Jennifer Soong
2017
Cris de Coeur
It is not luminous but hard-pressed
the face we’d like to pin down
show back to itself. We have from the start
seemed
and been running low on this
As for the obvious remarks
we manage the adequate finesse
all right smh
meanwhile, the theoretical hand-job is upstanding endeavoring
Look past the threshold and grasp the would-be-event how long
have you been standing so as to not exceed it and manifest ?
The haters of our love
gather to toss in it a log
It is so unlike the new way we say, but do we
know the secrets of the face
how to trip into one and willingly
Do we see the thin bang
drape
over the adversary’s eye
(Rest assured)
it drools a long single tear
perched on the curl
bunched-up
for we who still admire
the 0oO of earliest dew
*
What does she know in winter?
What does she think in spring?
We are tired in love, watching the overpass spiral,
curve into a straighter fade.
The brown river controls its muddy flow
the building, sky, a man
walking beneath the Jersey circuit
the separation of surface transport axes
as if taking what may be woven
into the mind: the gray mass
bent and bending into the clover scheme.
It is concrete and exceeding: the tangible flare and
does not break will still be met with
*
Should this grow beyond me
Should this express to you
Should it strike you as
influential
clasping like ivy and secrecy
Show to me nothing less than the stars, the entirety
of the “human emotional system”
one at a time, blinking as blue/red headlights, smashed for our sake,
then by an exact hand-tool repaired into cooperative delight,
“an engine of love”
“a syntax of passion”
as the wind gets caught up incinerating itself
the fire gorged with its every one obsession
the wood, the ash, dry spokenness, small tears:
Past obtainability, no-return
these still manage to undertake me
For this I do not in a million years delete the way there,
for to learn it is available
you have pressed against my front door
“What sense have I if I
can amuse myself with
the secret of the stars, having death or slavery
ever present before my eyes”
and this sort, a freedom
shivers
runs its intravenous coolness into my analysis.
It’s true, I too
long for a way out of this brutal anatomy
but I will not be quick with beauty nor know
the casual reentry into life
Susceptibility must outlast us or else
stay twitching like hives and blossoms tossed in the wind
It is otherwise as they do: written into frailty their
well-rested catastrophes, unexceptional and ongoing
the language of simplicity, so almost like
what it would be, stolen from what we would as soon do
to delicate misery,
ruthlessly office-like
with its broken heart, Charlie horse, hand
cramp, Vitamin D
deficiency and brain freeze
somewhat Pulitzerized
just so
*
Parra, Parra, what do you take?
what do you take back?
I laugh to tell your laugh, to accept why not let us
endow our self
learn from that bay which from time to time
echoes in my lunacy. I will not give it back,
I will display to you
I mean this love,
crush such thoughts into fine sugar, cup it
with a guilty hand. I show myself the way into your
parade of hooting ghosts: running and tossing it as if rich and
my own patroness
*
The way inside is from
the outside only
So little time is there to get underway.
Need, peril, sense: these are emboldened
by the first inkling of the dim
light grows queasy
resolved and unresolved.
The area splits: has it all along
been so ajar, so exposed?
There are words which need to enter this space
There are words with which to see the stuffs and toys of the world
Today you require of me conversation: more communicable,
keener scent, the bristle of each word-as-the-mending needle
its ever-vigilant
acupunctural eye
threading the flower into her patch
Believe me
the feeling of a blunt root wakening
is only like pain. Life takes up its curbs, lines, dirt,
happiness, grime, dumbbells, trays, memes, flamboyance, pop,
the shadow of the flock, gathered by grayscale on the ground, a loitering circle,
its hand-held dance,
and commits (to) certain acts, grows with them
togetherly
while arm in arm with arguments and stems
which to me by word-of-flower
has told
To become a cause, not
the reverse confirmation-
image of effect I seek the object of
direction, then indirection
Published by permission of Jenn Soong
Cris de Coeur
Spanish translation
No es iluminado sino a duras penas
el rostro que nos gustaría arrinconar
mostrarle de vuelta a sí mismo. Desde el comienzo ha
parecido
y estado agotándosenos
En cuanto a las observaciones obvias
mantenemos la finura adecuada
así está bien
entre tanto, la paja teórica es un esfuerzo honorable
Mira más alá del umbral y capta el cuasi evento ¿cuánto tiempo
llevas parado como intentando no excederte y manifestarlo?
