#now im curious and i want to read different poems and their translations into both languages and see how they differ bc. fascinating

[90sbee]

do you ever think about how english allows for a lot of cool vivid expressions with verbs due to combining them with prepositions and how spanish has gender embedded into like every word and how the inflectional system is incredibly rich and. do you ever think of how that changes the way in which we understand and create literature in both languages since they have such different tools for producing poetic imagery. do you ever think about that.

[kyun-toast]

[MONSTA X] Changkyun - Run With Me

word count: 1.1k warnings: none a little note: I was so excited when Changkyun covered “도망가자 Run with Me” by Sunwoojunga which is a song that I hold so close to my heart. It was posted on Monsta X café with the caption translating something roughly to “grab you and run”. Everybody should go and listen to the full song; it’s written so beautifully! As much as I think that he had covered the song to comfort Monbebe that may be going through some tough times, I felt that he might be needing that comfort just as much as we do. Soon after he posted the song, I read his interview with Vogue (Feb 2021) and it solidified those thoughts. As much as he and Monsta X as a whole have achieved so far, I want to be able to tell him that he’s done so well, that it’s okay to rest, to take his time, and that we’ll always be there for him. Even if it’s through me writing about it in a fictional universe lol. *I also included a translation of a line from one of my favourite poems “낮은 곳으로” by Lee Jungha in this, please give it a read too! I can’t describe the love I have for both the poem and song mentioned. I’m not entirely sure if there’s an English translation for it but if not, I’d be more than happy to translate it the best I can just message me! Wow I’m really baring my soul out on the internet like this.

song translation

Changkyun had left you a message, letting you know that he’d be back home late from the studio. With promotions and Kyun just being so committed to his own music, you rarely got to see him anymore. You would feel him rest his body against yours as he collapsed into bed while you slept, and then wake up to find only his perfume left on the pillows in the morning. But even those brief moments where he’d find your hand within the sheets to hold at dawn, you treasured.

With the weekend ahead of you, you decided to stay up to see him when he got back. You settled into the sofa with a cup of tea and a book of poetry that you had found lying around on Changkyun’s bedside table. Poetry wasn’t your go-to for leisurely reading, but you were curious to see if you could get a glance into the extraordinary mind of Im Changkyun through it. With a pot of tea on the coffee table, a thick blanket across your lap, and the soft glow of a lamp illuminating your book, you were more than ready to navigate through the long night with poet Lee Jungha.

-

The soft bleeps of the keypad lock stirred you awake from the sleep you had unknowingly fallen into, and in your excitement, you clumsily got up to greet Changkyun. He entered into the living room, eyes covered by his long hair, dragging his feet along the floor. You could tell by his slumped shoulders that the day had not been so gentle on him. There you stood with a little ache in your heart and a wistful smile on your face, while Changkyun crashed into your body, toppling you back over onto the sofa. Hand curled around the back of your head, and the other around your waist, he nestled his face into your neck and let out a heavy sigh.

“Bad day, baby?” You asked. He replied with a little nod into your neck as you brought a hand up to stroke his hair.

“Can you look at me? I haven’t seen you all week.” This time, he shook his head.

“Okay, not yet.” You continued to stroke his hair as he breathed in your familiar scent, comforting him. There had been many trials and errors in working out your relationship with Changkyun. He had his own way of showing affection or processing his thoughts and feelings and all you knew now is that you just had to give him space. And when you did, he’d come back to return the love and understanding in multitudes.

Though the most important thing during these times was his return, it still bothered you a little that he wouldn’t share what he was thinking while he was gone in his own headspace. You had usually found comfort in exchanging the ins and outs of the deepest of your mind, but it was different with Changkyun. Though he had opened up a lot more since the two of you started seeing each other, there were times like this that just defeated you. Often, you would doubt yourself, wondering if it was something about you that stopped him from breaking down those walls between you. But it was those firm squeezes he gave your hand, silent but sure kisses on your forehead, and loving gaze in his eyes that assured you otherwise.

