O Portunhol

[portunhol surenho]

Escrevo en idioma bastardo,
seguramente non é el mío,
escreverlo é desafío,
lerlo é un lío,
Qué infernal lunfardo!

I write in a bastard language,
it certainly isn't mine,
to write it is a challenge,
to read it is a hassle,
What a hellish slanguage!

Note: Rather than a single language, Portunhol is a dialect continuum that exists along thousands of kilometers of Brazil's border with its Spanish-speaking neighbors. My dialect, a work in progress, shares some of the features of the Portuguese of southern Brazil, as well as many features of the Spanish of Uruguay, where I live. It is not the same as the Portunhol of Rivera, or as that of Artigas. I believe the only dialect that has been formally studied is that of Rivera, Many dialects have probably never been reduced to writing, but I am trying to make a literary language of mine, which I call portunhol surenho. This poem is just humor; the truth is that I love the language.

A Curse on Spell-checkers

I know there was never a need
to separate practise from practice.
But "supersede" and "proceed"
are differently sourced,
and our hand should never be forced
by lexicographer praxis
or an ignorant spell-checker axis.
My language has been superseded,
and I know it well,
but spell-checkers,
ye little feckers,
can all proceed to hell!

27 March 2017

LVI.
O número do Bobo é zero,
y dá os termos de su reinado.
"Arcanum" est nomen eius.
Que nos ashude Deus!

Zero is the number of the Fool,
and it gives the terms of his rule.
"Arcanum" is his name.
May God help us!

29 de agosto 2016

Gardening

The sun warms
the back of my body,
as I trim back
tea-rose runners
that have leapt
over the wall.
Working my way
around the backyard,
I do the same
to morning glories
and the pink flowers
that also grow
over the wall,
increasing our privacy.
As I make my way
around the garden,
the sun warms
my other sides,
missing nothing.
I lop a few dead branches
from the palmettos
near the hammock.
Then I go around again,
loading the trimmings
into a wheelbarrow,
as I gratefully accept
the sun's blessing.
Taking the wheelbarrow
through the garage
and into the street,
I almost forget
to put on clothes.

Soy un poeta naturista. Eso parece ser el nicho que me estoy tallando, y no estoy solo en ese espacio. Aquellos que tienen suficiente interés en mi poesía como para leer más que el posteo más reciente probablemente verán más que vería un mirón. Esto es como debería ser, y también se hace necesario por la censura infantil de la desnudez natural y no-sexual de parte de Facebook.

I am a naturist poet. That seems to be the niche that I am carving out for myself, and I am not alone in that space. Those who are interested enough in my poetry to peruse more than just the most recent post are apt to see more than would a gawker. This is as it should be, and is also made necessary by Facebook's childish censorship of natural, non-sexual nudity.

La ropa del alma

El cuerpo es
la ropa
del alma.
El mío es fuera de
moda,
sin tatuajes,
ni "piercings",
ni aretes,
y bastante viejo.
Se hace desgastado
por los márjenes,
pero todavía
se puede
reparar
y remendar.
Me siento
cómodo
en ello.