Voilà: lacks a toe. Voilà: sing this hymn.

A poem by Hugo Ball in a false translation by Melissa Grey & David Morneau

Melissa_Grey_(credit_Marc_Fiaux)When we were invited to participate in a concert celebrating the 100th anniversary of Dada, produced by Hans Tammen, we knew quickly that we wanted to incorporate an Oulipian technique in our composition process. Oulipo (short for Ouvroir de Littérature Potentielle) was founded in 1960 by the French author Raymond Queneau with a group of authors interested in exploring the potential of literature by applying constraints to the creative process, often rooted in mathematics. We are both attracted to the tight conceptual constraints of their techniques, and are deeply interested in translating their ideas to the process of music composition. This shared interest has fueled many conversations and has indelibly shaped our budding collaboration.

Gadget Berry Dimple uses the Oulipian technique of homophonic (or false) translation. The idea is to translate words from one language to another based on sound rather than meaning. For example:

Le vierge, le vivace et le bel aujourd’hui
becomes
“Levy urge, levy vassal, hale bell!” assured we.

David_Morneau_(credit_Marc_Fiaux)

We began the process by taking Hugo Ball’s Gadji beri bimba (1916) and breaking it out into an alphabetical list of every word within. Then we created false translations for each word in the list, so that affalo became “a fellow”, brussala became “bruised salad”, katalominai became “cat and lonely mice”, and so on. Once finished, we reassembled Ball’s poem using our translations. The result (which is published here) was immediately captivating. We are planning to explore it further, using it as the basis for more music by applying additional Oulipian transformations to it.

For our performance on the 100th anniversary of Dada concert, we created a live sonic texture using a Benjolin synthesizer, a vintage Merlin toy, and a drum machine. Over that we read through our list of translated words as a glossary of false translation: Melissa recited the Ball’s original words and David recited our translations. A video of this performance can be seen here: http://artisteordinaire.org/gadget-berry-dimple-a-glossary-of-false-translation/ 

– Melissa Grey & David Morneau (2016)

Sources: Oulipo Compendium (Harry Mathews & Alastair Brotchie), l’Artiste ordinaire (artisteordinaire.org)

 Photo credits: Marc Fiaux

Gadji beri bimba

by Hugo Ball

gadji beri bimba glandridi laula lonni cadori

gadjama gramma berida bimbala glandri galassassa laulitalomini

gadji beri bin blassa glassala laula lonni cadorsu sassala bim

gadjama tuffm i zimzalla binban gligla wowolimai bin beri ban

o katalominai rhinozerossola hopsamen laulitalomini hoooo

gadjama rhinozerossola hopsamen

bluku terullala blaulala loooo

 

zimzim urullala zimzim urullala zimzim zanzibar zimzalla zam

elifantolim brussala bulomen brussala bulomen tromtata

velo da bang band affalo purzamai affalo purzamai lengado tor

gadjama bimbalo glandridi glassala zingtata pimpalo ögrögöööö

viola laxato viola zimbrabim viola uli paluji malooo

 

tuffm im zimbrabim negramai bumbalo negramai bumbalo tuffm i zim

gadjama bimbala oo beri gadjama gaga di gadjama affalo pinx

gaga di bumbalo bumbalo gadjamen

gaga di bling blong

gaga blung

Gadget Berry Dimple

by Hugo Ball

Gadget berry dimple; grand treaty. Louder, lonely tandoori.

Pajama gamma, buried home, timbales, grand tree. Melis-iss-sa: “Lolita longs for me.”

Gadget berry (gin blossom glossary). Louder, lonely cats or you, sad salad? Bim:

“Pajama toughen!” I, some olive, been banned. Glee club? Wow! only me (gin berry) banned.

O cat and lonely mice. [rhinoceros solo] Hans Tammen: “Lolita longs for me.” Who?

Pajama Rhinoceros. [solo: Hans Tammen]

Blue queue tarantula; blue lager low.

 

Chin, chin, you rule a lot. Chin, chin, you rule a lot. Chin, chin, sandwich bar. (Some olive sham!) 

Elephant totem, bruised salad. Pillow men: “Bruised salad.” Pillow men: “drum louder.” 