Quienes odian nuestro amor
se reúnen para arrojarlo sobre un tronco
No se parece en nada a como lo hacen hoy, decimos, pero acaso
sabemos los secretos del rostro
cómo tropezarnos en uno voluntariamente
Acaso vemos el fino estallido
la cortina
que cubre los ojos del adversario
(Tenlo por seguro)
babea una única y larga lágrima
posada en el rizo
plegado
por quien aún admiramos
el 0oO del rocío más precoz
*
¿Qué sabe ella en el invierno?
¿Qué piensa en primavera?
Estamos en el amor cansados, viendo la espiral elevada
curvarse hacia una disipación más recta.
El río marrón controla su flujo cenagoso
el edificio, el cielo, un hombre
caminando debajo del circuito de Jersey
la separación de toda superficie de los ejes de transporte
como llevándose lo que puede estar hilado
entre la mente: la masa gris
torcida y torciéndose en el esquema del trébol.
Es concreto y excesivo: el resplandor tangible y
no se quiebra aún se cumplirá
*
Si esto llega a crecer por encima de mí
Si esto se te expresa
Si te llega a parecer
influyente
apretado como la hiedra y el secreto
Muéstrame ni más ni menos que las estrellas, la totalidad
del “sistema emocional humano”
una a la vez, titilando como faros azules/rojos, quebrados por nuestro bien,
luego por una herramienta manual exacta, reparada en un deleite cooperativo,
“un motor de amor”
“una sintaxis de pasión”
mientras el viento absorto se incinera a sí mismo
el fuego atiborrado de cada una de sus obsesiones
la madera, las cenizas, el habla seca, las lágrimas pequeñas:
La obtención pasada, el no regreso
aún logran acometerme
Por esto ni en un millón de años borraría ese camino,
pues para aprender que está disponible
has empujado mi puerta delantera
“Qué sentido tengo si
puedo divertirme con
el secreto de las estrellas, con la muerte o la esclavitud
siempre presentes ante mis ojos”
y algo así, una libertad
tirita
inyecta su frialdad intravenosa en mi análisis.
Es cierto, yo también
añoro una salida a esta anatomía brutal
pero no tomaré a la ligera la belleza ni comprenderé
el reingreso casual en la vida
La susceptibilidad debe durar más que nosotros o de lo contrario
quedarse crispada como colmenas y flores arrojadas al viento
Así es como lo hacen de otro modo: inscritas en la fragilidad sus
catástrofes reposadas, ordinarias y en curso
el lenguaje de la simplicidad, tan cerca
de lo que sería, hurtado de lo que al momento le haríamos
a la miseria delicada,
despiadadamente como de oficina
con su corazón roto, tirón en la pierna, calambre
en la mano, deficiencia de
vitamina D y dolor de cabeza por el frío
hecho Pulitzer de alguna forma
impecablemente
*
Parra, Parra, ¿qué llevas?
¿qué te llevas?
Me río para discernir tu risa, para aceptar por qué no
dotamos nuestro yo
aprendemos de aquella bahía que de vez en cuando
resuena en mi locura. No lo devolveré,
te lo expondré
me refiero a este amor,
aplasto dichos pensamientos como azúcar pulverizada, la envasaré
con la mano culpable. Me muestro el camino hacia tu
desfile de fantasmas que ululan: corriendo y arrojándolo como si fuera rica
mi propia mecenas
*
El camino adentro viene de
afuera únicamente
Hay muy poco tiempo para comenzar.
Necesidad, peligro, juicio: los envalentona
el primer pálpito de lo tenue
la luz crece mareada
decidida e indecisa.
