TINKER, TAILOR, SOLDIER, SAILOR

 Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief,

Or what about a cowboy, policeman, jailer, engine driver, or a pirate chief?

Or what about a ploughman or a keeper at the zoo,

Or what about a circus man who lets the people through?

Or the man who takes the pennies on the roundabouts and swings,

Or the man who plays the organ or the other man who sings?

Or what about the rabbit man with rabbits in his pockets

And what about a rocket man who's always making rockets?

Oh it's such a lot of things there are and such a lot to be

That there's always lots of cherries on my little cherry tree.

A.A. Milne, most famous for Winnie the Pooh

ELEANOR AND MARBLE

  A very touching cat story .. <3 

In the spring of 1910, in a quiet English village lined with cobblestone streets and ivy-covered walls, there lived a young lady named Eleanor. She was known for her kindness, her delicate lace dresses, and the way she always had ink on her fingers from writing poetry no one ever read.

But more than anything, people knew Eleanor for her constant companion — a snow-white cat named Marble.

Marble had come into Eleanor’s life on a rainy October evening, just a tiny kitten with wide, frightened eyes, left in a wicker basket on the doorstep of the old manor house where she lived alone after her parents had passed. Eleanor had taken one look at the tiny creature and whispered, “Well then, I guess you and I will keep each other from getting too lonely.”

And they did.

Each morning, Marble would sit by Eleanor’s writing desk as she scribbled poems into her worn leather journal. He would bat at her quill with his paw, and she would pretend to scold him, but she always smiled. Every afternoon, the two could be found in the garden — Eleanor with her parasol, Marble chasing bees and tumbling through patches of lavender.

The villagers spoke of them fondly. “The lady and her cat,” they’d say. “Two hearts, one soul.”

But Eleanor held a sadness that she never shared. At 23, she had once been promised to a young man named Thomas. War took him away before he could return with a ring. Letters stopped coming. And though Eleanor never wore black, her eyes sometimes did.

Marble became her lighthouse through grief.

He would sleep on her chest when she cried, blink at her softly when she stared too long at the sea, and curl up by her journal when she couldn’t find the words. For years, it was just the two of them — quiet, steady, healing.

One morning in early winter, Eleanor didn’t rise.

The maid found her still, her hand resting gently on Marble’s back, a notebook on her lap, the final page filled.

"To the one who stayed,

who asked for nothing but gave me everything,

you are my dearest love,

in fur and silence."

Marble sat by her side for days. He ate nothing. He made no sound.

The villagers buried Eleanor beneath the cherry tree in her garden, the same one Marble always climbed to catch butterflies. They let Marble say goodbye.

But he never truly left her.

Every year, for nearly a decade, Marble would disappear from whichever home had taken him in, only to be found curled at the foot of Eleanor’s grave — rain or shine, season after season. Waiting. Remembering.

Until one spring morning, he too did not return.

They buried him beside her.

And for those who passed by the cherry tree each year, they swore they could sometimes hear a soft purr in the breeze and catch the faint scent of lavender.

Two hearts.

One soul.

Together once more and forever ... 🐈❤️

SLUGHORN, SLOGANS, AND HOBSON-JOBSON

 For World Book Day, I present for you an etymological rabbit hole that has everything: Hogwarts, British actors, warcries of the Thirty Years' War, and even McDonald's. The connection? Slogans and Slughorns!

Nowadays, a slogan is the motto of a brand or an ad campaign. For example, that quintessential slogan, I'm lovin' it!

Slogan is one of those English words that comes from the Gaelic. The Gaelic spelling is sluagh-ghairm (sluagh 'army', 'host' and gairm 'cry'). That is, the word originally meant WARCRY. Like those cries that generals yelled on the battlefield to round up and encourage their troops. For example, Santiago y cierra España, used by Spanish troops in the 30 Years' War, and Gott mit uns, used by the Swedes in the same war.

