FRANCOIS AROUET – UPDATED Renowned white translator of Biden’s Inauguration poem FIRED from project because he’s not black & female. How BLACKS are now taking over English literature and poetry!

by an English patriot and poet, edited by François Arouet
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The story of a simple poem, written to celebrate clownishly demonic Joe Biden’s historic STOLEN presidency and “wokeness”, has assumed dark undertones of anti-white racism, censorship, and literary despair.

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I am speaking of the Black Nationalist poem, ‘The Hill We Climb’, written for and performed by spoken word poet and rapper (she’s rubbish at both) Amanda Gorman at the President in Thief’s fraudulent “inauguration” this past January 20th.
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Before I get to Ms. Gorman’s BLATANTLY anti-white, racist firing of the accomplished, classically trained Spaniard hired to translate her work into his language, I wanted to give my thoughts on the poem.

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As a poet myself, I was curious to read this work, especially as this black poet was selected as the US National Youth Poet Laureate only recently. Although I was quite sure that Gorman was selected on the basis of her sex and the colour of her skin, and NOT on the merit of her writing, I wanted to give her and her poem a chance to see if there was any substance behind her work before passing final judgment.
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Sadly, as I expected, there wasn’t much of anything worth celebrating….

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Firstly, the poem is simply too long and more an expression of the author’s “woke” sensibilities and personal message to her audience, than poetry.

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Even the Encylopedia Britannica’s modern definition of poetry, precludes Ms. Gorman’s work being defined as poetry as her writing is neither concentrated or rhythmic.

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As per Britannica.com:

“Poetry is literature that evokes a concentrated, imaginative awareness of experience or a specific emotional response through language chosen and arranged for its meaning, sound, and rhythm.”

Sure, Gorman read the poem with rhythm, However if one looks at the writing on paper, it reads more like a disjointed short story than a poem.

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It is also bland, almost depressively ugly, and as such does NOT evoke any sort of emotional response – another prerequisite for the writing to be categorised as a poem.

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Although modern art is communistic and ugly in nature, poetry should still – at least one would think – be somewhat pleasant to the ear, no?

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Ms. Gorman’s was NOT.

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Beyond the theme apparent from the title — at this point I don’t even really recall much about the content after reading it — and apart from a few poorly chosen rhymes, the poem was more awkward prose than poetry.
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To be honest, I’ve heard many a rap song during my travels (I used to teach at a halfway house for “urban” youth and raised sons) that was FAR more artistic, poetic and thoughtful than Ms. Gorman’s rhythm-less, diatribal monologue.

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“‘The Hill We Climb” was more of a speech than a poem, and I guarantee — I refused to watch the unauguration as there was nothing to celebrate after they ripped the winner’s trophy out of Trump’s hands — all the Biden clan and his adoring fans 🙂 lapped it up and are still clapping nearly two months later.
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In fact, I found the poem boring and deeply depressing, the sort of things the Left go for — solemnizing and echoing the cries from the ghetto (a place the likes of Nancy Pelosi and co have NO connection to or concern for) about the extraordinary steepness of the hill these poor souls have to climb.
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….an insurmountable incline that has more to do with their collectively low IQ’s, elevated testosterone levels deficient frontal lobes, and resultant propensity for crime and academic under-achievement than so-called “systemic racism”. After all, Asians, also non-white, seem to do pretty damn well in America from what I’ve heard!
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Ms. Gorman’s – who describes herself as a “skinny Black girl, descended from slaves and raised by a single mother” in the poem – personal hill was unduly steep because her mother and father decided not to raise her together, NOT because of slavery or systemic racism, as the poem asserts.

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I myself had a difficult childhood. I grew up in a poor family in a working-class English and Irish neighborhood in what can only be described as a white Northern English slum by today’s standards

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How many American black kids could live without indoor plumbing and central heating as we did?. Still it never occurred to me to write poetry about my struggles growing up.
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It is not in the white man’s nature – at least not until recently – to grovel in his misery and try to garner sympathy from others because of it.

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If anything, we as a people are ashamed if we are strugglibg. We choose to expend any energy we have left – after slaving in the mines or toiling in asbestos factories, as people did in periods past – trying to better our lives through reading, self-education, entrepreneurialism and striving generally for a better.life.
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Certainly whining into the camera, looking for sympathy and MONEY was not the white way.
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I myself, in spite of my upbringing, have always been inspired to write uplifting verse about the delights of nature I rarely saw as a child, or of the joy I feel when I think of my native homeland and what we once were.