El área se divide: ¿acaso ha estado siempre
tan entornada, tan expuesta?
Estas son palabras que necesitan entrar en este espacio
Estas son palabras para ver las cosas y los juguetes del mundo
Hoy me pides una conversación: que sea más transmisible,
de aroma más agudo, la cerda de cada palabra como una aguja que repara
su siempre vigilante
ojo de acupuntura
enhebrando la flor en su remiendo
Créeme
el sentimiento de una raíz cortante que nace
apenas es como el dolor. La vida acepta sus bordillos, líneas, tierra,
felicidad, mugre, mancuernas, bandejas, memes, rimbombancia, pop,
la sombra del rebaño, reunida en escala de grises en el suelo, un círculo ambulante,
su baile cogidos de la mano,
y com(prom)ete ciertos actos, crece con ellos
en conjunto
mientras que tomados del brazo con argumentos y tallos
palabra de flor
que así me dijo
Convertirse en una causa, no
en la confirmación-
imagen inversa del efecto Busco un objeto que conceda
dirección, y luego oblicuidad
Cris de Coeur
English translation
It is not illuminated but with great hardship
The face we would like to bury away
To show back to itself. From the start it has
appeared
and we’ve been exhausting ourselves
As for the obvious observations
we maintain the adequate refinement
it’s ok
meanwhile, the theoretical penis is an honorable effort
Look beyond the threshold and capture the possible event how long
have you been standing trying not to overdo it and manifest it?
Those who hate our love
Meet to throw it over a log
It does not seem like anything we do now, we say, but perhaps
we know the secrets of the face
how do we stumble onto one voluntarily
Perhaps we see the fine crash
the curtain
that covers the eyes of the adversary
(That’s for sure)
it drools a single long tear
lodged in the curl
creased
for whom we still admire
the 0oO of the earliest dew
*
What does she know in the winter?
What does she think in spring?
We are in the tired love, watching the tall spiral
bend itself toward a straighter dissipation.
The brown river controls its muddy flow
the building, the sky, a man
walking under the Jersey circuit
the separation of total surface of axes of transportation
like taking what can be spun
between the mind: the grey mass
twisted and twisting in the drawing of a clover.
It’s concrete and excessive: the tangible glow and
It doesn’t break even if it is fulfilled
*
If this manages to grow inside me
If this is expressed to you
If it manages to seem to you
influential
tightened like ivy and secrecy
Show me neither more or less than the stars, the totality
of “the human emotional system”
one at a time, flickering like blue/red lighthouses, broken for our sake,
then by an exact manual tool, repaired in a cooperative delight,
“a motor of love”
“a syntax of passion”
while the absorbed wind incinerates itself
the crammed fire of each one of its obsessions
the wood, the ashes, the dry speech, the small tears:
The past obtainment, the no return
still manage to take hold of me
That is why in a million years it would not erase this path,
so to learn that it is available
you have pushed my front door
“What sense do I have if
I can enjoy myself with
the secret of the stars, with the death or the slavery
always present before my eyes”
and something like that, a freedom
shivers
injects its intravenous coldness into my analysis.
It’s true, I as well
long for an exit to this brutal anatomy
but I will not take lightly the beauty nor will I understand
the casual reentry to life
Susceptibility ought to outlast us or otherwise
remain as tense as hives and flowers thrown to the wind
This is how it is done differently: inscribed in the fragility their
rested catastrophes, ordinary and ongoing
the language of simplicity, so close
to what it should be, stolen from what we would soon do
to the delicate misery,
ruthlessly office like
with its broken heart, Charlie horse, cramp
in the hand, deficiency of
vitamin D and a headache from the cold
made Pulitzer somehow
impeccably
*
Parra, Parra, what do you take?
what are you taking?
I laugh to discern your laughter, to accept why we do not
provide our I
we learn from that bay that from time to time
resonates in my madness. I will not give it back,
I will not expose you
I am referring to this love,
I crush such thoughts like powdered sugar, I will cup it
with a guilty hand. I show myself the path towards your
parade of ghosts that howl, running and throwing it as if it were rich
my own patronness
*
The inside road comes from
only outside
There is little time to begin.
