The Surrealist Translation Project

We had such gleeful success translating a small poem about acrobats by Apollinaire into a piece of retro-furniture too small to sit on that we challenged ourselves with other works. We converted the colors of Reverdy's windows at the end of the street of stars into a heartbreaking mélange of laughing men and the departing north wind. Next we took on Daumal's "Attempt at a Description of a Supper of Various Heads in Paris, France" and wouldn't you know those who lamented the passing of the cheese (camembert, pourquoi pas?) collaborated with those who grew bald inside their heads to produce an homage to the Great Anteater at the Municipal Zoo. For Aragon, we enthusiastically reinvented the rose and sang drinking songs. We gave Eluard's "Liberty" to the nesting bird that never says yes and it echoed love's ecstasies in a crystal of rainy days and for Magritte's "Art of Conversation" we imported a dream of stone. On a roll, we translated Breton's missive about mad kisses into celery and brussel sprouts-and ate them with relish. The appetite of our desire knew no bounds.

I don’t see the woman hidden in the forest

Mugshots of the surrealists around a painting:
eyes closed as if dead, so very dead,
Tanguy, hair tussled, perhaps murdered by a thoughtful knife,
Nougé, head thrown back and Breton, placid, confident,
as if shot by the ubiquitous jealous lover
with a bullet of truth, two for good measure,
Aragon reclining in a hammock of delight, eyebrows furrowed, reinventing roses,
some, like Fourrier thinking voluptuously things that have never been,
or, like Dalí before his moustache began to curl,
dozing in an afternoon nap,
imagining bees and pomegranates,
Buñuel already exterminating angels,
Eluard living in the debris of a sleep that widens the sky
as sunlight and nightfall pass across his eyes patiently
waiting for her to step out of the mirror,
Ernst waiting for the butterflies to sing,
or Magritte trying to see, once and for all,
hand over one breast, head turned to the side,
black hair combed over her shoulder
and standing nude in a beautiful reverie,
the woman hidden in the forest.

Dinner with the Magician

Magritte is sitting at the dinner table when he hears a knock at the door. Time is transfixed, as it so often is. He eats the bread pours the wine cuts the beef turns the page of the paper. Meanwhile, the knocking

knocking

knocking

knocking

knocking.

Magritte continues with his meal. He stares blankly into forever.

Outside, like a captive of desire on the threshold of freedom, a man in a bowler hat, holding the crescent moon behind his back, pauses before knocking again