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When I write for others it’s with children in mind, so my poems are filled with fantasy, legend and English lore and history.
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I’d NEVER write about the personal struggles I’ve had to endure. In fact it pained me to do so here, although I felt I needed to do so to make a point, because I loved my childhood. To be honest, apart from perhaps expressing my despair regarding the direction the world and specifically my beloved nation is headed, which I express through heartfelt lamentation, I’d NEVER EVER whine about personal circumstance!
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To do so would be embarrassing, obscene and crass, to say the least.
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As a poet I was also trained to write in classical iambic pentameter — poems that flow and have rhythm and rhyme, making use of our wonderfully rich English language — poetry that conjures up beautiful imagery to express not only how I am feeling and how I see the world, but how I would like the reader to see the world as well.
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I also always try to lift the spirits of the reader and to leave them with a feeling of warmth and nostalgia.
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My poems would never receive any prizes or accolades as I am white and I write old-hat classical poetry in the style of Lord Byron, William Wordsworth, Longfellow (my favourite American poet), and Tennyson, my favourite English poet, to name but a few. It’s also too white for today’s demented world! Merely talking about England, our nature and past – the subjects I typically write about in my poetry – is steeped in “white supremacy,” apparently.
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Still, like people who paint, I don’t write to tell others how miserable I may or may not be, or to get rich or care what anyone thinks for that matter. I do it to express myself, and perhaps make the few people who have a chance to see, read or hear my artistic expression, a little bit happier.
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The exact opposite of what Ms. Gorman and her team of ANTI-WHITE RACISTS have done with the “Inaugural poem”!

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When day comes, we ask ourselves where can we find light in this never-ending shade?
The loss we carry, a sea we must wade.
We’ve braved the belly of the beast.
We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace,
and the norms and notions of what “just” is isn’t always justice.
And yet, the dawn is ours before we knew it.
Somehow we do it.
Somehow we’ve weathered and witnessed a nation that isn’t broken,
but simply unfinished.
We, the successors of a country and a time where a skinny Black girl descended from slaves and raised by a single mother can dream of becoming president, only to find herself reciting for one.

And yes, we are far from polished, far from pristine,
but that doesn’t mean we are striving to form a union that is perfect.
We are striving to forge our union with purpose.
To compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters, and conditions of man.
And so we lift our gazes not to what stands between us, but what stands before us.
We close the divide because we know, to put our future first, we must first put our differences aside.
We lay down our arms so we can reach out our arms to one another. [JdN: She had to put that saintly peace-love-and-forgiveness stuff in there, but the whole poem belies this.]
We seek harm to none and harmony for all.
Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true:
That even as we grieved, we grew.
That even as we hurt, we hoped.
That even as we tired, we tried.
That we’ll forever be tied together, victorious.
Not because we will never again know defeat, but because we will never again sow division.

Scripture tells us to envision that everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree and no one shall make them afraid.
If we’re to live up to our own time, then victory won’t lie in the blade, but in all the bridges we’ve made.
That is the promise to glade, the hill we climb, if only we dare.
It’s because being American is more than a pride we inherit.
It’s the past we step into and how we repair it.
We’ve seen a force that would shatter our nation rather than share it.
Would destroy our country if it meant delaying democracy.
This effort very nearly succeeded.
But while democracy can be periodically delayed,
it can never be permanently defeated.
In this truth, in this faith, we trust,
for while we have our eyes on the future, history has its eyes on us.
This is the era of just redemption.
We feared it at its inception.
We did not feel prepared to be the heirs of such a terrifying hour,
but within it, we found the power to author a new chapter, to offer hope and laughter to ourselves.
So while once we asked, ‘How could we possibly prevail over catastrophe?’ now we assert, ‘How could catastrophe possibly prevail over us?’

 

[JdN: Why is a slavery that ended in 1865 STILL a catastrophe in 2020, 155 years later?

In the 1970s, anticommunist South Vietnamese who had been pro-American during the Vietnam War of 1963-75 flooded into Northern Virginia, especially into Wilson Boulevard in Arlington, all this while I was a student at Georgetown  University, across the Potomac River.

They were not white either — and in fact were very short, had little, monkey-like noses, and (in summertime) skin as brown as Barack Obama’s, just like other Southeast Asians (Filipinos, Cambodians, southern Chinese, Thais, etc.)

The gal on the left has dyed her hair light-brown, which many East Asian women do. Blond looks frankly ridiculous on them, but light-brown looks good.

But guess what? They worked three jobs, then took courses in computers or accounting at night, and saved their money by living ten in one house. And within a decade, they were driving Mercedes and owning businesses!

And oh, yeah, they had learned to speak proper English! 

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We will not march back to what was, but move to what shall be:
A country that is bruised but whole, benevolent but bold, fierce and free.
We will not be turned around or interrupted by intimidation because we know our inaction and inertia will be the inheritance of the next generation.
Our blunders become their burdens.
But one thing is certain:
If we merge mercy with might, and might with right, then love becomes our legacy and change, our children’s birthright.

