Cleanthess
Dinanukht wannabe
I recently wrote somewhere else (cough, Concocted Forest, cough) about what a mean and exacting judge of literary merit the great poet Philippe Jaccottet is. Well, Jaccottet's favorite Portuguese poet, Nuno Judice has been granted Spain's Queen Sofia's Prize for Poetry:
http://cultura.elpais.com/cultura/2013/05/16/actualidad/1368703749_282000.html
Former winners include the very summits of contemporary Spanish and Portuguese language poetry.
Gonzalo Rojas (Chile)
Claudio Rodriguez (Spain)
Joao Cabral de Melo Neto (Brazil)
Jose Hierro (Spain)
Angel Gonzalez (Spain)
Alvaro Mutis (Colombia)
Jose Angel Valente (Spain)
Mario Benedetti (Uruguay)
Nicanor Parra (Chile)
Sophia de Mello Breyner (Portugal)
Jose Manuel Caballero Bonald (Spain)
Juan Gelman (Argentina)
Antonio Gamoneda (Spain)
Blanca Varela (Peru)
Jose Emilio Pacheco (Mexico)
Ernesto Cardenal (Nicaragua)
Nuno Judice (Portugal)
And so that you can judge Judice by yourself, a clumsy translation by yours truly:
Plano/Plan
I'm writing a poem about a hypothesis:
the first half of love poured into life's cup
we could drink in one gulp. The bottom half
is like a cloudy wine, and leaves a bitter taste
in the mouth. I ask where they went, love's glass
clarity, its initial liquid purity, the impulse
to drink the whole bottle, and the answer
are these glass shards cutting our hands,
the dirty table of the soul full of debris, harsh
words, a feeling of exhaustion. I return, then,
to my first theory. Love. But without hurry
this time, waiting for time to fill your glass up
so that it can be raised against the light of your body
and perceive through it, the whole of your face.
Trabalho o poema sobre uma hipótese: o amor
que se despeja no copo da vida, até meio, como se
o pudéssemos beber de um trago. No fundo,
como o vinho turvo, deixa um gosto amargo na
boca. Pergunto onde está a transparência do
vidro, a pureza do líquido inicial, a energia
de quem procura esvaziar a garrafa; e a resposta
são estes cacos, que nos cortam as mãos, a mesa
da alma suja de restos, palavras espalhadas
um cansaço de sentidos. Volto, então, à primeira
hipótese. O amor. Mas sem o gastar de uma vez,
esperando que o tempo encha o copo até cima,
para que o possa erguer à luz do teu corpo
e veja, através dele, o teu rosto inteiro.
http://cultura.elpais.com/cultura/2013/05/16/actualidad/1368703749_282000.html
Former winners include the very summits of contemporary Spanish and Portuguese language poetry.
Gonzalo Rojas (Chile)
Claudio Rodriguez (Spain)
Joao Cabral de Melo Neto (Brazil)
Jose Hierro (Spain)
Angel Gonzalez (Spain)
Alvaro Mutis (Colombia)
Jose Angel Valente (Spain)
Mario Benedetti (Uruguay)
Nicanor Parra (Chile)
Sophia de Mello Breyner (Portugal)
Jose Manuel Caballero Bonald (Spain)
Juan Gelman (Argentina)
Antonio Gamoneda (Spain)
Blanca Varela (Peru)
Jose Emilio Pacheco (Mexico)
Ernesto Cardenal (Nicaragua)
Nuno Judice (Portugal)
And so that you can judge Judice by yourself, a clumsy translation by yours truly:
Plano/Plan
I'm writing a poem about a hypothesis:
the first half of love poured into life's cup
we could drink in one gulp. The bottom half
is like a cloudy wine, and leaves a bitter taste
in the mouth. I ask where they went, love's glass
clarity, its initial liquid purity, the impulse
to drink the whole bottle, and the answer
are these glass shards cutting our hands,
the dirty table of the soul full of debris, harsh
words, a feeling of exhaustion. I return, then,
to my first theory. Love. But without hurry
this time, waiting for time to fill your glass up
so that it can be raised against the light of your body
and perceive through it, the whole of your face.
Trabalho o poema sobre uma hipótese: o amor
que se despeja no copo da vida, até meio, como se
o pudéssemos beber de um trago. No fundo,
como o vinho turvo, deixa um gosto amargo na
boca. Pergunto onde está a transparência do
vidro, a pureza do líquido inicial, a energia
de quem procura esvaziar a garrafa; e a resposta
são estes cacos, que nos cortam as mãos, a mesa
da alma suja de restos, palavras espalhadas
um cansaço de sentidos. Volto, então, à primeira
hipótese. O amor. Mas sem o gastar de uma vez,
esperando que o tempo encha o copo até cima,
para que o possa erguer à luz do teu corpo
e veja, através dele, o teu rosto inteiro.
. It was surprising to see a Portuguese name in a prize that usually is granted to a Spain or Latin American poet, but I think variety is what brings greatness to an award and although it's the first time I've heard about this guy I applaud their decision. I read a few verses included at the article of El País, and also your translation (thanks by the way) and it seems a very interesting author, the kind of poet I enjoy. I'll try to find a Spanish translation.