I
I
I
I
I
I
868.108 F54
f ttWic Iprarp
This Volume is for
REFERENCE USE ONLY
3.
lf^Am\::^^
KANSAS CITY, MO -PUBLIC LIBRARY
D QDD1 4SSH7Efl 7
ANTOLOGIA DE LA POESIA
AMERICANA G O N TE M P O R A N E A
AMERICANA
CONTEMPORANEA
Selection y compilaci6n
de DUDLEY FITTS
A NEW DIRECTIONS BOOK
THE FALCON PRESS, LONDON
ANTHOLOGY
OF CONTEMPOKfitf ..:
::::,:
LATIN-AMERICAN POETRY
Edited
h DUDLEY FITT
A NEW DIRECTIONS BOOK
NORFOLK, CONN.
COPYRIGHT 1942 AND 1947, NEW DIRECTIONS
PRINTED IN U, S A.
A LA MEMORIA DE
JOSE MARIA EGUREN
1892-1942
Ingenio mors nulla nocet, vacat undique tutum:
inlcesum semper carmina nomen habent.
IN L IMINE PRIMO
TUERCELEEL CUELLO
|icEi^^cf ejip^l cisne de engaiioso plumaje
que 3a su'fibfaf bTahca al azul de la fuente;
el p^3U gracia no mas, pero no siente
el alma de las cosas ni la voz del paisaje,
Huye de toda forma y de todo lenguaje
que no vayan acordes con el ritmo latente
de la vida profunda . . . y adora intensamente
la vida ? y que la vida comprenda tu homenaje.
Mira al sapiente buho como tiende las alas
desde el Olimpo, deja el regazo de Palas
y posa en aquel arbol el vuelo taciturno . . .
El no tiene la gracia del cisne, mas su inquieta
pupila, que se clava en la sombra, interpreta
el misterioso libro del silencio nocturne.
Enrique Gonzalez Martinez
THEN TWIST THE NECK OF
THIS DELUSIVE SWAN
THEN twist the neck of this delusive swan,
white stress upon the fountain's overflow,
that merely drifts in grace and cannot know
the reeds 5 green soul and the mute cry of stone.
Avoid all form, all speech, that does not go
shifting its beat in secret unison
with life . . . Love life to adoration !
Let life accept the homage you bestow.
See how the sapient owl, winging the gap
from high Olympus, even from Pallas' lap,
closes upon this tree its noiseless flight , . .
Here is no swan's grace. But an unquiet stare
interprets through the penetrable air
the inscrutable volume of the silent night.
John Peak Bishop
PROLOGO
Prologo
ESTA antologia se propone hacer un examen introductivo de la
poesia americana desde la muerte de Ruben Dario en 1916. No se
liego arbitrariamente al terminus a quo. La tradicion rubendariana
es todavia muy poderosa, pero ha surgido contra ella una fuerte
reaccion en gran parte de la poesia de primer orden escrita en
America en estos ultimos veinticinco anos reaccion anticipada en
el soneto de Enrique Gonzalez Martinez que sirve de epigrafe a
este volumen. La poesia nueva es mas dura, mas intelectualizada :
su simbolo es el 'sapiente buho' en contraste al cisne donairoso pero
vago y algo decadente que tanto amaban Dario y los simbolistas
franceses que lo precedian. Esta poesia la han vigorizado los temas
y los ritmos indigenas sean Indies, afroantillanos, o gauchescos
que la han transformado en algo muy criollo y enteramente de
nuestros tiempos. Sin perder nada de los tonos profundos de su
linaje europeo, nos habla con voz autenticamente suya. La poesia,
tras larga ausencia, ha vuelto al pueblo.