Hell, no! Ha! Pang bland. A fellow purse of mine, a fellow purse of mine. [legato: tire]

Pajama bee’s halo. Grand treaty glossary. Zinc starter, pimp! Alone ogre grow. 

Voilà: lacks a toe. Voilà: sing this hymn. Voilà: Oulipo Fallujah Morneau. 

 

Toughen, ein sing this hymn? No, not mine. Bungalow? No, not mine. Bungalow toughen—I shim.

Pajama timbales. Oh, berry pajama. “Dada the pajama,” a fellow pins.

“Dada the bungalow, bungalow,” god of men. 

Dada the bring blonde?

Dada brung!

translated from German by Melissa Grey, David Morneau, & l’Artiste ordinaire
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we will wait there
for eternity to end

Two poems by Guido Cupani translated by Patrick Williamson

 

cupaniPW

 

 

 

 

 

In paradiso arriveremo scalzi

by Guido Cupani

passeremo il confine nella notte

verremo sbalzati dal treno in corsa

 

pagheremo sangue

per un posto su uno scafo di latta

 

Approderemo sfatti per il viaggio

ci getteranno una coperta sulle spalle

 

Ci chiederanno i documenti 

da dove veniamo, dove vogliamo andare

 

e non sapremo dire, udremo voci 

intravedremo visi stranieri

 

aldilà di una porta a vetri

di chi una volta era fuori dalla porta

 

e scuoterà per noi la testa, le carte

non sono in regola

 

sarebbe bastato un sì a suo tempo

il caso non è più di nostra competenza

 

E ci impacchetteranno, 

destineranno, recapiteranno

 

oppure passeremo per misericordia

fra le maglie della nostra stessa rete

 

troveremo un angolo di marciapiede

dove nessuno ci veda clandestini

 

attenderemo lì

che l’eternità abbia fine

We will arrive in paradise barefoot

by Guido Cupani

we will cross the border at night

we will be thrown out of the moving train

 

we will pay blood

to cram on a makeshift boat

 

We will arrive haggard from the trip

they will throw a blanket over our shoulders

 

They will ask us for documents

where we come from, where we want to go

 

and we won’t know how to say, we will hear voices

catch sight of foreign faces

 

beyond a glass door

of those once out the door

 

and they will shake their heads at us, the ID

is not in order

 

a simple yes is all that was needed

the case is not within our competence

 

And we will be packaged,

we will be addressed, delivered

 

or we will get through out of mercy

through the links of our own network

 

we will find a corner of the sidewalk

where no one sees you as clandestine

 

we will wait there

for eternity to end 

translated from Italian by Patrick Williamson
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Fotografia di Alan Kurdi, bambino

by Guido Cupani

I

 

Vieni, hai la scarpa slacciata, infilati il maglione, farà freddo,

 

che cos’hai in tasca, dove l’hai raccolto, svuota, via, come ti senti, 

 

guardami negli occhi, la mamma ti vuol bene, Galip, vieni anche tu,

 

la mamma vi vuol bene, papà è fiero di voi, solo un’ora di mare, di là conosceremo altri bambini, domani dormiremo

 

in un letto nuovo, l’Europa, il Canada, letti più grandi,

 

ma certo, un sorso d’acqua, bevi, attento a non bagnarti, sei già tutto sporco di sabbia, laviamo le manine,

 

così, perfetto, ora saliamo

 

II

 

È permessa l’immagine.

 

È permesso vedere l’immagine. È permesso non vedere l’immagine. Dire di non aver visto. Di non aver potuto. Di non aver dovuto.

 

È permesso pubblicare l’immagine. È permesso oscurare l’immagine. Condividere. Dire mi piace. Dire non mi piace.

 

È permesso parlare di inquadrature. Di discrezione e riserbo. È permesso parlare di immagini.

 

È permesso rivedere l’immagine a mente. In altri vestitini così gettati. Nella riva più fortunata di un copriletto.

 

È permesso, davanti all’immagine, dire sì, ma. Rimanere coi piedi piantati nella sabbia. Non muovere un passo. Affondare.

