already written
Dec. 9th, 2016 02:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
icecreamemperorI was thinking about writing a poem, when I realized that the poem I was thinking of writing had mostly already been written by Lorca. So then I was going to just link to the poem, but of course I couldn't find it anywhere in the right translation. And then I didn't feel like typing it out on Facebook, so why not here, where at least a slightly different set of bots will scrape it into their enormous data-bins.
Though also it wouldn't surprise me at all to learn that I have already typed out this exact poem, in this exact translation, in some long-ago entry. Oh well.
Qasida of the Weeping
(Federico Garcia Lorca)
I have closed off my balcony,
for I do not want to hear the weeping.
But out there, beyond gray walls,
nothing is heard but the weeping.
There are very few angels who sing.
There are very few dogs who bark.
A thousand violins fit in the palm of my hand.
But the weeping is an enormous dog,
the weeping is an enormous angel,
the weeping is an enormous violin,
tears have muzzled the wind,
and nothing is heard but the weeping.
trans. Catherine Brown
--
I have been thinking about trying to start writing here again. I don't know -- it seems unlikely, but I keep trying to use twitter and FB as though they were somehow just different versions of lj, and they certainly, certainly aren't.
(In fact I am quite curious if anyone has done a study about social media usage habits among people with different 'first' social media. I can't imagine that someone who grew up with Facebook makes the same use of Instagram as someone who started with MySpace, or livejournal.)
Though also it wouldn't surprise me at all to learn that I have already typed out this exact poem, in this exact translation, in some long-ago entry. Oh well.
Qasida of the Weeping
(Federico Garcia Lorca)
I have closed off my balcony,
for I do not want to hear the weeping.
But out there, beyond gray walls,
nothing is heard but the weeping.
There are very few angels who sing.
There are very few dogs who bark.
A thousand violins fit in the palm of my hand.
But the weeping is an enormous dog,
the weeping is an enormous angel,
the weeping is an enormous violin,
tears have muzzled the wind,
and nothing is heard but the weeping.
trans. Catherine Brown
--
I have been thinking about trying to start writing here again. I don't know -- it seems unlikely, but I keep trying to use twitter and FB as though they were somehow just different versions of lj, and they certainly, certainly aren't.
(In fact I am quite curious if anyone has done a study about social media usage habits among people with different 'first' social media. I can't imagine that someone who grew up with Facebook makes the same use of Instagram as someone who started with MySpace, or livejournal.)