So let us leave behind a country better than the one we were left.
With every breath from my bronze-pounded chest, we will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one.
We will rise from the golden hills of the west.
We will rise from the wind-swept north-east where our forefathers first realized revolution.
We will rise from the lake-rimmed cities of the midwestern states.
We will rise from the sun-baked south.
We will rebuild, reconcile, and recover.
In every known nook of our nation, in every corner called our country,
our people, diverse and beautiful, will emerge, battered and beautiful.
When day comes, we step out of the shade, aflame and unafraid.
The new dawn blooms as we free it.
For there is always light,
if only we’re brave enough to see it.
If only we’re brave enough to be it.

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She uses half the words incorrectly. “Shade” is for her negative, but not for most people in this country, which, except for overcast Seattle and Pittsburgh, is usually sunny and hot for much of the year.

There is no rhyming or rhythm, just a ramble.  It’s not a poem for an inuauguration about being proud and grateful Americans of Black heritage, but about Blacks having all sorts of grievances while living IN America.

In Germany there has been for decades a huge, rich and powerful organization called the Zentralrat der Juden in Deutschland, the “Council of Jews IN Germany” — not “the Council of Jewish Germans.”

Big difference. It means: “We are here to get stuff for ourselves.” 

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Gorman’s poem is apparently such a work of art that it now needs to be translated into 17 different languages. It seems the wider WHITE world is also clamouring to read it. This in spite of the fact that ol’ Joe almost passed out while the poet performed it! 🙂
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A few weeks after Ms. Gorman had selected poems that she wanted translated into OUR respective European languages for her publisher (they are not being translated into ANY African languages, from what I gather), the Net was abuzz with the fact that actual whites – you know, the people that created languages like English, French, Spanish etc – were behind the translation of Gorman’s poems into these same languages!
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The furore started when some vile race-baiting feminist in the Netherlands exposed the name and identity of the Dutch translator hired to translate Gorman’s silly poem into Dutch. As “a black poet can only be translated by another black poet” the blogger attacked and the woke Twitterati (almost entirely American) erupted in unison!
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The blogger, Janice Deul, a “Dutch”, (BLACK) online writer who called “a white writing for a black incomprehensible”, was livid that a translator had not been chosen “who, like Amanda Gorman”, was also “a spoken word artist, young, female and unapologetically Black.”

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Things got so heated that the “Gay Dutch writer” who had been chosen to translate Gorman’s poem into Dutch – (theauthor identifies as non-binary apparently — whatever that even means) was forced to “withdraw from the project”.
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Pathetically, instead of fighting for her job, for her people, and for what’s RIGHT, the treacherous white yet anti-white translator all but AGREED with the criticism directed her way — and bowed to the pressure.

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What happened to this woman’s — sorry, non-binary person’s — fighting spirit? Did it slip between the cracks in the gender gap? 🙂

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Marieka Lucas Rijneveld, described by her agency as the International Booker Prize winning “non-binary writer who does not use him/her as pronouns”, said that she (it) “felt it was best she honour the poet and step away from the project”.
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Dutch publisher Meulenhoff issued a statement following Rijneveld’s withdrawal as the translator.

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If this wasn’t so sick, I’d laugh:

“We want to learn from this by talking and we will walk a different path with the new insights. We will be looking for a team to work with to bring Amanda’s words and message of hope and inspiration into translation as well as possible and in her spirit.”

Apparently, Deul – the woman that doxxed the white translator online – had not even bothered reading one verse of Rijneveld’s translation.
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It didn’t matter to this Deul person how the translation read. What only mattered was the identity of the translator, the colour of their skin, their age and level of woke militancy. And being a freak, a fellow left-wing ideologue and a BLM supporter were never going to be enough — as Rijneveld was simply not black.

Wrong race!
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So, in the end the apologetic anti-white weasel of a translator/writer lost her job and the publisher caved, bowing to public pressure from the Left. And Deul, the militant activist, won — and once again, as has become a trend of late, the politics of evil triumphed over creative freedom, genuine equality and decency.
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This week, the plot thickened in the Gorman poem translation saga when a somewhat sane and far less apologetic Spaniard decided not to capitulate to the mob when they were alerted to the fact that in Spain, OMG, a Spaniard was hired to translate the shoddy poem into Spanish!

Dios mio!
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RT reported that,

“According to the AFP, A Catalan translator says his translation of a poem recited at the President Joe Biden’s Inauguration was shelved after he was told that, being a white male, he had the wrong ‘profile’ to translate a black female poet.”

Víctor Obiols, a renowned English-Catalan translator, said his Spanish publisher refused to use his already completed translation of Amanda Gorman’s poem ‘The Hill We Climb’, ostensibly because his skin color and gender were not appropriate for the task.

