All right, I’m not the first person to do this, and I won’t be the last. But here, look, fun! I wrote this poem tonight:
Like a woman who doesn’t know any better
I pull the shade against the darkening sky,
moaning about my life, failing
to notice in the translucent dark, glowing
just behind the dusk,
the streetlamps coming on around the corner.
Like a tree lit up at night,
too still, two-dimensional,
my crystallized frame of mind.
Like a loose and angstful spirit,
sharp, unnecessarily dramatic,
the shadow cast by the corner of my apartment building.
Inside my little studio, it is light, and too small
for this life, cluttered.
Outside, it is dark and not dark at once
and just the right size.
I wrote it for the sole purpose of translating it using Google’s translating engine. First I translated it to Portuguese and back into English:
As a woman whom it does not know to improve I
I pull the mask of meeting to the sky darkening itself,
moaning on my life, failing
to observe in the translucent blackness, becoming incandescent
only behind dusk,
streetlamps that they are come close around I sing it.
As a tree illuminated itself above in the night,
too much still, bidimensional,
my crystallized frame of the mind.
As a flabby spirit and angstful,
sharp, desnecessariamente dramatical,
the shade molded for sings it of my building of apartment.
Inside of my small studio, she is clear, and too much small
for this life, disordered.
Except, he is dark and not blackness in a time
and only the right size.
Wow! I like “flabby spirit.” And “disordered” is such a better word than “cluttered”! Nice touch, that portuguese word left in that Google must have decided was better than the English equivalent. Pulling the mask of meeting to the sky–well, it doesn’t make a whole hell of a lot of sense, but it has a nice ring to it. And suddenly, I am singing! It’s very Walt Whitman!
I’m not done though! Then I translated this altered version into French, then from French into German, then from German back into English. (Line breaks are mine)
While a woman,
whom he does not know to sing in order to improve me,
I pull, do not observe
the mask in the ächzenden colluding sky
in to meet my life in the translucent blackness,
which becomes white-hot
behind the dawn only,
streetlamps, which it closely around me came themselves,
it.
There a tree lit up itself in top at the night
to always two-dimensional,
my crystallized stand of the spirit.
When spirit mol and angstful,
pointedly, the dramatic desnecessariamente,
those sings it to nuance,
which was formed, from my apartment building.
Within my small Studios it is surely and too small
untidy during this life.
Excluded it is dark and not blackness in one time
and only the good size.
Now we have a leftover German word to complement the sophistication of the portuguese. I like “surely and too small untidy.” I like “meet my life in the translucent blackness, which becomes white-hot behind the dawn only”. White-hot!! So much better! And “stand of the spirit” is WAY more evocative than “frame of mind.” The rest doesn’t make even the modicum of sense that the original did, though, so I tried another straight translation and return from the original: English to Russian and back.
As a woman who did not know any better,
I withdraw from the shadow of darkness sky
moaning about my life, not to mention transparent
nightfall,
as the glowing sunset, street walking around the corner.
As the tree lit up at night, is still two-dimensional,
crystallized my mind.
How loose and angstful spirit,
a sharp, too sharp, shadow
cast at the corner of my house.
Inside my little studio, it is light, and too small for this life,
mythology.
Outside, it is dark and dark is not right,
and only the right size.
Holy shit! The glowing sunset, streetwalking around the corner! That is a line of beauty that I could never have invented. What a painted whore, that sunset, coming around the corner. And I love the resigned unease of “Outside, it is dark and dark is not right…”
There were more versions, but you get the idea. What a crazy poetic tool. But if I use it to revise my poetry, must I credit Google’s software with collaboration? I suppose I would be happy to.
Let’s see now; if I were to revise this poem taking these moments into consideration it might be something like:
Like a woman who doesn’t know to improve
I pull the shade against the colluding sky,
moaning on my life, failing
to notice in the translucent darkness, white-hot
just behind the dusk, the glowing sunset
streetwalking around the corner.
Inside my little studio, it is light and safe, and too small
for this life, disordered.
Outside, it is dark and dark is not good,
but just the right size.
Hard to tell whether it’s an improvement. Well. You tell me.
-Alissa