Seria equivocacion, sin embargo, suponer que cada poeta ameri-
cano escriba a lo Nicolas Guillen, a lo Jacques Roumain, a lo
Alejandro Peralta. La tradicion anterior, como ya he dicho, es
potente aiin. En la escuela rubendariana sensoria, decorativa, ex-
quisita se da clase todavia. En otras partes nuestro propio Walt
Whitman, sin hacer mencion de Edgar Poe, es un antecesor aun
activo. Mas recienternente, y sobre todo en Mexico, Ha dejado hue-
lias la influencia de poetas como Valery, Rilke, Eliot, MacLeish, y
Crane. Y cuentan con adeptos, aunque cada vez mas escasos,
los credos de Dada, del vorticismo y del surrealismo. La escena
americana es un campamento y con razon dij erase campamento
armado de tendencias y movimientos. Y el antologista que se
arriesgue por alii debe prepararse para todo.
El antologista. Ese infeliz que inicia su tarea con el triste pre-
sentimiento de que todo cuanto haga va a desagradar a muchos,
y que nadie mucho menos el quedara satisf echo, una vez ter-
minada su obra. Esto parece suceder especialmente en el dominio
poetico, cuya pura serenidad se halla agitada continuamente por
alaridos de partidarios y manifiestos de grupos. Yo he procurado
caminar sin prejuicios por entre estas fogatas, ensanchando la
Preface
THIS anthology is intended as an introductory survey o Latin
American poetry since the death, in 1916, of Ruben Dark). The
terminus a quo was not arrived at arbitrarily. Although the Dario
tradition is still very powerful, much of the important poetry
written to the south of us during the last quarter century has mani-
fested a strong reaction against it a reaction prefigured in the
sonnet by Enrique Gonzalez Martinez which serves as epigraph
for this volume. The new verse is tougher, more intellectualized :
its symbol is the 'sapient Owl', as opposed to the graceful but
vague and somewhat decadent Swan so beloved by Dario and his
precursors among the French symbolists. Native themes and na-
tive rhythms whether Indian, Afro-Antillean or Gaucho have
energized it, transforming it into something that is peculiarly
American and wholly of our own time. It has never lost the pro-
found tones of its European ancestry, but it speaks to us with a
voice that is authentically its own. Poetry, after long absence, has
returned to the people.
Nevertheless, it would be a mistake to suppose that every poet
in Latin America writes in the vein of a Nicolas Guillen, a Jacques
Roumain, or an Alejandro Peralta. The earlier tradition, as I have
said, is still potent. The school of Dario sensuous, decorative, ex-
quisite is yet holding classes. Elsewhere our own Walt Whitman,
to say nothing of Edgar Poe, is a living ancestor. More recently,
and especially in Mexico, the influence of such poets as Valery,
Rilke, Eliot, MacLeish and Crane has left its mark. And the tenets
of Dada, of Vorticism and of Surrealism claim, though in decreas-
ing numbers, their adherents. The Latin American scene is a
camp one might reasonably call it an armed camp of tendencies
and movements. And the anthologist who picks his way through
it must be prepared for almost anything.
The anthologist. He is that unhappy fellow who approaches his
task with the gloomy foreknowledge that whatever he does will be
displeasing to many, and that no one himself least of all will be
happy about his book when it is done. This seems to be particularly
true in the realm of poetry, whose pure serene is agitated .endlessly
by the cries of partisans and the slogans of coteries. I have tried to
P ROLOG O
seleccion tanto conio me lo permitian el espacio de que dispoma,
la dificultad de obtener libros extranjeros en tiempos de guerra,
y los Inevitables azares de la traduccion; y aunque no se puede
pretender que tengan todos estos poemas igual rnerito, ni siquiera
que tengan todos un valor duradero, puedo decir con toda sin-
ccridad que no he incluido ningun poema que no me haya gustado
por alguna que otra razon. Al fin de cuentas, la suprema disculpa
del antologista la da su propio gusto, sobre el cual no dcjara de
haber disputa, pero del cual no hay posibilidad de escape.
