the rain,
and without looking back she swam again

7. Walking Around Translated by Donald Walsh Translated by Robert Bly
I happen to be tired of being a man.
I happen to enter tailorshops and moviehouses
withered, impenetrable, felt like a swan
navigating in a water of sources and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me wail.
I want only a respite of stones or wool,
I want only not to see establishments or gardens,
or merchandise, or eyeglasses, or elevators.
I happen to be tired of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
Nevertheless it would be delightful
to startle a notary with a cut lily
or kill a nun with a blow to the ear.
It would be lovely
to go through the streets with a sexy knife
and shouting until I froze to death.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still likes stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
It so happens that I am sick of being a man.
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.

8. Translated by Donald Walsh Translated by Robert Bly
I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
vacillating, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
downward, in the soaked guts of the earth,
absorbing and thinking, eating each day.
I do not want for myself so many misfortunes.
I do not want to continue as root and tomb,
just underground, a vault with corpses
stiff with cold, dying of distress.
This is why Monday day burns like petroleum
when it sees me coming with my jailbird face,
and as it passes it howls like a wounded wheel,
and it takes hot-blooded steps toward the night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into certain moist houses,
into hospitals where the bones stick out the windows,
into certain shoestores with a smell of vinegar,
into streets as frightening as chasms.
I don’t want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.
I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.
That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

9. Translated by Donald Walsh Translated by Robert Bly
There are brimstone-colored birds and horrible intestines
hanging from the doors of the houses that I hate,
there are dentures left forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and fright,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and poisons, and navels.
I walk around with calm, with eyes, with shoes,
with fury, with forgetfulness,
I pass, I cross by offices and orthopedic shoestores,
and courtyards where clothes are hanging from a wire:
underdrawers, towels, shirts that weep
slow, dirty tears.
There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.

10. Fábula de la sirena y los borrachos
Fable of the Mermaid and the drunks
Todas estos señores estaban dentro
cuando ella entró completamente desnuda
ellos habían bebido y comenzaron a escupirla
ella no entendía nada recién salía del río
era una sirena que se había extraviado
los insultos corrían sobre su carne lisa
la inmundicia cubrió sus pechos de oro
ella no sabía llorar por eso no lloraba
no sabía vestirse por eso no se vestía
la tatuaron con cigarrillos y con corchos quemados
y reían hasta caer al suelo de la taberna
ella no hablaba porque no sabía hablar
sus ojos eran color de amor distante
sus brazos construidos de topacios gemelos
sus labios se cortaron en la luz del coral
y de pronto salió por esa puerta
apenas entró al río quedó limpia
relució como una piedra blanca en la lluvia
y sin mirar atrás nadó de nuevo
nadó hacia nunca más hacia morir.
All these gentlemen were within
when she walked naked
they had drunk and start spitting
she did not understand just left the river
was a mermaid who had lost
insults upon his flesh smoothly running
filth covered her breasts gold
she did not know why she was not crying mourn
dressing did not know why not dress
the tattooed with burnt corks and cigarette
and laughed until he fell to the floor of the tavern
she did not speak because he could not speak
his eyes were the colour of distant love
his arms constructed twin topazes
his lips were cut into light coral
and suddenly walked out that door
just entered the river was clean
shone like a white stone in the rain
and without looking back she swam again
swam to never die.

11. Estravagario (Mr. Stewart)
Mark Eisner
Estravagario (Mr. Stewart)
All these gentleman were there inside
when she entered, utterly naked.
they had been drinking, and began to spit at her
recently come from the river, she understand nothing
she was a mermaid who had lost her way
the taunts flowed over her glistening flesh
obscenities drenched her golden breasts
a stranger to tears, she did not weep
a stranger to clothes, she did not dress
they pocked her with cigarette ends and with burnt corks
All those men were there inside,
When she came in totally naked.
They had been drinking: they began to spit.
Newly come from the river, she knew nothing.
She was a mermaid who had lost her way.
The insults flowed down her gleaming flesh.
Obscenities drowned her golden breasts.
Not knowing tears, she did not weep tears.
Not knowing clothes, she did not have clothes.
They blackened her with burnt corks and cigarette stubs,
Huge difference in connotation between “gentle” men and “men
Understand – signifies intelligence is still present; knew suggests she is completely incapable of thought
Synonyms

