Displaying items by tag: Poetry in translation

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And when I go
leave the window open

The boy is eating oranges
(I see him from my window)

The reaper is cutting down the corn
(I hear him from my window)

So when I go
leave the window open

anothersunrise9cu1Translated by Peter Jukes from Lorca's Despedida

Published in Translations
%AM, %22 %041 %1992 %00:%Sep

Spanish Dancer


bloodweddingcopy-11As a match when struck will sputter white,
before flames break, licked with hot
phosphorous tongues - so tonight
volatile, explosive, the audience watch
while her dance starts to flicker into life.

And all at once the whole place is ablaze.

A flash of the eye and she ignites her hair
then whirling faster fans her dress
into ferocious flames. Now she's a furnace
from which two startled rattlesnakes dart
hissing and clicking, her naked arms.

But now the fire has gone too far
clinging to her waistline, she flings it down,
holding her head disdainful and proud,
watching it blaze upon the ground -
flames that rage and refuse to die.

Then, with in a slow sure step and a sweet
triumphant smile, she looks up one last time
and stamps it out with small momentous feet.

Version by Peter Jukes from Rilke's Spanish Dancer

Published in Translations
%AM, %22 %041 %2008 %00:%Sep

I Could Write the Sadddest Poems Tonight


I could write the saddest poems tonight.

Write, for example, how “The night is full of stars,
Cold and blue they shiver in the distance.”

The wind swings round the sky and sings.

I could write the saddest poems tonight.
How I loved her. How sometimes she loved me.

On nights like this I held her in my arms.
Kissed her endlessly under a boundless sky.

How she loved me. How sometimes I loved her.
How could I not fall for those deep wide eyes?

I could write the saddest poems tonight.
To know I don’t have her. To feel I’ve lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
These words condense on my soul like dew on the grass.

What does it matter? In the end I couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars but she isn't here.

That's it. Someone sings. Far away. In the distance.
But my soul cannot rest because now she's gone.

My eyes roam, hoping to bring her closer.
My heart searches but cannot find her any more.

The same night whitens the same trees,
We were one and the same then but not now.

I don’t love her any more, but how I loved her.
My voice charmed the wind to caress her ears.

She surrenders.  To my kisses once to another now 
She surrenders her voice, her light body. Her fathomless eyes.

I don’t love her any more, but right now I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

On nights like this I held her in my arms and now
My soul will not rest because I have lost her.

Though this be the final grief she gives me,
And this the last poem I ever write her.

Translated by Peter Jukes from 'Puedo Escribir' by Pablo Neruda.

Published in Translations
%AM, %22 %041 %2008 %00:%Sep

Neruda's Love Sonnet XVII



I don’t love you like you were topaz or beach rose
Or the arrow of carnations darting from a fire.
I love you like one loves some dark unknown things
Surreptitiously, between shadow and soul.

I love you like the plant that doesn’t flower but
Hides within itself the brilliance of flowers;
Thanks to your love, deep inside my flesh lives
That enthralling aroma that rises from the earth.

I love you without knowing how, when or wherefore.
I love you unswervingly, without problem or pride;
In short. I love you because I know no other way

Other than this one, where there is no me or you,
So close that your hand on my chest is my hand ,
So close that you shut your eyes when I fall asleep.


No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.

Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.

Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,

sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.

Translated by the Original by Peter Jukes 2009

Published in Translations
%AM, %22 %041 %1983 %00:%Sep

The Silent Child



The boy was looking for his voice
(The king of crickets had stolen it)

deep inside a water drop
the boy was looking for his voice



I don't want it for talking
I want it to make a ring
that my reticence can wear
around its little finger



Deep inside a water drop
the boy was looking for his voice


(Meanwhile in the distance
the voice was dressed up like a cricket)


Translated by Peter Jukes from El Niño Muda by Lorca

Published in Translations
%AM, %22 %041 %1987 %00:%Sep

Among the Many Admirers of Carmen


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Among your many admirers, all
who flock and hang on your every word,
who laugh and call your name out loud
sits one, like a shadow on the wall:
a drink his only company all night,
and regardless of what you say or do
keeps a watch on your every move,

Till, when the juke box comes alive
Drums beat, bass strums, he turns
to the window and recalls the light
blotted out by the approaching storm
and disturbed by your dancing moving form
thinks of the poems he has yet to write.

Peter Jukes - version of a poem by Alexander Blok

Published in Translations
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Links and Contact Details

Live Tweeting

Over the last few years I've created some attention with my live coverage of the phone hacking trial in London, the most expensive and longest concluded criminal trial in British history. There are various accounts and articles about this on the web, including a radio play. My Twitter feed can be found here, and a collation of evidence from the trial, and all my live tweets, can be found at my Fothom Wordpress blog. There's also a Flipboard magazine and a Facebook Page. My Klout ranking is here.

More Journalism and Books

Various journalistic articles of mine are scattered throughout the web. There's some kind of portfolio at Muckrack. The most extensive reporting is for the Daily Beast and Newsweek, but there's more at the New Statesman, the New Republic, Aeon etc. I have two non fiction books published in the last year: The Fall of the House of Murdoch, available through Unbound or Amazon, and Beyond Contempt: the Inside Story of the Phone Hacking Trial, available via Canbury Press or also on Amazon. I am currently contributing to a new site for open source journalism, called Bellingcat, and advisor (along with Sir Harry Evans and Bill Emmott) to an exciting new crowdfunded journalism startip Byline

Getting in Contact

My generic email is my first name at That should get through to me pretty quickly. My Linked In profile is here. For non journalistic inquiries, for television stage and film, contact Howard Gooding at Judy Daish Associates. Examples of my television work can be found on IMDB. This links to the site for my forthcoming musical, Mrs Gucci. My radio plays can be found in various audiobook formats on Amazon and elsewhere.


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