Conviene sin embargo explicar la omision de ciertos nombres y
la inclusion de otros. Han sido cxcluidos, con unas pocas excep-
clones, ios poetas anteriores en tiempo o en estilo a mi terminus a
quo. Esto ha resultado y lo lamento en la omision de Dario
mismo; de Guillerrno Valencia, ese paladin de las letras colombia-
nas; del finado Porfirio Barba Jacob, otro colombiano, cuya poesia
inquieta y vibrante es menos conocida de lo que merece; de los
grandes argentinos Enrique Banchs, Leopoldo Lugones y Arturo
Capdevila; de los mexicanos Ramon L6pez*Velarde y (con'ex-
cepclon de su soneto epigrafico) Enrique Gonzalez Martinez; y
de los cubanos Regino Boti y Mariano Brull. En cambio, he in-
cluido obras de unos cuantos poetas que parecen tal vez antccedcr
a mi periodo, pero cuyo genio le pertenece tan integralmente que
eran imprescindibles : Duracine Vaval, por ejemplo; y el poeta
satirico colombiano, Luis Carlos Lopez; y Jose Maria Eguren,
primer simbolista peruano, fuente de inspiracion para tanta poesia
subsecuente, y cuya muerte este ano fue lamentada por toda la
America Latina.
A nadie le puede constar mas penosamente que a mi que muchos
de los poetas representados aqui por solo uno o dos poemas rnerecen
mas espacio del que he podido darles. De nuevo debo declarar en
defensa mia que yo deslino mi libro a servir de introduction. El
terreno es tan ricamente variado y tan inmenso que no habia otra
solution posible. Mis largas exploraciones ban sido para mi una
fuente de delicias y de constante revelation; y mi mayor esperanza
es la de poder trasmitir algo de esas tan incitantes revelaciones,
a fin de que Induzca a una investigation mas aniplia y una inter-
pretacion mas complcta de los poetas que no hubiera tratado con
debida consideracion. Si esta antologia logra tal efecto, habre al-
canzado sobradamente mi proposko.
PREFACE
move among these campfires with an open mind, making my se-
lection as broad as the space at my disposal, the difficulty o obtain-
ing books from abroad in war-time, and the inevitable hazards of
translation would permit; and while it can not be pretended "that
all of these poems are of equal merit, or even that all of them are of
lasting value, I can honestly say that I have included no poem
which did not, for one reason or another, please me. When all is
said, the anthologist's last plea is his own taste, about which there
may indeed be much dispute, but from which there is certainly no
escape.
It is nevertheless desirable to explain the omission of certain
names and die inclusion of others. Poets anterior either in time or
in manner to my terminus a quo have, with a few exceptions, been
excluded. This has meant to my sincere regret the omission of
Dario himself; of Guillermo Valencia, that paladin of Colombian
letters; of the late Porfirio Barba Jacob, another Colombian, whose
restless, vibrant poetry should be better known than it is; of the
great Argentinians Enrique Banchs, Leopoldo Lugones and Arturo
Capdevila; of the Mexicans Ramon Lopez Velarde and (except
for the epigraphical sonnet) Enrique Gonzalez Martinez; and of
Regino Boti and Mariano Brull, of Cuba. On the other hand, I
have included work by a few poets who would seem to belong be-
fore my period, but whose genius is so definitely a part of it that
they could not be omitted: Duracine Vaval, for instance; and the
Colombian satirist Luis Carlos Lopez; and Jose Maria Eguren, the
first Peruvian symbolist, from whom so much later poetry has
caught its inspiration, and whose death this year was lamented
throughout Latin America.
No one is more uncomfortably conscious than am I of the fact
that many of the poets represented here by only one or two poems
deserve more space than I was able to give them. Again I must
plead in defense that my book is intended as an introduction. The
field is so richly variegated and so immense that no other solution
was possible. My long exploration of it has been a source of delight
and a constant revelation to me; and my chief hope is to communi-
cate some of the excitement of that revelation, to the end that it
may lead to a wider investigation and fuller interpretation of those
poets whom I have so cavalierly neglected. If the anthology does
this, it will abundantly have served its purpose.