The meaning of warcry for "slogan" has faded away, but the word has a more Anglicized word derived from it, ie SLUGHORN. It is familiar to any Potterhead, as the surname of a famous and distinguished Potions Master. Horace Eugene Flaccus Slughorn is the full name. And oui, he is as fond of life and of pleasures as his namesake the Roman poet (Horatius Flaccus), famously translated by Fray Luis de León. Rowling sure knows her classics.

Horace Eugene Flaccus Slughorn, played by British actor James "Jim" Broadbent.

Obviously, Rowling has made a pun here on the old word for warcry and the "horns" of the slugs, used in potion-making.

A garden slug. Notice the "horns."

The process by which the Gaelic "sluagh-ghairm" became the English "slughorn" is known as the Hobson-Jobson effect, or Law of Hobson-Jobson. But what is this Hobson-Jobson effect and where did it come from?

In the British Raj, especially in Muslim regions like Pakistan, there was an Islamic celebration called the Mourning of Muharram. These annual rituals commemorate the death of Husayn ibn Ali, grandson of the Islamic Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) and the third Shia imam. Husayn and his small retinue were slaughtered in the Battle of Karbala on 10 Muharram 61 AH (680 CE) against the army of the Umayyad caliph Yazid I (r. 680–683). The battle followed Husayn's refusal to pledge his allegiance to Yazid, who is often portrayed by Muslim historians as impious and immoral. In Shia Islam, Karbala symbolizes the eternal struggle between good and evil. Historically, the event served to crystallize the Shia community into a distinct sect and remains an integral part of their religious identity to date.

British soldiers and officials heard the mourners' cries during these festivals, of "Ya Hasan! Ya Hussein!" as "Hobson-Jobson." This same effect led to the Spanish "cucaracha" becoming "cockroach" and to the Gaelic "sluagh-ghairm" becoming "slughorn."

Ie the term "Law of Hobson-Jobson, or Hobson-Jobson effect" is used in linguistics to refer to the process of phonological change by which loanwords are adapted to the phonology of the new language, as in the archetypal example of "Hobson-Jobson" itself.

Furthermore, Hobson and Jobson were stock characters in Victorian times, used to indicate a pair of yokels, clowns, or idiots. Surely the existence of these characters influenced the British mishearing of "Ya Hasan! Ya Hussein" as "Hobson-Jobson," or the other way around.

ANCHO CIPOTE, QUIJOTE, SANCHO

 

Ancho cipote, cipote ancho
Ancho cipote, cipote ancho

Ancho es mi cipote
como el eje de un camión
Fuerte y vigoroso
como el brazo de Stallone
Y siempre está de chanza
con su inseparable amigo el cojón

Ancho cipote, cipote ancho
Ancho cipote, cipote ancho

Ancho es mi cipote
Con regusto a salchichón
Mi cipote es un gran campeón
Y todas las chavalas se emocionan
con semejante pollón.

hedonismus consequens

 hedonismus consequens

Diisa liire han-ich gahöötart auz

amm achtzane acht-manade im-me jaare 2002

fan littarn-maarket vomm Oliver

in pruzziaan und in latàin,

und hèmmest in zimbrisch òch:

Antì-am-bòtta an mintzikh tòotdinghe machet süüze trööme;

und am-me lesten viil tòotdinghe zoa-zo sterban süüze.

Frigo Nietzsche

segar in Pruzzia

_________________________________________

interlinear:

manch-mal ein winziges Tod-Ding macht süße Träume;

und am letzten viel Tod-Dinge um-zu sterben süß.

schriftdeutsch (original):

Ein wenig Gift ab und zu: das macht angenehme Träume.

Und viel Gift zuletzt, zu einem angenehmen Sterben.

latine:

Quandoque paululum veneni facit somnia dulcia;

et in fine multum veneni pro euthanasia.

Anmerkung:

Die zimbrische Adverbialbildung

mit dem Suffix "·e" ("sterban süüze")

entspricht der althochdeutschen mit dem Suffix "·o".

nota:

Formatio adverbii cimbrica suffixo "·e" ("sterban süüze")

congruit cum alto-theodisca antiqua suffixo "·o".

dorhöötart:

In zimbrisch de sèlbor-boart khèmment gamàchet au

met-teme oorte "·e" ("sterban süüze")

insteet vomm oorte "·o" in alt-hòoghe-taütz.

