#cola franzen

[alwaysalreadyangry]

from Poems of Arab Andalusia, tr. Cola Franzen

[lifeinpoetry]

She sails and drinks the vastness of the sea. Seeds fill her floating hair; she is an island surrounded by stars.

—

Navega y bebe la inmensidad del mar. Las semillas llenan su pelo que flota y ella es una isla rodeada de estrellas.

— Marjorie Agosín, from “A Woman Sleeps on an Island,” tr. Cola Franzen, Sargasso

[alwaysalreadyangry]

from Poems of Arab Andalusia, tr. Cola Franzen

[alwaysalreadyangry]

finally got hold of Cola Franzen’s anthology Poems of Arab Andalusia. I hadn’t realised the poetry is translated from the Spanish translations of Emilio García Gómez, rather than directly from the Arabic originals, but I’m not super surprised.

Here’s a poem in the anthology, I’ll share a couple more today too:

[whiskeyslick]

The Prisoner in Aghmat Speaks to His Chains

The Prisoner In Aghmat Speaks To His Chains Al-Mu'tamid I said to my chains, don't you understand? I have surrendered to you. Why, then, have you no pity, no tenderness? You drank my blood. You ate my flesh. Don't crush my bones. My son Abu Hasim sees me fettered by you and turns away his heart made sore. Have pity on an innocent boy who never knew fear and must now come begging to you. Have pity on his sisters innocent like him who have had to swallow poison and eat bitter fruit. Some of them are old enough to understand and I fear they will go blind from weeping. The others are now too young to take it in and open their mouths only to nurse. King Al-Mu'tamid of Sevilla Translated by Cola Franzen from the Spanish version of the Arabic by Emilio García Gómez ***

Al-Mu'tamid, the "Poet-King" of Sevilla, reigned from 1068 to 1092. He was dethroned and then exiled to Aghmat (Morocco) by the Berber Almoravids whom he himself had invited to Spain to help the Moorish rulers fight Alfonso VI. He died in captivity in Aghmat in 1095. With his exile the great age of Islamic culture began to decline in Spain. -- Cola Franzen, "Poems of Arab Andalusia", 1989

[rinascente]

Hot southern sands yearning for white camellias. Weeps arrow without target evening without morning and the first dead bird on the branch. Oh, guitar! Heart mortally wounded by five swords.

Federico García Lorca, The Guitar, translated by Cola Franzen.