PROLOG O
II
LA POESIA es notoriamente mas dificil de traducir que la prosa.
Idealmente, una traduccion debiera reproducir todas las cualidades
de sonido, sentido y sugestion del poema original. Sin embargo,
rara vez resulta posible en la practica. Ademas de los problemas
que presentan la diction intensificada y la presentation compri-
mida, hay un sinnumero de asuntos tecnicos metro, cadencia,
rima, etcetera que hay que tomar en cuenta. Para resolver esta
dificultad, se puede escribir un nuevo poema en ingles que con-
serve todo lo posible del original, pero cuyo proposito maximo sea
crear en conjunto un efecto que le sea comparable. Para conse-
guirlo, es probable que el traductor emplee una libre parafrasis,
transposiciones y alteraciones por razones de rima o de ritmo, y
varias clases de expansion o de compresion. Es muy posible que el
resultado sea un poema que valga por si mismo, pero sera una crea-
tion nueva mas bien que una traduccion estricta. No me opongo
a este metodo; al contrario, lo he empleado extensamente en mis
traducciones del griego y del latin; pero decidi evitarlo en este
libro, por juzgar que la insertion de los textos originales frente a las
versiones inglesas exigia un metodo mas literal.
Reconozco que esta fmalidad es mas prosaica que la de la nueva
creation, pero debiera resultar mas util para los lectores que qui-
sieran comparar los dos textos. No se trata de hacer una traduc-
cion inter lineal; espero que hayamos evitado versiones del cono-
cidisimo tipo Cesar-habiendose-levantado~y-afdtado-en-dterior~
GaUa-dias-quince-su-marcha-hizo; pero hemos procurado seguir
con toda la exactitud posible el original, renglon por renglon y a
veces palabra por palabra. Con muy pocas excepciones esto ha re-
querido el sacrificio de efectos de sonido y metro para lograr mayor
fidelidad literal. Nuestras versiones no son poeticas sino por acci-
dente. En realidad he estropeado algunos de los mejores efectos de
mis colegas insistiendo sin piedad en una traduccion ad litteram
expressa. Sin embargo, debiera ser posible para los lectores con
conocimientos aun muy escasos de los idiomas originales trasladar
a las traducciones algo del color y tono de los versos espanoles,
portugvieses o franceses.
Hay que confesar que este metodo literal ha influido hasta cierto
pun to en la selection de los poemas. Ha sido necesario abandonar
PREFACE
II
Poetry is notoriously more difficult to translate than prose. Ideally,
a translation should reproduce all the qualities of sound,, sense
and suggestion of the original poem. Practically, however, this is
seldom possible. Aside from the problems presented by heightened
diction and compressed statement there are numberless technical
matters metre, cadence, rhyme, and so on to be taken into ac-
count. One way of solving the difficulty is to compose a new poem
in English, a poem which preserves as much of the original as
possible, but whose principal aim is to make a general effect that
will be comparable to it. In order to achieve this the translator will
probably employ free paraphrase, transpositions and alterations for
the sake of rhyme or rhythm, and various kinds of expansion and
compression. The result may very well be a poem in its own right,
but it will be a re-creation rather than a strict translation. I have
nothing against this method: indeed, I have used it extensively in
my translations from the Greek and Latin; but I decided against it
for the purposes of this book, believing that the printing of the
original texts opposite the English versions made a more literal
method desirable.