Necessity, danger, judgement: they are encouraged by
the first beat of the tenuous
the light grows dizzy
decisive and indecisive.
The area is divided: perhaps it has always been
so ajar, so exposed?
These are the words needed to enter this space
These are words to see the things and the toys of the world
Today you ask me for a conversation: to be more transmissible,
sharper aroma, the bristle of each word like a needle that repairs
its always vigilante
acupunctural eye
threading the flower of its patch
Believe me
the feeling of a sharp root that is born
hardly ever is like pain. Life accepts its curbs, lines, earth,
happiness, grime, dumbbells, trays, memes, flamboyance, pop,
the shadow of the herd, gathered in the greyscale of the ground, a lingering circle,
its dance taken by the hand,
and (prom)ises certain acts, grows with them
together
while taken by the arm with arguments and stems
flower word
that said to me like this
To become a cause, not
a confirmation-
inverse image of the effect I look for an object that grants
direction, and later obliquity
Jennifer Soong is an American poet, currently a PhD student in the Department of English at Princeton University. She studies American poetry and poetics, recently branching out into poetry of different languages, including Spanish. Her interests touch on aesthetics, sensibility and the imagination. She is the poetry editor of Nat. Brut and coordinator for Poetry@Princeton.
“Cris de Couer” places human interaction at its center, studying how one relates to others. Through words, through poetry, but most curiously, through the body, Soong highlights moments where human interaction is complicated and lost in translation; when physical interaction is no longer possible, when bodies cease to collide, interact and grow together. It is this multifaceted relationship that defines the cris du couer.
Jennifer Soong on her poem’s translations:
There is great reward in seeing one’s work in translation. One writes; then possibility seems once more brilliant, with apparent termination turning over to become new cause. It is the mystery of language that one feels when a poem is guided into another sound, history, place, and feeling. Soon, 1 becomes 2 becomes more of 1: this is to say, even though my native tongue necessarily limits the reach of my comments, I am convinced that the publication of all three versions of Cris de Coeur make it more of itself, bringing it closer to what it means. Meaning, rather than fixing itself as destination, proves once again to be collaborative, communicative, and ongoing. Rarely have I felt a poem of mine to exist–in its original language–in two places at once, or to exist as three voices in one place. For this, I am very grateful to Mai and Nicolás.
I am struck, in particular, by the way “thin bang/ drape” (initially written as a description of hair in Canto I) returns to me as the crash of a curtain, the way “grow beyond” becomes pregnant with “grow inside” (they are not mutually exclusive), and the way “just so” is made into “impeccably.” I am also taken by the transformation of the final lines, originally,
I seek the object of
direction, then indirection
and recast as,
I look for an object that grants
direction, and later obliquity
It’s in this very obliquity where I continue to dwell, as if the sun were whispering on one cheek, “I will display to you / I mean this love,” then passing over to the other to say, “I will not expose you / I am referring to this love.”
Mai and Nicolas on their translations:
At first glance, the experiment of translating a text into its same language through a second reveals the interconnectedness and mutual necessity of languages. Yet, this experiment also proves to be twofold, given that it also unveils the vulnerability of any given language. Indeed, the source language of any work of literature is not necessarily above that of its translation, and in that sense, this experiment erodes the idea of a linguistic hierarchy when it comes to translation. As seen in “Cris de Coeur,” the English translation of this English poem reinterprets and even disavows, which highlights the inability of any “original” language to contain all the angles (or predict every possibility) of its content. “Original” languages turn out to be translatable even into another version of themselves, thus seeming incomplete and at the same time infinite. This double exercise on translation reminds us of Walter Benjamin’s “The Task of the Translator,” in which he argues that the that the original language of a text and that of its translation are nothing but two (out of endless) facets of a transcendental tongue: that which we can only inanely approach through the limits of our language.
Spanish translation prepared by Nicolás Barbosa López
English translation prepared by Mai Hunt
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