 

È permesso dimenticare l’immagine. Chiudere gli occhi. Negare. Mentre ancora

 

quello che nell’immagine accade

 

(è accaduto, accadrà)

 

è permesso

 

III

 

Lo stato di salute o malattia della cosiddetta fede non è tale per cui

 

un padre costretto a portare a casa in braccio i tre quarti di quella che era la sua famiglia

 

un padre precedentemente costretto a portare via da casa per mano la stessa famiglia (moglie e due figli

 

di cui resta una foto scattata sulla poltrona dei giochi al centro esatto di un doppio largo sorriso

 

nonostante la bufera (in abiti non dissimili da quelli che avrebbero presto restituito)

 

contro l’onda montante della storia) all’ultima spiaggia

 

(egli stesso accusato di aver rovesciato la barca per)

 

un padre che ancora prega mentre seppellisce sé stesso assieme a

 

dicevo, lo stato di conservazione di questa inaspettatamente tenace

 

fede che intanto a Kobanî è sull’orlo di inghiottire sé stessa una volta per tutte

 

dicevo, non è tale per cui

 

requiem aeternam dona eis

 

dicevo

 

non lo so cosa stavo dicendo

Photograph of Alan Kurdi, child

by Guido Cupani

I

 

Come on, your laces are undone, tuck your sweater in, it will be cold,

 

what’s in your pocket, where did you pick it up, chuck it, go, how do you feel

 

look into my eyes, Mum loves you, Galip, you come here too,

 

Mum loves you, Dad is proud of you, just one hour of sea, and then you will meet other children, tomorrow we will sleep

 

in a new bed, Europe, Canada, bigger beds,

 

of course, a sip of water, drink, be careful not to get wet, you’re all covered with sand, we’ll wash our hands,

 

that’s it, perfect, let’s go

 

II

 

The picture is permitted.

 

It is permitted to see the picture. Permitted not to see the picture. To say that you had not seen. That you could not. That you did not have to.

 

It is permitted to publish the picture. Permitted to blur the picture. To share. To say I like. To say I do not like.

 

It is permitted to talk of shots. Of discretion and confidentiality. It is permitted to talk of pictures.

 

It is permitted to see the picture again in your mind. In similarly-laid out clothes. On a bedspread that is a shore of better fortune.

 

It is permitted, in front of the picture, to say yes, but. Have both feet planted in the sand. Not move a step. Sink.

 

It is permitted to forget the image. To close your eyes. Deny. While still

 

what happens in the picture

 

(has happened, will happen)

 

is permitted

 

III

 

The state of health or disease of the so-called faith is not such that


a father forced to carry home three-quarters of what was his family


a father previously forced to take from home the same family by hand (wife and two sons


of whom a picture remains taken on the games chair at the exact center of a double-smile

 

despite the storm raised (in clothes not unlike those soon to be returned)


against the rising tide of history) towards the final shore


(himself accused of having overturned the boat)

 

a father who still prays while burying himself along with


I said, the state of preservation of this unexpectedly strong


faith that meanwhile in Kobanî is on the verge of swallowing itself once and for all

 

I said, it is not such that


requiem aeternam dona eis


I said


I do not know what I was saying

translated from Italian by Patrick Williamson
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you who lured me for so long

Two poems by Raoul Ponchon translated by Mark Lager

 

Raoul Ponchon (Photo)

“Then [Ponchon] went alone, along the waterfront, pondering…he stopped at booksellers’ boxes…then the Boulevard Saint-Michel…where he fashioned his absinthe…he returned home to the Hotel des Grands Hommes, near the Sorbonne. He pulled out of an old trunk a green coat of an old-fashioned cut, too big for him, and whose embroideries were tarnished…donned an old gardener’s hat…all night he drank, reading the manuscripts of his unpublished works, which so few people know. They contain masterpieces…”

—Guillame Apollinaire

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fleur de Péché

by Raoul Ponchon

Comment, c’est encore toi, chiffon?         

Petite gringalette                

Grosse comme un quart de siphon,    

Ou deux liards de galette!          

 

Pour faire un corps comme le tien,                  

Statuette fragile,         

La recette est commode: rien             

Fournit d’abord l’argile;        

 

A force de pétrir ce rien,           

On obtient quelque chose:                          

Je ne distingue pas très bien,          

Mais cela paraît rose;             

 

On le barbouille de printemps,              

De champagne qui mousse,                         

De fanfreluche, on bat longtemps,                      

Et c’est là ta frimousse.                