This goal is admittedly more pedestrian than that of re-creation,
but it seems serviceable to the reader who may want to compare
the two texts. It is not a question of making a 'trot': I hope that
we have avoided renderings of the all too familiar Caesar-having-
ari$en-and-shaved-into~Hither-Gaul-for~tw
variety; but we have tried to stay as close to the original as pos-
sible, line for line and sometimes word for word. With a very few
exceptions this has meant the sacrifice of sonal and metrical effects
in the interests of a greater literal fidelity. Our versions are not
poetry, except accidentally. Indeed, I have ruined some of my col-
leagues* best effects by heartlessly insisting upon an ad litteram ex-
fressa rendering. Nevertheless, it should be possible for readers
even distantly acquainted with the original languages to bring
something of the colour and tone of the Spanish, Portuguese or
French verses over to the translations.
It must be confessed that this literal method has to some extent
influenced the choice of poems. It has been necessary to abandon
many admirable pieces whose excellence lay chiefly in those techni-
PROLOG
muchas obras admirables cuyas excelenclas consistian principal-
mente en esas virtudes tecnicas que hemos tenido que desatender.
Lo puramente lirico, por ejernplo, sufre mucho con este tratamien-
to literal. Tambien el soneto y la mayoria de las formas fijas. El
verso libre se traslada con mas exito; pero aqui tambien se raulti-
plican los problemas con la desintegracion del ritmo y de la co-
herencia verbal. Por ejemplo, hubiera querido incluir una seccion
de Altazor, por Vicente Huidobro, poema de enorme importancia
por muchas razones; pero a pesar de cuantos esfuerzos hicimos, no
resulto inteligible en ingles. Por varias dificultades de traduccion
tuvimos que oxnitir a muchos poetas notables: me vienen a la
memoria Sara de Ibanez, y Emilio Ballagas, y Andres Eloy Blanco.
Pero era cuestion de decidirse o por la consistencia o la inconsis-
tencia, y preferi adherirme a los principios establecidos, aun a costa
de perder mucho que era admirable,
in
PARA mis textos he recurrido a cuatro fuentes principales: edi-
ciones definirivas de las obras del poeta, antologias como los ad-
mirables Indices publicados por la casa chilena Ercilla, revistas, y
manuscritos ineditos. He podido consultar la mayoria de los ori~
ginales directamente es decir, en las ediciones defmitivas. Solo
cuando me ha resultado imposible he recurrido a las antologias; y
en estos casos el cotejo de un poema como aparece en varias colec-
ciones ha servido para establecer un texto bastante autentico. Las
revistas son menos satisfactorias. No dispuse de otro medio para
consultar mucha poesia excelente, y las excentricidades de los
cajistas provinciales son a veces dificilisimas de interpretar. En
casos cuando no pude comunicarme con los autores, no hubo
mas remedio que adivinar; y doy mis excusas a los poetas si no he
acertado siempre, Pero son los manuscritos los que han presentado
los mayores problemas. Para no mencionar accidentes un manus-
crito importante e irreemplazable llcgo con senas de haberse dado
un bano en el oceano camino a Nueva York, con resultados textua-
les que le hubieran encantado a un Bentley los manuscritos son
poco dignos de confianza por diversas razones. Algunos de ellos,
copias de segunda o tercera mano, eran evidentemente imperfectos;
y no siempre ha sido posible darles autenticidad ni consultando a
los autores ni indagando los origenes del texto. Ciertos poemas
ineditos del finado Carlos Oquendo de Atnat, por no citar mas
PREFACE
cal virtues which we have had to neglect. The pure lyric, for ex-
ample, suffers badly from this literal treatment. So does the sonnet;
so do most of the fixed forms. Free verse comes through more
satisfactorily; but here again, the problems multiply as rhythm
and verbal coherence disintegrate. For instance, I should like to
have included a section of Vicente Huidobro's Altazor, a poem of
enormous importance in many ways; but no amount of labour
sufficed to make the English intelligible. Translation difficulties of
various kinds are to blame for the omission of many notable poets:
Sara de Ibanez comes to my mind, and Emilio Ballagas, and An-
dres Eloy Blanco. But it was a matter of choosing between con-
sistency and inconsistency, and I thought it best to adhere to the
established principles, even at the expense of much that was ad-
mirable.
ii i
FOR my texts I have had recourse' to four main sources : definitive
editions of the poets' works, anthologies such as the admirable
Indices published by the Chilean house of Ercilla, periodicals, and
unpublished manuscripts. I have been able to consult most of the
originals at first hand that is to say, in the definitive editions.