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Barcelona-based publisher Univers said they commissioned the translation to Obiols because they considered him to be the best qualified. Obiols is well-known for translating the works of Shakespeare and Oscar Wilde into Catalan.
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However, after the translation was already finished, Univers was contacted by Gorman’s US publisher, Viking Books, and asked to find a translator who is a woman and an activist, preferably of African-American origin instead. (God help the poor Spaniards if they’ve got these people there as well.)

“They did not question my abilities, but they were looking for a different profile, which had to be a woman, young, activist and preferably Black,’ Obiols told AFP.”

Victor Obiols had been asked by the Barcelona publishing Co. Univers several weeks earlier to translate the Catalan version of Gorman’s poem.

In fact, Obiols had actually finished work on the project when the publishers told him he was being removed.

According to the left-wing Guardian, Obiols said,

“They simply told me I am not suitable to translate it. They did not question my abilities; they just reiterated on several occasions that they [the American publisher and author, apparently] were looking for a different profile.”

Obiols who has translated other works, such as Shakespeare, Oscar Wilde and Greek classical authors, said the company has promised to pay him still, adding that he was unsure who rejected him — the publishing company or Gorman’s agent, as “both were named at one time or another”.
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So the woman who spoke at Biden’s Inauguration, or perhaps her American literary agent, literally had a man fired because of his race!! And specifically because he is white!
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Obiols told the BBC,

“It is a complicated subject, one that cannot be treated with frivolity. But if I cannot translate a poet because she is a woman, young, Black, an American of the 21st century, neither can I translate Homer because I am not a Greek of the 8th century BC. Or I should not have translated Shakespeare because I am not a 16th century Englishman.”

Well said, Señor Orbiols.
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So is this a tempest in a teapot, and a fabricated uproar over the translation of some second-rate poet into other languages?

That’s at least how the Establishment Right and the Left wing pundits, who both agree and disagree with the Spaniard and Dutch creature’s firing, are regarding this story. For me, however, this is about BLATANT anti-white racism and the left- wing villains behind it who are not being held to account for their hatred and demonic actions.

As a linguist and translator myself, having worked with clients who were often non-white in the past, I would now be considered unfit to translate for them — according to the anti-white, racist, woke brigade.

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From a literary standpoint, the most worrying part of the whole saga, and the poem in particular, is society’s blatant disregard for the quality of the writing over what conforms to the “morality” (more like immorality) and ideology of the day.
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So now, world art which used to encourage the most gifted young Florentine painters to compete against each other and excel, classical composers to travel to Vienna to showcase their talents and compete for the ear of the masters — with such talent and glory the world will never again witness — is now being dumbed down in favour of what the Left views as “morally” right and “woke”.
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And all that was once (and still is) artistically beautiful, is now “morally abhorrent.”
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To quote from Shakespeare’s Hamlet, to express my disgust at the destruction of Western Civilization in my lifetime.

” …. O, woe is me, To have seen what I have seen, see what I see!”

End article
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Two poems written by author of article. One patriotic in nature and one – a really beautiful poem – about nature.

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Ode to my country, England
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Beloved country, land serene,
Where shepherds toil on hill and dale.
With dainty lambs on hillsides green
And sheep that graze through wind and hail.
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This earth will ever ours remain,
On this our proud and sacred land.
And there will be a wealth of grain,
To be sustained by God’s own hand.
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We’ve basked in glory through the years,
As skillful masters of the sea.
Our vict’ries have allayed our fears,
Their names are part of history.
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Our ships have sailed to find new land,
By will of God, were safely blessed.
For they were built by our own hand,
With all the virtues we possessed,
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Such men of letters and repute,
We should be proud of our success.
Such treasures, no one can dispute;
Our sole regret is forcefulness.
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As waves rebound upon our shore,
We follow footsteps in the sand.
Of all we see, we are in awe,
We shall exult in this our land.
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The Summer Rose 
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Oh, rose of glory, how you all inspire.
The sultry days of summer shall remind
Of lovers in their youth filled with desire-
A time to stroll together, arms entwined.
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Still locked in an embrace their senses reel,
The haunting colours of the rose excite.
And all at once, enthralled by its appeal,
They stop to gaze with longing for the night.
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Amongst the other flow’rs that grow beside,
The rose in all its glory stands apart.
The beauty of its flow’r it cannot hide-
A symbol of true love to touch the heart.
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The rose is crowned with thorns in majesty,

Its vibrant buds are destined long to bloom.

A rose without a thorn is rare to see,

And smolders in the flame of its perfume.
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— 5 March 2021 100 euros and a letter from M in France, who also sends helpful emails. He KNOWS what is is like to live under a radical lockdown AND have laws literally against free speech plus NO right to a gun. This is a country where teachers get their heads cut off.

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