You both lay tangled on the sofa for a while. Changkyun comforted himself in listening to your pulse, so steady in comparison to the mess that had become of his mind, but you could still sense that he had yet so much to unravel. Seeing him like this teared you heart apart.

“Changkyun. Let’s go.” You said gently. So out of the blue, he stirred to look up at you.

"Let’s go now. I want to show you something.” He sat up as you got up to grab your jacket and keys.

“I know the perfect place.” You finalised, smiling.

-

Hand on the wheel of your car, you drove without even thinking as this route was so familiar to you. Changkyun sat by in the passenger, looking at the coloured lights of Seoul city passing by the window. The cool night air washed through your loose hair as you both sat in a comfortable silence, listening to the music, hands still held tight until you reached your secret destination.

Leading your boyfriend by his hand, you led him to the secluded beach. By the time you had arrived, it was well into dawn; sun just about to rise above the horizon, birds ready to start their days.

You lay next to each other; your hand still held onto Changkyun’s while the other ran through the soft sand. He looked at you with a soft smile on his face and you could feel that little something in his chest unfurl ever so tentatively.

Having been walled in by the skyscrapers of Seoul, you or Changkyun had never had many chances to look up at the sky in its grand entirety. Coming to the beach had not opened up your horizons to an unobstructed sky but it had also lifted something heavy off of his chest, allowing him to drink in the wild air.

“Hey, look.” You tore your eyes away from his, pointing at the sky. The sun had started to peer over the ocean, sending the deepest hues of pinks and purples to paint the morning sky – a watercolour dream. This was your favourite time of day, when the colours of the sky tints bright whites a soft purple grey, and deep blacks an earthy navy. Nothing is ever as harsh as it seems.

By the time the colours had faded only to leave some golden pink streaks within the porcelain blue, you were both grinning like idiots over what felt like nothing. Hands still held tight in the sand, you turned your heads to face each other and smile.

“Thank you.” He finally breathed out. “Thank you for showing me.”

You smiled back, feeling a sense of relief in how he was finally at ease.

“I’ll always be willing to run away with you Changkyun, remember that.” As you both turned to look back at the sky, a short passage from Kyun’s book you had read earlier came to mind.

잠겨 죽어도 좋으니 너는 물처럼 내게 밀려오라

Come to me, like the swiftness of water, and I will die happy submerged in your waves.

With each day you spent with Changkyun, he bared more of his soul to you yet there was still so much you had to learn about him. But that was okay because you had all the sunrises in the world.

“Let’s go home”

[istheresomebodywhocanimagine]

Because I’m selfish could you do a shipping me with members thing? I’m short, half Greek and Scottish but raised in Australia (yes, I do have an accent) I have really long brown hair and hazel eyes, and I play bass and sing. I love to read and write, and I almost always have headphones on and music blasting. I also am a drama student and I love to act. Thank you so much xxxxx Love your blog btw.

hi! don’t feel selfish for this, i’mma keep it real with you pal - i have asked for several ships before nO SHAME

anyways, in relation to BoRhap - I ship you with Gwilym!!! At first I was going to say Joe, but I think I see you meshing with Gwilym really well:

When Gwilym got cast as Brian in BoRhap, you were the first one he called. First, to break the news. Second, to ask you for a little help brushing up on his skills. He knew you played bass, and it wasn’t exactly lead guitar, but he still wanted to know all of your little tips and pointers in case there was something he could use when he finally met Brian.

In fact, he came over the next day with his guitar, already ready to learn. You were happy to oblige, but you admitted to him early on that you didn’t exactly know how well you’d be able to translate your bass-centered ideas to the guitar.

“What’s different about the two?” he’d asked, seated across from you and leaning forward over his guitar, genuinely interested in what you had to say. He considered you a great mind on the subject.

“Well, the mechanics are similar, you know, as far as that goes, but the fingerings aren’t going to be the same…” you rambled on for a minute, Gwil transfixed by everything you were saying.

