This is a great set of ku's. They also sound good in Spanish. Very nice
indeed. Ole!
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From: owner-shiki@cc.matsuyama-u.ac.jp on behalf of Harry & Ferris Gilli
Sent: Thursday, January 16, 1997 4:47 PM
To: shiki@cc.matsuyama-u.ac.jp
Subject: SHIKI English/Spanish haiku
Here is another batch of my haiku from Paraguay. This time I am
pleased to include the Spanish versions, as Gabriela Lovera
kindly translated them for me. Unfortunately, my e-mail server
can't handle tildes and accent marks over letters and some
punctuation as used in the Spanish language. Even though
Gabriela translated these with the correct characters or symbols,
I can't post them that way, so I hope our Spanish readers will
forgive these omissions and fill in mentally.
a train's whistle un silbido de tren
in the mangoes! en los mangos!
insects las chicharras
beneath my hammock bajo mi hamaca
the wild pig scratches el cochino de monte rasca
his back and mine su espalda y la mia
at the end of a search gatitos maullan a lo lejos
for crying kittens, I stare los busco y descubro en cambio
at frogs that mew el llanto de las ranas
tired cowboys cansados, los gauchos
walking home after a swim regresan a sus casas despues
with piranhas de nadar entre piranas
Indians Indios
with blue-streaked faces con las caras rayadas de azul
my Spanish is useless mi espanol es inutil
round copper faces caritas redondas y cobrizas
peep through grackle-black hair se asoman por entre espesas
their mothers weave rainbows cabelleras negras
sus madres tejen arcoiris
A little choo-choo train (that's the best way I can describe it!)
used to run by near our quinta outside Asuncion. It blew its
whistle briefly as it passed. One day the whistle didn't stop
blowing, and it sounded more like a factory whistle than a
train's. After an hour or so with my nerves frazzled, I asked
our maid why the whistle continued to blow, even though the train
wasn't moving. She looked puzzled for a moment, then burst out
laughing. Pointing to the branches of the mango trees, she said,
"The train is long gone; now it is the season of the yelling
bugs." This went on for days. Somehow, knowing it was creature
sounds and not man's made it less irritating.
Raised from a tiny baby, Capitan the pig would open the screen
door and go into the house looking for company. When he grew
tall enough, he liked to rub his back on the bottom of the
hammock when I was in it. We never taught him tricks; he learned
plenty on his own. He was one of the gentlest, most intelligent
animals I've ever known.
Hearing the pathetic, frantic cries of newborn kittens, I
searched, walking mostly in circles, and finally in a nearby
field I found a mud puddle full of little frogs, mewing and
mewing. I just stood and stared with my mouth hanging open.
Visiting Indians appeared in the field one morning behind the
bunkhouse-corral area. They spoke their own language, and my
Spanish did me no good. They camped there for a few weeks,
swapping food, gossip, and goods with the maids and cooks and
answering my curious questions. The good-natured women with blue
paint on their faces worked from dawn to dusk, weaving
brilliantly colored traditional sashes, blankets, and purses.
The babies and children were plump and beautiful and always
smiling.
Ferris