Only when this has proved impossible have I turned to the antholo-
gies; and in these instances the collation of a poem as it appears in
several collections has generally established a reasonably authen-
tic text. The periodicals are less satisfactory. A great deal of fine
poetry has been available to me in no other form, and the eccen-
tricities of provincial compositors are sometimes exceedingly hard
to resolve. Here, when I could not get in touch with the authors,
I have frankly guessed; and I apologize to the poets if my conjec-
tures have been wrong. But it is the manuscripts which have of-
fered the gravest difficulties. To say nothing of Acts of God one
important and irreplaceable typescript apparently fell into the
ocean somewhere en route to New York, with textual results which
would have enchanted a Bentley they are unreliable for a variety
of reasons. Some of them, rescripts at second or third hand, were
obviously faulty; and it has not always been possible to authenticate
them either by consulting the authors or by tracing the texts to their
sources. Certain unpublished poems by the late Carlos Oquendo de
Amat, to cite only one example, circulate entirely in manuscript;
P R 6 L O G
que un ejemplo, circulan enteramente en manuscrito; y.como hay
tantas variaciones en detalle como admiradores y por eso promul-
gadores de sus versos, es casi imposible decidir exactamente lo que
escribio Oquendo. En tales casos he tenido que ser arbitrario,
escogiendo la variante que parecia mas probable, con la esperanza
deacertar.
Tratandose de lo impreso, he seguido la ortografia, la acentua-
cicn y la puntuacion de los originales. Hay gran variedad de con-
venciones en distintos paises, y hay a veces contradicciones en la
obra de un mismo poeta; pero a menos de establecer claraniente
que una variante fuera error de imprenta, he preferido seguirla
aun a riesgo de contrariar la intencion del autor. Han sido co-
rregidos los errores palpablemente mamfiestos.
IV
Mis deudas de gratitud son extensisimas. Como cuantos han in-
dagado este asunto, he encontrado estimulo e incentive en las obras
criticas e historicas de los doctores Federico de Oms, Arturo Torres-
Rioseco, Estuardo Nunez, y Luis Alberto Sanchez. Tambien he
sido afortunado en la cortesia que me han dispensado la Biblioteca
del Congreso, las de las Universidades de Harvard y de Columbia,
y la de la Union Panamericana.
Le debo gratitud especial al Sr, Dudley Poore, que selecciono y
tradujo los poemas brasilenos; y al Sr. H. R. Hays, no solo por
haber escrito las Notas, sino tambien por haberme proporcionado
generosamente textos y traducciones. Solo quien haya tratado de
sostener una correspondencia literaria internacional en tiempos
de guerra puede darse cuenta de lo mucho que debe este libro al
Sr. Diomedes de Pereyra, cuyo celo incansable me ha proveido ma-
terial de toda la America Latina, igual que de bibliotecas y f uentes
particulares en Washington y en Nueva York, y cuyos consejos
fraternos me han ayudado mas de lo que puedo decir. Le debo
mucho asimismo a la Sra. Muna Lee de Mufioz Marin por su bon-
dad en facilitarme muchas obras que dc'otra manera no hubiera
podido consultar, por su simpatia y su agudeza critica excepcio-
nales, y por su notable generosidad en haber hecho traducciones.
El Sr. Angel Flores, de la Union Panamericana, ha contribuido
con numerosas sugestiones durante toda la preparacion del libro,
y ha respondido con inagotable cortesia a mis frecuentes suplicas
PREFACE
and since there are as* many variations of detail as there are ad-
mirers and hence promulgators of his verses, it is next to impossible
to decide exactly what Oquendc wrote. In such cases I have had
to be arbitrary, selecting the reading which seemed most likely,
and hoping for the best.