After you were done speaking, he’d grinned at you proudly. “You’re brilliant, love.”

He calls you brilliant a lot, actually. It’s his favorite thing to say to you, because of the way your eyes light up when he says it. They are already brimming with all kinds of energy, but after he calls you brilliant - that’s when he’s the most captivated.

You heard that word - brilliant - coming out of his mouth the most often when he was reading over your latest writing, no matter what style it was. Poetry, prose, he loved it all. 

“Can I keep this one?” he’d asked one time, holding up a piece of prose you’d written specifically about him. You grinned and took it back from him, looking over it for a moment.

“What’s so special about this one?” you’d asked as you sat back on the bed, preferring the poem you’d written about him a few months ago much more than this piece. But boy, did he have an answer for you. In fact, you’d never heard someone speak as passionately about something as Gwil would once he got going.

He stood up and gave you a 10 minute speech about why he thought you should let him keep that short story, introduction, body, and conclusion to the speech all included.

“So, can I?” he’d asked after a moment of you sitting there, dumbfounded. He gave you a toothy smile as he sat back down next to you.

“You were definitely born to be an actor,” you mumbled, handing the prose to him and shaking your head in disbelief at how much he’d fought for those two pages of writing. That’d gotten a chuckle out of him, and he peppered the side of your face with kisses before happily taking the story back.

Speaking of acting, Gwil LOVED coming to your performances. He took a whole week off of filming once just so he could see every night of your theater company’s Anything Goes. 

He’d posted a big long paragraph about your performance after opening night, telling all of his loyal followers how brilliant you had been, and how proud he was of you. And, of course, he’d put some sentences in there about how much he loved you and loved going on this journey with you.

And then Joe commented “-Bri” just to make fun of how eerily alike Gwil was to his elder double. Classic Joe.

Now, if we’re talking Queen, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I really think I ship you with Roger - HEAR ME OUT, I have some (probably weak) reasons:

The reason I think you’d caught Roger’s eye before any of the other boys is because of your accent - he’d latched onto it almost immediately after hearing you speaking to Deacon, who had hired you as a bass tech. You were both eagerly discussing some kind of system that Roger hadn’t a clue about, but your voice was like a drug to him.

He’d made a point of inserting himself into the conversation, introducing himself and chastising John a bit.

“How come I haven’t met your friend here sooner?” Roger scolded John playfully, John just laughing and shaking his head.

“This is Y/N, she’s my new tech. I figured I’d introduce her to the most sane members of the band first, but first I have to figure out who those are.”

You’d laughed at that, particularly because of the mock hurt on Roger’s face before he’d reached out to shake your hand, you introducing yourself this time.

“That accent,” he’d had to point out, letting go of your hand, “Where is it from?”

“Australia. What about yours?” you’d countered, noticing a bit of a different lilt to his words than John’s.

Roger scoffed at that, shrugging. “Cornwall. Exciting stuff, eh?”

After that day, he’d always find reasons to come and talk to you, sometimes the reason being no better than him wanting to hear your accent.

The day Roger realized he actually might fancy you was when he’d noticed you writing on one of the off days and asked to see a sneak peek of what you were doing. Roger loved writing songs, and wondered if you had any good material.

You did. In fact, he was thoroughly impressed by your work, and spent the rest of the day work-shopping with you, which spilled over into a late night coffee run before it was time to go hop on the bus to head to the next tour stop.

You were in the coffee shop, talking about what Queen had coming up after this tour, when Roger had redirected the conversation.

“You know, I’ve never asked, what did you study back home?” he’d inquired, curious to see what kind of person you were. He’d pegged you as some sort of major similar to John based on your identical knowledge of his bass, so he was pleasantly surprised when you revealed that you were a drama student. “An actor, huh? That must be why you’re so seemingly interested in all of Brian’s stories. God, explains so much now.”

You had to laugh at that, shaking your head. “No, no, Brian actually has some good stories and knows how to tell them. Now you, on the other hand…” you’d trailed off, Roger recoiling in slight insult at what you’d suggested. 