Catkins: an Easter Legend

 

Ever hear of the lovely Polish legend about how weeping willow trees saved some drowning kittens who were chasing butterflies and fell into the river? The trees reacted to the mother cat’s cries for help by sweeping their limbs down into the water where the kittens clung to the ends of the branches and were saved. Each spring since then the willow branches sprout catkins, tiny fur-like buds, at their tips where the kittens once clung.

YO QUIERO SER FUNCIONARIO

 YO QUIERO SER FUNCIONARIO

De Electric Banana Band

traducción de Sandra Dermark

16 de abril, MMXXV

******************************

Un día, mamá preguntó:

"¿Qué vas a ser tú de mayor?

Tal vez un audaz legionario?"

"¡No, yo quiero ser funcionario!"

***************************

Lo mejor para mí son mi pluma y papel,

mi perforadora e imán para clips

y sobres marrones tamaño A3

y mi propia grapadora, así es, como ves...

***************************

Se lo pasan bien los funcionarios,

cada día, muy bien, en el tajo,

envían sus faxes y mails

con mucha ambición, como veis.

************************

Lo mejor para mí son mi pluma y papel,

mi perforadora e imán para clips

y sobres marrones tamaño A3

y mi propia grapadora, así es, como ves...

********************************

Se sientan en sus escritorios

y escriben palabras muy raras:

"sinergia" y también "plusvalía",

me gustan esas palabritas.

**********************

Lo mejor para mí son mi pluma y papel,

mi perforadora e imán para clips

y sobres marrones tamaño A3

y mi propia grapadora, así es, como ves...

****************************

Y, al fin, cuando dan las cinco,

me vuelvo a mi casa de un brinco...

Me ahorro el turno de noche:

así seré yo, sin reproche.

***********************

Lo mejor para mí son mi pluma y papel,

mi perforadora e imán para clips

y sobres marrones tamaño A3

y mi propia grapadora, así es, como ves...

*************************

En serio: ¿qué niños quieren ser funcionarios? No está en el top ten de las profesiones de ensueño. De pequeña, yo quería ser ilustradora, diseñadora de vestuario o de personajes, pastelera e incluso astronauta. Se nota que esta canción es obviamente satírica.

UNA MAPIRISA QUÉ RIZA QUÉ RISA

 UNA MAPIRISA QUE RIZA Y QUÉ RISA

POEMA PRIMAVERAL

**************************

En la marirronda de las mapirosas,

maricuriosea una marirrosa.

Traía un vestido muy mariposeado,

pero un viento loco se lo ha despintado.

Y risa qué riza,

blanca mapirisa,

buscando colores,

girando en la brisa.

Largas patas largas, maribailarina,

baila un bailecito sobre las espinas,

Junta la retama gotas amarillas,

soles en las alas de la maripilla.

Juntan los claveles un color de uva,

bordecito de ala que baje y que suba.

Con brillo del día, el rocío la baña

y le marimoja las maripestañas.

Dos abejas rubias

le traen, en atado,

lápices de flores

que le han preparado.

Y sólo le falta el color del cielo...

que ella anda buscando en su marivuelo.

Casi marisopa,

casi mariseda,

tendida en su hamaca

de sombras se queda.

Y se marisueña,

niña revoltosa,

y trina su risa,

casi cosquillosa.

¿Será marirrisa esta mariposa?

VERDI'S OTELLO IN THE LEGEND OF HOLLY CLAUS

 She lifted her chin defiantly and changed the subject. “What are we hearing tonight?”

“Otello.” He shrugged. “Not quite as cheerful an evening as I had hoped, though de Reszke is sure to be good.”

Holly turned to him, delighted. “But this is wonderful!” she exclaimed.

“I have always longed to hear one of Maestro Verdi’s operas! And they say this is among his greatest!”

He looked at her alertly. “Where do you come from, child? How is it that you know of Verdi, but have never heard even one of his operas? The old man’s written such a pile of them; they would seem unavoidable.”