 

O fleur qu’un souffle peut former,         

Qu’une risette éclaire,                  

Tu peux, à défaut d’art d’aimer,            

Avoir le don de plaire !     

 

Peach Blossom

by Raoul Ponchon

Why, it’s you again pretty young woman?

little slender lady

big as a quarter of a pipe

or two pennies of pancakes!

 

To make a body like yours                  

delicate statuette

the recipe is a tall order: nothing

rendered in clay

 

Has the strength to shape this nothing,

you obtained something:         

I can’t distinguish very well

but it seems pink

 

You a painting of spring

of foaming champagne

of fancy frills you bat a long time

and it’s your sweet little face

 

O flower a breath may form

a child’s smile illuminates

you have no lack of art of love

to possess the gift to please!

translated from French by Mark Lager
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La Mort

by Raoul Ponchon

Un vieillard râlait sur sa couche          

Souffrant tous les maux d’ici-bas;  

Déjà bleuissaient sur sa bouche   

Les violettes du trépas.    

 

Cependant, d’aurore en aurore,   

Trahi par le cruel destin,      

Pour souffrir davantage encore    

Il s’éveillait chaque matin.     

 

“O mort! Abrège mon martyre,”        

– Criait l’infortuné vieillard. —       

Il ne t’importe que j’expire     

Un peu plus tôt, un peu plus tard?    

 

“Je n’ai vécu que trop d’années,       

Et j’aspire à l’éternel soir;     

Car dans mes prunelles fanées       

Le Monde se reflète en noir.        

 

“Je n’attends plus rien de la Vie.       

Compte, au lieu de me l’acquérir,               

A la Jeunesse inassouvie             

Le temps qu’il me reste à courir.”        

 

Et voilà que soudain, blafarde,         

Sous son masque de carnaval,        

Il vit l’effroyable camarde,     

Debout sur son seuil, à cheval!      

 

“Enfin! dit-il. Que tu m’es bonne,         

Toi, qui si longtemps me leurras!”       

Et tout ainsi qu’à la Madone,      

Il lui tendit ses maigres bras.     

 

Mais elle éperonna sa bête,    

Et continua son chemin,       

Sans seulement tourner la tête   

Vers ce vieillard en parchemin.     

 

Plus loin, au milieu des prairies,              

Deux amants, ceux-là bien vivants,                        

Couraient dans les herbes fleuries,    

Vous eussiez dit de deux enfants.     

 

Ils ne connaissaient de la Vie,        

Les pauvres petits! que l’Amour;     

Et leur âme était asservie      

L’une à l’autre, sans nul retour.   

 

Ils allaient, joyeux, par la plaine,         

Souriant de leurs yeux d’Avril;       

Le vent retenait son haleine        

Pour ne troubler point leur babil.         

 

Et voici que la Mort affreuse              

Rageusement fondit sur eux,          

Et d’un geste prit l’amoureuse                  

Dans les bras de son amoureux.

Death

by Raoul Ponchon

Old man throat rattling on his bed

suffering all the ills here below

already turning blue at the mouth

violets of death

 

Dawn after dawn

betrayed by cruel destiny

to suffer further anew

he awoke every morning

 

O death! cut short my martyrdom

cried the unfortunate old man

does it matter to you

if I die a little earlier, a little later?

 

I’ve lived too many years

and I long for the eternal night

for in my faded pupils

the world is reflected in black

 

I expect nothing of life

account instead of acquiring me

a youth unsatisfied

the rest of my time to run

 

And now suddenly pale

under his carnival mask

he saw the frightful snub nose

standing at his doorstep on horseback!

 

At last! he said. You’re good to me

you who lured me for so long

and so like the Madonna

he held out his thin arms

 

But he spurred his beast

and continued on his path

without even turning his head

towards this old parchment

 

Farther in the meadows

two lovers living well             

running in the flowering herbs

you would have said two children

 

They did not know life

poor children! what love

and their soul was enslaved

one to the other with no return

 

Joyously going through open country

smiling with their April eyes

the wind holding its breath

not to ruffle their babble

 

And now dreadful death

violently descended upon them

and a gesture took the lover

in the arms of her sweetheart

translated from French by Mark Lager
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