Someone who could keep up with his humor and insult him while they were at it? You were growing on him quickly.

One thing he always really enjoyed doing once you grew more comfortable around him was (carefully) taking your headphones and listening to a little bit of whatever you were currently listening to.

At first, it annoyed you a bit, but when you realized he was genuinely wanting to pick up on some of your music taste, you allowed it to happen with little to no issue. 

Also, he’d started slipping you song recommendations on tapes of his, labeling them cute things and drawing little smiley faces on them. Though it was difficult to understand his scrawlings sometimes, you cherished those tapes.

While we’re talking about songs, Roger liked to hear you sing. One time, you were trying to explain a part of the song where you thought Deacon wasn’t getting a good sound out of his bass to another tech, and you started singing the chorus part where it started sounding off.

Roger was, for lack of better words, shook.

Like, he loved your voice.

So, clever little gentleman he is, he found a way to start getting you to sing around him more by pretending to hear issues with the bass in the songs they’d play during their sets.

“It was like, it was muted during the last part of the second chorus, you know?” he’d said one time, working his way into it nonchalantly. “Like, the part where, you know, Fred goes, ‘and I love the things…’“ he’d trailed off, pretending not to remember the next part.

You thought for a moment, then you sang in a soft voice just to clarify.  “And I love the things, I really love the things that you do, oh, you’re my best friend? That part?”

“Yeah, yeah!” he’d say, smiling and pointing at you like you were a genius for remembering the simplest lyrics in the whole set.

You caught on after a few times of false alarms from him, but you let him keep believing that he had you right where he wanted you. It was honestly really cute that he’d go through so much work to hear you sing, even if he didn’t necessarily need to try that hard.

(But don’t tell him that, for God’s sake.)

[diversechildliteraturereviews]

Argueta, J. (2016). Somos como las nubes. We are like the clouds. Toronto, ON: Groundwood Books.

Illustrated by Alfonso Ruano.

Translated by Elisa Amado.

Review # 9

Somos como las nubes (Argueta & Ruano, 2016) is a realistic fiction picturebook story for children and youth, told in verse. Collectively, the poems and accompanying artwork done in acrylic utilize both first and third person narratives and “describes the odyssey that thousands of boys, girls and young people from El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras and Mexico undertake when they flee their countries because of extreme poverty and fear of violence. They abandon everything in hope of a better life” according to author Jorge Argueta. Jorge Argueta is a “native Salvadoran and Pipil Nahua Indian” who “spent much of his life in rural El Salvador [and now] lives in San Francisco.” The poems and accompanying illustrations do not shy away from the real and realized fears and dangers experienced by young persons who migrate from Central America and Mexico to the United States of America with conversations of gangs, poverty, coyotes, migra, border-crossings, and homelessness. Through reading this text, “poetry demands a filling in of detail and mood on the part of the reader plus an understanding of the characters’ feelings and thoughts as well as intepretations of symbolic language and its implications” (Botelho & Rudman, 2009, p. 195). Argueta & Ruano juxtapose the dark - darkness both physical and spiritual with illuminations and use of brightness and color through their sharing of places rich in culture and lush landscapes adorned with beautiful flora and fauna and native animals and birds, and beautiful people and friendships. 

Argueta’s telling of the odyssey of young persons from El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras and Mexico is told from a Salvadoran perspective and utilizes his own language - Salvadoran Spanish, whilst providing translations for both other Spanish language speakers and English speakers. Argueta provides explanations of some of the translations, as some readers may not be familiar with that naming/calling of the particular item. For example, he uses the word “cuches” for pigs in one of the poems, but provides also “puercos and cerdos” in the footnotes - cognizant and respectful of the diversity of his Spanish-speaking audience; demonstrative of his diasporic view and approach to the (im)migration conversation. This is also demonstrative of his (re)claiming of identities of persons from various parts of Mexico and Central America, against a homogenized American narrative of the immigrants from those regions. 