12. Estravagario (Mr. Stewart) rolled on the tavern floor with laughter
Mark Eisner
Estravagario (Mr. Stewart)
rolled on the tavern floor with laughter
she did not speak, since speech was unknown to her
her eyes were the colour of faraway love
her arms were matching topazes
her lips moved soundlessly in coral light
and ultimately, she left by that door
scarcely had she entered the river than she was cleansed
gleaming once more like a white stone in the rain
and without a backward look, she swam to her dying.
and rolled around laughing on the tavern floor.
She did not speak because she had no speech.
Her eyes were the colour of distant love,
her twin arms were made of white topaz.
Her lips moved, silent, in a coral light,
and suddenly she went out by that door.
Entering the river she was cleaned,
Shining like a white stone in the rain,
and without looking back she swam again
Why ’twin’ arms? What does that signify and is it that important if it is not included in the other translation?
Didn’t know how to, rather than being incapable of doing it
Suddenly – suggests urgency, rather than ultimately which suggests in her own time
Perhaps a symbol of purity? – Perhaps a saying in Spanish?
Very quickly

13. Conclusions Therefore – very obviously different translations
In one – she ‘swims again’
In the other – she swims to her death
The first translation (Mark Eisner) – very polished language
All the new lines start with lowercase letters
The second translation (Estravagario) – more simple, easy language
More capitals/punctuation (perhaps intended for a younger audience?

14. I happen to be tired of being a man.
Donald Walsh
Robert Bly
I happen to be tired of being a man.
I happen to enter tailorshops and moviehouses
withered, impenetrable, felt like a swan
navigating in a water of sources and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me wail.
I want only a respite of stones or wool,
I want only not to see establishments or gardens,
or merchandise, or eyeglasses, or elevators.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still likes stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
Tired – annoyed;
Sick – unbearable
Impenetrable - can’t be touched; waterproof – slides off you
To feel like a swan vs. a swan that is made of felt
Completely different
Wail and sobs have two different connotations
Needs relief vs. just wanting to sit down (different urgency between the 2)
Rearrangement of words

15. I happen to be tired of my feet and my nails
Donald Walsh
Robert Bly
I happen to be tired of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
I happen to be tired of being a man.
Nevertheless it would be delightful
to startle a notary with a cut lily
or kill a nun with a blow to the ear.
It would be lovely
to go through the streets with a sexy knife
and shouting until I froze to death.
It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
It so happens that I am sick of being a man.
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.
Different connotation: startle (surprise); terrify (pee-your-pants scared)
Lovely – stronger adjective than great
HUGE difference between sexy and green – perhaps a Spanish saying?

16. I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
Vacillating – wavering;
Insecure – not confident
Donald Walsh
Robert Bly
I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
vacillating, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
downward, in the soaked guts of the earth,
absorbing and thinking, eating each day.
I do not want for myself so many misfortunes.
I do not want to continue as root and tomb,
just underground, a vault with corpses
stiff with cold, dying of distress.
I don’t want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.
I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.
Soaked vs. moist
Underground – no emotion attached; alone – automatically attaches a feeling
Grief/distress – different meanings

17. This is why Monday day burns like petroleum
Donald Walsh
Robert Bly
This is why Monday day burns like petroleum
when it sees me coming with my jailbird face,
and as it passes it howls like a wounded wheel,
and it takes hot-blooded steps toward the night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into certain moist houses,
into hospitals where the bones stick out the windows,
into certain shoestores with a smell of vinegar,
into streets as frightening as chasms.
That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.
Completely different orders
First translation – doesn’t leave a mark; second translation – tracks full of blood
Stick out – present only; fly out – escape
Chasms – usually in rocks;
cracks in skin – specific to body