“Where I come from—” stammered Holly, blushing a little as she tried to find words. “It’s very—very—forested, and there aren’t any opera houses.” She lifted her eyes to his and realized with surprise that he didn’t believe her and he didn’t care. His mouth was stretched into an odd smile.

He turned his head away and said, very softly, “Oh, how I am going to enjoy this evening.”

“And so am I,” said Holly.

It was all so grand. The humming crowd, the ladies like gauzy butterflies, the lavish golden ceiling where muses wafted on gilded clouds, the whole bubbling world of it entered her blood like champagne.

Catching sight of the most majestic of all the society queens, she leaned forward to touch Mr. Hartman’s arm. “Look at her! Is that a belt of diamonds?” she whispered. “She can’t possibly breathe!”

Secretively she looked in his direction, distracted by the sight of him removing a pair of opera glasses from the pocket of his evening jacket. He sat back in his seat, obviously prepared to enjoy the opera. She realized with relief and regret that he had not seen her. After a short internal struggle, she lifted her head.

Soon she had forgotten everything but the music. The story of Othello and Desdemona unfolded, and Holly was lost in the inexorable tide of the characters’ fates, watching with fascinated horror as the heart of Othello was dismantled by Iago for the sport of it. So intent was Holly upon the tragedy before her that the intermission, when it came, seemed a rude interruption. She looked around hazily, and Hunter Hartman, whose interest in the proceedings onstage appeared to be limited, smiled at her confusion.

“Do you care to take a turn in the lobby? Or shall I bring you an ice?”

“Oh no!” said Holly vehemently “I don’t want anything but for it to begin again! It’s wonderful! Aren’t the voices beautiful?”

“No. You are.”

She ignored him and stared at the dropped curtain. “I never imagined it would be so exciting,” she murmured. “It makes me shiver.” She held up a trembling hand.

Her relief, however, was short-lived; from then on the terrible descent of Othello was almost more than she could stand. When the villain ground the fallen hero under his heel, Holly had to tear her eyes away. She glanced at her boxmate. He was more absorbed in this spectacle than in any other the opera had provided, and he seemed to know the music well, for he swayed in time to Iago’s taunts.

The last mournful strains of song finished, and the house erupted into crashing applause. Holly, clapping fervently, stole another look at the nearby box. It was empty.

It was a small world, the one that glittered so brightly. The same elegant women and men who had occupied the boxes of the opera house now swept toward the cream and gold brocade seats of Delmonico’s. They stopped to chat here and there, leaning confidentially down to receive or dispense gossip, laughing in low voices, extending a well-kept hand in greeting.

POND, FROG, PLOP (MATSUO BASHÓ)

 古池 (FURUIKE YA, OLD LILY POND)

蛙飛び込む (KAWAZU TOBIKOMU, FROG LEAPING IN)
水の音 (MIZU NO OTO, SPLASH OF WATER)

Original, by Matsuo Bashó

9 comentarios

Un viejo estanque
salta una rana ¡zas!
chapaleteo.

Trad. Octavio Paz

El espejo de la fontana,
al zambullirse de la rana,
¡hace chas!

Trad. Ramón María del Valle-Inclán

Kawazu, ie frog, rana, groda, Frosch, béka, grenouille

Limerick:

There once was a curious frog
Who sat by a pond on a log
And, to see what resulted,
In the pond catapulted
With a water-noise heard round the bog.

Translated by Alfred H. Marks

The old pond has no walls;

a frog just jumps in;

do you say there is an echo?

FÖR ATT HÖGST FÖRÄRA MR. KATT

 FÖR ATT HÖGT FÖRÄRA MR. KATT 

(For the Benefit of Mr. Kite) – ur både Beatles och Eddie Izzards versioner

Översatt av Sandra Dermark

för jukebox-musicalen Vingar för Pengarna

……………………….

För att högt förära Mr. Katt

lär det bli en show inatt

i den här byn.

Familjen Karlsson, de är här,

sent på scen med egen fair,

vilken syn!

Har ni sett, de har GREJER!

Över män och hästar, vilda bestar,

slutligen en cirkel av RIKTIG ELD!!!