In dealing with printed sources I have followed the spelling,
accentuation and punctuation of the originals. Conventions vary
considerably from country to country, and even individual poets
are not always consistent; but unless a variation could be estab-
lished clearly as a printer's error, I have preferred to follow it even
at the risk of violating the author's intention. Obvious misprints
have been corrected.
IV
MY indebtedness is almost beyond measure. Like everyone who
has investigated this subject, I have found stimulation and encour-
agement in the critical and historical works of Prof. Federico de
Onis, Prof. Arturo Torres-Rioseco, Dr. Estuardo Nunez, and Dr.
Luis Alberto Sanchez. I have been fortunate also in the courtesies
extended me by the libraries of Congress, of Harvard College, of
Columbia University, and of the Pan American Union.
I owe particular thanks to Mr. Dudley Poore, who made and
translated the selection of Brazilian poems; and to Mr. H. R. Hays,
not only for writing the Notes, but also for providing me gener-
ously with texts and translations. Only one who has tried to carry
on an international literary correspondence in time of war can ap-
preciate how much of this book belongs to Mr. Diomedes de
Pereyra, whose tireless zeal kept me supplied with material from
all over Latin America as well as from libraries and private sources
in Washington and New York, and whose friendly advice has
meant more to me than I can say. I am similarly indebted to Mrs.
Muna Lee de Munoz Marin for her kindness in making available
to me many works which otherwise I should have been unable to
consult, for her rare sympathy and critical acumen, and for her
signal generosity in making translations. Mr. Angel Flores, of the
Pan American Union, has contributed numberless suggestions
throughout the making of the book, and has responded with un-
failing courtesy to my many appeals for help. I have had the bene-
PROLOG O
de ayuda. He sido agraclado con la prudente critlca que ha hecho
de todo el texto ingles el Sr. John Peak Bishop, y de su ayuda en la
revision de muchas de las traducciones mas dificiles, Y le agradezco
al Sr, Langston Hughes su generosidad en compartir conmigo su
fino interes creador en la poesia de la cual ha sido por mucho
tiempo interprete sopremo; al Dr. Jose Juan Arrom, de la Uni~
versidad de Yale, y al Dr. Guillermo Rivera, de la Universidad de
Harvard, sus generosos y eruditos consejos en la clarification de
varies pasajes trabajosos; a la Dra. Edith F. Helman, de Simmons
College, al Sr. E. B. Tewksbury, de la Biblioteca Publica de Bos-
ton, y a la Sra. Concha Romero James y al Sr. Francisco Aguilera,
de la Union Panamerkana, sus servicios entusiasticos y eficaces; al
Sr. Ralph Osborne, su ayuda en establecer los puntos dudosos de
los textos haitianos; a los doctores Raul d'Eja y Bettencourt Ma-
chado, y a M. Rulx Leon, sus consejos expertos en las secciones
brasilena y haitiana, respectivamente; al Sr. Enrique Gonzalez
Martinez, su bondad en permitirme el uso de su soneto: Tuercele
el cuello al dsne, como epigrafe del libro; a mis colegas el Dr. Carl
Friedrich Pfatteicher, el Dr. James H. Grew, y el Sr. Joseph Staples,
y al Teniente M. B. Davis, U. S. N. R., sus innumerables favores.
Tambien doy gracias por su inestimable cooperacion al Sr. Jorge
Carrera Andrade, Consul General del Ecuador en San Francisco;
al Sr. Bernardo Ortiz de Montellano, mi mentor literario en lo
mexicano desde hace ya mas de diez ainos; y a los poetas peruanos
Rafael Mendez Dorich y Emilio Adolfo von Westphalen.