18. There are brimstone-colored birds and horrible intestines
Donald Walsh
Robert Bly
There are brimstone-colored birds and horrible intestines
hanging from the doors of the houses that I hate,
there are dentures left forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and fright,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and poisons, and navels.
There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.
Different meanings entirely

19. I walk around with calm, with eyes, with shoes,
Donald Walsh
Robert Bly
I walk around with calm, with eyes, with shoes,
with fury, with forgetfulness,
I pass, I cross by offices and orthopedic shoestores,
and courtyards where clothes are hanging from a wire:
underdrawers, towels, shirts that weep
slow, dirty tears.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.
Different

20. Katrina Different poets apply their own
writing styles to poems in translation
Does this lead to a changed interpretation for the reader?

21. Katrina Poems differ in: Poetic flow Directness of language
Grammatical style
Word connotation
Uses of different imagery and motifs

22. The Fable of the Mermaid
Edited by Mark Eisner
Estravagario (ie. Mr. Stewart)
All these gentleman were there inside
when she entered, utterly naked.
they had been drinking, and began to spit at her
recently come from the river, she understand nothing
she was a mermaid who had lost her way
the taunts flowed over her glistening flesh
obscenities drenched her golden breasts
a stranger to tears, she did not weep
a stranger to clothes, she did not dress
they pocked her with cigarette ends and with burnt corks
rolled on the tavern floor with laughter
she did not speak, since speech was unknown to her
her eyes were the colour of faraway love
her arms were matching topazes
her lips moved soundlessly in coral light
and ultimately, she left by that door
scarcely had she entered the river than she was cleansed
gleaming once more like a white stone in the rain
and without a backward look, she swam to her dying.
All those men were there inside,
When she came in totally naked.
They had been drinking: they began to spit.
Newly come from the river, she knew nothing.
She was a mermaid who had lost her way.
The insults flowed down her gleaming flesh.
Obscenities drowned her golden breasts.
Not knowing tears, she did not weep tears.
Not knowing clothes, she did not have clothes.
They blackened her with burnt corks and cigarette stubs,
and rolled around laughing on the tavern floor.
She did not speak because she had no speech.
Her eyes were the colour of distant love,
her twin arms were made of white topaz.
Her lips moved, silent, in a coral light,
and suddenly she went out by that door.
Entering the river she was cleaned,
Shining like a white stone in the rain,
and without looking back she swam again

23. Walking Around Translated by Donald Walsh Translated by Robert Bly
I happen to be tired of being a man.
I happen to enter tailorshops and moviehouses
withered, impenetrable, felt like a swan
navigating in a water of sources and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me wail.
I want only a respite of stones or wool,
I want only not to see establishments or gardens,
or merchandise, or eyeglasses, or elevators.
I happen to be tired of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
Nevertheless it would be delightful
to startle a notary with a cut lily
or kill a nun with a blow to the ear.
It would be lovely
to go through the streets with a sexy knife
and shouting until I froze to death.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still likes stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.
It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
It so happens that I am sick of being a man.
Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.

24. Translated by Donald Walsh Translated by Robert Bly
I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
vacillating, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
downward, in the soaked guts of the earth,
absorbing and thinking, eating each day.
I do not want for myself so many misfortunes.
I do not want to continue as root and tomb,
just underground, a vault with corpses
stiff with cold, dying of distress.
This is why Monday day burns like petroleum
when it sees me coming with my jailbird face,
and as it passes it howls like a wounded wheel,
and it takes hot-blooded steps toward the night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into certain moist houses,
into hospitals where the bones stick out the windows,
into certain shoestores with a smell of vinegar,
into streets as frightening as chasms.
I don’t want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.
I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.
That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.
And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

25. Translated by Donald Walsh Translated by Robert Bly
There are brimstone-colored birds and horrible intestines
hanging from the doors of the houses that I hate,
there are dentures left forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and fright,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and poisons, and navels.
I walk around with calm, with eyes, with shoes,
with fury, with forgetfulness,
I pass, I cross by offices and orthopedic shoestores,
and courtyards where clothes are hanging from a wire:
underdrawers, towels, shirts that weep
slow, dirty tears.
There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.
I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.