Writing in Poems: Miro Villar (II)

Another poem today by Miro Villar, also from his latest book, As Crebas, dealing with writing and technology. It uses José Saramago's poem as a basis, which is nostalgic of paper books and praises them for their ability to function as containers of our sadness. In fact, both poems make me reminisce of Psalms 56:8, where the writer asks God: "save my tears in your bottle". In the same way, the pages of a book can save our tears - which cannot be said of  a technological device, since not only is it unable to save tears, but they can make it stop functioning altogether.

However, Miro's poem claims Saramago was inaccurate, because despite having all these new devices and technology, the problems we face and the feelings we experience throughout our lives continue to be the same.

Here you have the original poem and my attempt at a decent translation.

Escrita automática

"É ainda possível chorar sobre as páginas

de um livro, mas nao se pode derramar

lágrimas sobre um disco rígido"

José Saramago, (s.d.)

Derramabas bagullas a escorrer polos dedos e inundar

o teclado, maldita pianola de músicas perversas que

acompaña o ruído do diálogo aberto para o esquecemento.

Mentía Saramago pois non só se retorcen as páxinas con 

manchas de sangrada humidade, velaí as unllas

longas azuladas no sal, paxaros picapeixes nas augas atoldadas.

Automática escrita, cibernético envío, mecánica resposta,

a dor faise moderna, procura novos traxes, mais cando

abres xanelas é a mesma dor, a mesma dos xoguetes da 

infancia que rompen en anacos, das fraternais pelexas, da

dura adolescencia, da morte dos avós.

Automated Writing

You shed tears which slide down your fingers and flood

The keyboard, damn player piano of perverse music which

Accompanies the noise of an open dialogue ready to be forgotten.

Saramago lied, since not only do the pages twist with

Stains of bleeding wetness, but also the long

Bluish nails sink in the salt like kingfishers in the clouded waters.

Automated writing, cybernetic delivery, mechanic reply,

Pain becoming modern, looking for new costumes; but when

You open windows, it’s the same old pain, the same pain of

Childhood toys broken into pieces, of sibling fights, of

Hard adolescence, of the death of grandparents.