How are they like the clouds? Is it that the clouds take on many different shapes and move - with help of the wind - across space, sometimes the skies are calm and other times not, sometimes there are many clouds together, other times there are just a few wispy ones, sometimes there is only one or none at all. The use of the metaphor, immigrants as clouds, speaks volumes. Clouds can float beyond borders and above walls. Clouds are needed because they bring rain that helps our plants and vegetation grow, supplying us with food. To see immigrants as clouds, is to see that there will always be migration and immigration; and that there is great value in that. We are Like the Clouds (Argueta & Ruano, 2016) invites readers to travel through space and time, like the clouds, and take in the many sights, sounds, smells, tastes that reminds and speaks of home. Why would a young person choose to leave their home and all that they knew and with which they were familiar?

Though this is a work of poetry, Argueta’s collection informs readers of many of the elements - natural and unnatural, human and inhumane - of the journey of young persons traveling from Central America and Mexico, evoking some of the many elements and senses involved. 

Nature - Flora, fauna, and birds

The reader’s journey begins in El Salvador with a young boy flying amongst the clouds looking at “the huge San Salvador volcano” in the distance. He flies amongst the cows, horses, pumpkins, and even elephants while he reminisces about home and childhood, thinking about “papusas, tamales, popcorn balls, cotton candy” and “cornfields in bloom, pumpkins and watermelons, parrots and kites, and the huge San Salvador volcano.” “Mi barrio” “My Neighborhood” opens up space for closer examination of what is home. What is home? Here Ruano provides fantastical or imagined recollections of home in the form of el gallo in a track suit, holding a mirror in one hand and a candy in the other. It reminds me of the Martina the Beautiful Cockroach: A Cuban Folktale (Deedy, 2007) and Don Gallo and his big beautiful shoes with sunglasses on his head. 

These fantasy elements easily coexist with real and natural elements like “The Azacuanes” - these are birds of prey which travel together, aves rapaces de El Salvador. “Twice a year, an estimated 10 million migratory raptors and other birds cross Guatemala heading South in mid-October, and North in March-April. This phenomena is known in Guatemala and Central America as Azacuanes” (www.arcasguatemala.org). “Flame tree” is another natural element that shares a space in this recollection of home with its beautiful red blooms. Though it is not centered, one cannot help but to notice its bright foliage existing in contrast to the pale ground and the pale colors of the buildings. Whilst admiring its beauty, you could almost miss the persons - their backs to us - walking away from all they know, towards the distance. 

La Campanera Neighborhood

The journey continues and again we see the fantastical mixed-in with the realistic in Ruano’s illustration of “the painted people” “their arms, faces, chests and backs are homes to tattoos like snakes” “A mí me da miedo que esas culebras me vayan a picar.” This neighborhood, “La Campanera” is not like the neighborhood readers were first introduced. La Campanera appears to be a scary place, inhabited by scary people who resemble cyclopses. When researching “La Campanera” in El Salvador, I learned that it is a densely populated place that is home to many gangs and gang-member initiated violence, soldiers, and abandoned homes. La Campanera is not considered a desired place to live. “El Palabrero” is the gang leader and the person who coordinates all of the criminal activities of the gang, 

“He is the boss. He is the one who tells the gang, Hit this one, hit that one. I don’t want to be this one or that one. Let’s go, I say to my father. Let’s go, I say to my mother. Let’s go as far away as we can, where those words can’t touch us.”