Det är så här som mister Katt ska utmana ÖDET!!!

Med små blå människor!!!

………………………….

Den väl beryktade herr Katt 

uppträder även lördag natt

i Porte-l’Évêque!

Familjen Karlssons dans och sång

kommer att bli en sensation,

spring ej väck!

Herrar Katt och Karlssons försäkrar att

deras iscensättning har ingen rival!

Och självklart

är hästen Henrik med

och dansar vals!

Den häst som är bäst!

Eins zwei drei, eins zwei drei, eins zwei drei…

………………………

Musiken börjar

tio i sex,

då Mr. Katt tar vid med spex

utan ett ljud…

Och Mr. Karlssons över tolv 

volter utan att nudda golv

i sommarskrud!

Vi har varit fjorton dar i förväg

beredda så ni kan ha den bästa showen ni kan!

Och inatt ska Mr. Katt kröna sig själv!

POR BENEFICIAR AL SR. KITE

 POR BENEFICIAR AL SR. KITE

Un temazo de los Beatles

traducido por Sandra Dermark

8 de abril de MMXXV

***********************

Por beneficiar al señor Kite,

esta noche un show habrá

en trampolín...

Los Henderson allí estarán,

de la feria superstars,

¡de postín!

Sobre hombres, caballos,

truenos, rayos,

y un aro de fuego

DE VERDAD

De esta forma, el señor Kite

¡con todo podrá!

***************************+

El celebrado señor Kite

este sábado actuará

en Bishopsgate

Los Henderson van a cantar

y él por el aro va a saltar...

¡No tardéis!

Los señores Kite y Henderson

aseguran que su show no tiene rival...

¡Por supuesto, Henry el caballo

bailará el vals!

(Un dos tres, un dos tres, un dos tres...)

******************************

La banda tocará a las seis,

cuando al señor Kite lo veréis

sin decir ná

Los Henderson demostrarán

que diez mortales saltarán

sin aterrizar

Nos hemos preparado de antemano

para que tengáis el mejor show...

¡Y esta noche, el señor Kite

se coronará!

La serie dei Numeri (Ar Rannoù, vespers of the frogs)

 LA SERIE DEI NUMERI

(AR RANNOÚ, VESPRE DELLE RANE)

E tu bel bimbo, bimbo mio dolce,

dimmi, cosa vuoi che io ti canti?

Cantami dei numeri la serie,

sino a che io oggi non la impari.

Unica è la morte,

niente oltre, niente di più...

due i buoi legati al carro,

e sono tre le parti del mondo,

quattro le pietre di Merlino,

che affilano le spade degli eroi.

Unica è la morte,

niente altro, niente più...

E sul cammino che il tempo fa

cinque finora sono le età,

e sono sei le erbe che

nel calderone il nano mescolerà...

Sette sono i soli, sette le lune,

otto sono i fuochi accesi a Maggio,

attorno alla fontana sono nove

le fanciulle che danzano alla luna...

Unica è la morte,

niente altro, niente più...

E dieci vascelli sono venuti

portandoci la guerra da lontano.

Undici guerrieri sono tornati

quand′erano in trecento a partire...

Unica è la morte,

niente altro, niente più...

E sul cammino che il tempo fa

cinque finora sono le età,

e sono dodici i mesi che

giorno per giorno, da sempre

segnando va.

E dodici ancora sono i segni

che tu puoi leggere nel cielo,

guerra tra di loro han dichiarato,

questa che ti canto sarà la fine.

Unica è la morte,

niente altro, niente più...

Allora la tromba suonerà,

avremo fuoco e tuono, pioggia e vento,

la serie dei numeri è finita,

per l'uno sai che non c′è serie:

Unica è la morte,

e due i buoi,

e tre la parti,

quattro le pietre,

cinque le età

e sei le erbe,

sette sono i soli,

sette le lune,

otto sono i fuochi

e nove le fanciulle,

ma dieci i vascelli,

undici i guerrieri,

dodici i segni,

dodici i mesi

e unica la morte,

da sempre madre del dolore.