flyguy69
Arch Angel
- Joined
- Oct 29, 2003
- Posts
- 2,661
Here is what you get if you plug Ulisse's poem Venezia into Google.com's Italian translator. It has a certain "exquisite corpse" feel to it...
C '? a sink, in the old Campiello,
dug in a large one capitello.
The church. Quand' I was child
was "Degan here", frittolino.
And v' it was a Theatre to the shoulders
(sopportego, then in calle)
with the name of a great soprano,
me seems that it is Malibrano.
Memories of times pass to you.
Or makes of the filmi prohibits to you.
The fog that attenuates the noises,
the fog, that it vanishes the colors,
hides in a gray of sails
the lights of the great "Danieli":
far away mirage, remote,
wrapped up to now of ignoto.
Dwelling of fairies, wizards,
ignoti recondite svaghi.
And hour son here, on the balcony,
with single companion a pigeon,
the pens of ruffled,
that it tries, frightening,
starved a gray
and with violent, aggressive,
to eat, for being alive.
Of forehead, Saint Greater George
rosseggia in the sun that dies.
The Lido stands out far away,
but if you stretch the hand
you only seems to be able to touch it.
More beyond, the immense one of the sea.
Here under, two bridges, the River.
People you par that she lives again:
the Doge, the Checkerses, soppresso
Faliero of a feature of black.
Saint Mark, the priests, the nuns,
the Moors who strike the hours.
Pellicce of dark minks,
tourists with old sweaters
and bags that seem black.
Far, foreign accents....
With prices from rich, display windows....
necklaces with many perline....
The old mossy inn....
Danieli: the lussuosa life....
The catering university student, the row....
Risotto-champagne: one hundred thousand.
In this city? they are NATO,
and eccomi here, son returned,
watching, watching, watching
therefore, like same dreaming
of confused, upset life.
Venice. For the last time.
If you want to try something fun, translate one of your own poems into another language, then back to English. I don't think pig-latin is an option, though.
C '? a sink, in the old Campiello,
dug in a large one capitello.
The church. Quand' I was child
was "Degan here", frittolino.
And v' it was a Theatre to the shoulders
(sopportego, then in calle)
with the name of a great soprano,
me seems that it is Malibrano.
Memories of times pass to you.
Or makes of the filmi prohibits to you.
The fog that attenuates the noises,
the fog, that it vanishes the colors,
hides in a gray of sails
the lights of the great "Danieli":
far away mirage, remote,
wrapped up to now of ignoto.
Dwelling of fairies, wizards,
ignoti recondite svaghi.
And hour son here, on the balcony,
with single companion a pigeon,
the pens of ruffled,
that it tries, frightening,
starved a gray
and with violent, aggressive,
to eat, for being alive.
Of forehead, Saint Greater George
rosseggia in the sun that dies.
The Lido stands out far away,
but if you stretch the hand
you only seems to be able to touch it.
More beyond, the immense one of the sea.
Here under, two bridges, the River.
People you par that she lives again:
the Doge, the Checkerses, soppresso
Faliero of a feature of black.
Saint Mark, the priests, the nuns,
the Moors who strike the hours.
Pellicce of dark minks,
tourists with old sweaters
and bags that seem black.
Far, foreign accents....
With prices from rich, display windows....
necklaces with many perline....
The old mossy inn....
Danieli: the lussuosa life....
The catering university student, the row....
Risotto-champagne: one hundred thousand.
In this city? they are NATO,
and eccomi here, son returned,
watching, watching, watching
therefore, like same dreaming
of confused, upset life.
Venice. For the last time.
If you want to try something fun, translate one of your own poems into another language, then back to English. I don't think pig-latin is an option, though.
