05 September 2006

Stuart does Brazil

Well, here's a curious thing. An online surrealist magazine called Agulha: Revista de Cultura has translated (into Portuguese) and published Dani Couture's interview with me. They've also added some pretty cool illustrations.

It's right over here.

The interview originally appeared on The Danforth Review's website. I get the feeling the Agulha people didn't even ask permission. But that's OK! I'm glad they're interested.

Next step: translate a bunch of my poems into Portuguese and fly me to Brazil!

Over and out.


At September 05, 2006 9:48 pm , Anonymous Anonymous said...

What was the name of that song? Wasn't it "I'm on a Mexican Radio..."

At September 06, 2006 8:21 pm , Blogger dana_plato said...

You mean by Wall of Voodoo? I think it's just called Mexican Radio.

At September 07, 2006 6:20 pm , Blogger hugh said...

Here's a translation of the Portuguese. I had to shorten it a little, and I didn't translate Dani's questions.

Many heavy nights I vaulted over the ruins, lost my skin for one or a dozen days. I fled the ruins of 1979 til 1991. There is no end to the ruins heavy enough for fiction. Many poets' heads were there, and I sensed sticks poking me into territory of poets who really specified being there. Not enough those fazed lectures of miasma given by a mime -- I connected with new powers of reading, making immediate profits.

A unique stratagem that sold me the ruins offered drums and furniture, contact with poets leery of bestsellers, literary arms, or -- sob -- restaurant meals. We made examinations down the strange mine of pork poetry, curious wings in relation to this flowering shrub among the ruins of ten maps and the electricity of fish.

I think --ha!-- material of bauxite is the quality of car publication and --ha!-- bauxite materials made public also in literary houses and nogotiated. And snake material, drums, occasionally, from both fonts. I intend impulsively to condone bones free of self-publishing (authorial bones now follow me published in other luggage, bones of books now save editors, etc.) But I'd never raise a tale or fable that moulting authors drink brass and publish cars phrased as a conscientious scholar.

The older of two poems is a short life, like all our names. A poem written in vices, for an aunt, or a ghost of a bicycle... mesmerizing like an opera in falsetto, depending on the length.

Enough: being a poem, I have three distinct lives. This means more than millions.


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