Given the fear of the possibility of violence, harm, and possible death at the hands of the gang members, it is no wonder that young people would want to go. Yet not all were able to afford the cost of going - at least by bus. The poem “iPod” is accompanied by an illustration of a young boy holding a dog, waving at a departing bus. “iPod left today for Guatemala” he has managed to sell his possession “you sold it to buy your bus ticket” and is hopeful “I will go to Mexico. And if I can to Arizona. And if I can to Washington where my mother is living.” It is not uncommon for members of a family to travel separately - it costs a lot of money to purchase a bus ticket. It is possible that iPod had to wait until his mother got settled in Washington before she could send him the iPod which would be his passage. Reading “iPod” left me curious about how much it would cost to travel from San Salvador to Guatemala (one-way). I am ever aware of my privilege - middle-class, American, with an income and education, who has travelled to and from many countries in my lifetime without ever having to really consider how was going to pay for my travel. At any rate, when I visited www.pullmantur.com and searched for the cost of travel - turista-class, the lowest available class - for a child aged 12 and under, one-way it was $27.00. This doesn’t seem like much, but when I think of a young person having to part with their dog and iPod to buy a bus ticket, the cost then seems so much higher than I could ever fathom.

There is a pause in the midst of the telling of this journey in the form of a two-page spread - again Ruano shows readers the backs of persons, several more than before, wearing backpacks, some in jeans and t-shirts, others with hats or ball caps, some carry water jugs, young and old, men, women, and children, some holding hands, others walking alone, all moving together. They walk along a narrowing pathway with the dense forestation serving as the backdrop. 

“Las Chinamas” is the border between El Salvador and Guatemala. 

It seems so unnatural to have la frontera/the border here. Ruano’s depiction of Las Chinamas shows people moving from a more lush and green space to a space of almost barrenness and different colors. In reality, the border is a socially constructed one represented by the bridge that sits above the Rio Paz/Paz river, on both sides the lush vegetation, the same trees and birds. “When we crossed the border at Las Chinamas, I saw the river Paz. Its water runs smiling between the rocks. Here the cenzontles never stop singing.”

Bestia - The Beast

Argueta shares about the Beast - “the name for the trains the migrants travel on” in his poem “My Father Tells Me.” Similar to the train traveled on by the protagonists in Two White Rabbits (Buitrago & Yockteng, 2015), the Beast has been come to be known as such because of the dangers of traveling in such a manner. These are not passenger trains. They are cargo trains that travel taking merchandise to the North. Migrants gather at outposts to catch the train. They then travel precariously on the tops and sides of any Bestia, hopeful to not get severely injured, maimed, or worse killed.

Unaccompanied young children making the journey North, travel with dreams of being reunited with loved ones, family members who have traveled ahead of them. Many rely on the help of “the coyote [who] tells us we are almost there.” The coyote is shown sitting with his arms crossed looking over the younger migrants as they sleep in the night. The coyote is not the only person who migrants look to for safe passage to the North. “Santo Toribio, saint of the immigrants, show us the way.” Santo Toribio is a Roman Catholic saint who is believed to be the “good coyote” who will “protect us, lead us. Deliver us from all evil. Amen.” https://www.facebook.com/univisionnoticias/videos/10156716466589796/ 

Santo Toribio protects our young protagonist and unaccompanied minor all the way across the border into the United States - Los Angeles, the city of angels, “The angels are not in the sky. They are behind the hills, beyond the desert.” Hopefully the angels will watch over him as he navigates the space that he has dreamed of occupying. 

The Paleta Seller

With “Paletas” - fruit popsicles - especially paletas de coco from “Mi Barrio,” Argueta evokes those good feelings of home. The colorful buildings are replaced with the colorful balloons, the flaming tree is seen in the mother wearing a brightly colored shirt. Señor Celsio “pushes his cloud-like cart through the streets of Los Angeles.” It is as though all of the sounds, sights, smells, and tastes have traveled all this way...still traveling aboard this cart now. The story, como las nubes, never stops...it keeps moving, traveling. 

My favorite paleta is the paleta de coco. When I lived in Austin, TX, home to many (im)migrants - documented and undocumented, some in constant movement fearing the migra could come and get them at anytime, I remember el vendedor de paletas selling paletas from his cart outside the school at which I worked. It is quite a contrast of bitter and sweet - the fear of deportation, living homeless and the paleta - a sweet treat that possesses the ability to transport you back home through an explosion of coconut...if only for a moment.