Para mi amigo y antiguo colega el Sr. Donald Walsh mi deuda es
inexpresable. No solo ha hecho gran parte de las traducciones: me
ha ayudado pacientemente en la revision final del libro entero y
ha leido y corregido las pruebas conmigo. Durante toda la em-
presa, ha cornprobado cuidadosamente los puntos dudosos, cotc-
jando textos y adquiriendo datos bibliograficos. Cualquier merito
que cobre esta antologia se debera en gran parte a su eruclicion e
inteligencia.
Por ultimo, mi mas profunda gratitud a Cornelia, mi esposa
mejor critico, guia mas infalible, y oyente mas tolerante.
DUDLEY FITTS
PHILLIPS ACADEMY
ANBOVER, MASSACHUSETTS
JULIO m 1942
PREFACE
fit of Mr. John Peale Bishop's careful criticism of the entire English
text, and his assistance in the revision of several of the more diffi-
cult translations. And I am obligated to Mr. Langston Hughes for
his unselfishness in sharing with me his fine creative interest in the
poetry of which he has long been an outstanding interpreter; to
Dr. Jose Juan Arrom, of Yale University, and to Prof. Guillermo
Rivera, of Harvard University, for their generous and scholarly
advice in the clarification of various knotty passages; to Dr. Edith
F. Helman, of Simmons College, to Mr, E, B. Tewksbury, of the
Boston Public Library, and to Mrs. Concha Romero James and Mr.
Francisco Aguilera, of the Pan American Union, for their enthusi-
astic and effective services; to Mr. Ralph Osborne, for help in the
establishment of uncertain points in the Haitian texts; to Dr. Raul
d'E^a and Sr. Bettencourt Machado, and to M. Rulx Leon, for
their expert advice in the Brazilian and Haitian sections respec-
tively; to Sr. Enrique Gonzalez Martinez, for graciously per-
mitting me to use his sonnet on the Swan as epigraph for the
book; to my colleagues Dr. Carl Friedrich Pfatteicher, Dr. James
H. Grew and Mr. Joseph Staples, and to Lieut. M. B. Davis,
U. S. N. R., for innumerable kindnesses. I am grateful also for
the invaluable cooperation of Sr. Jorge Carrera Andrade, Consul
General of Ecuador in San Francisco; of Sr. Bernardo Ortiz de
Montellano, my Mexican literary mentor of more than ten years'
standing; and of Sr. Rafael Mendez Dorich and Sr. Emilio Adolf o
von Westphalen, both of Peru.
To my friend and former colleague Mr. Donald Walsh I am
indebted for more than I can say. Not only did he make the greater
number of the translations: he patiently helped me in the final
revision of the entire book and read all the proof with me. Through-
out the undertaking he was carefully checking doubtful points,
collating texts, and acquiring bibliographical data. It is to his
scholarly intelligence that this anthology owes much of whatever
merit it may possess.
My final and profoundest gratitude goes to Cornelia Fitts, my
wife best critic, surest guide, and most tolerant audience.
DUDLEY FITTS
PHILLIPS ACADEMY
ANDOVER, MASSACHUSETTS
JULY 1942
ANTOLOGIA BE LA POESIA
AMERICANA C O N TE M P O R A N E A
JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE
&
EL almendro se compra un vestido
para hacer la primera comunlon. Los gorriones
anuncian en las puertas su verde mercancia.
La primavera ya ha vendido
todas sus ropas blancas,* sus caretas de enero,
y solo se ocupa de llevar hoy dia
soplos de propaganda por todos los rincones.
Juncos de vidrio. Frascos de perfume volcados.
Alfotnbras para que anden los ninos de la escuela.
Canastillos. Bastones
de los cerezos. Guantes muy holgados
del pato del estanque, Garza: sombrilla que vuela!
Maquina de escribir de la brisa en las hojas,
oloroso inventario.
Acudid al escaparate de la noche:
cruz de diamantes 3 linternitas rojas
y de piedras preciosas un rosario.
Mar^o ha prendido luces en la hierba
y el viejo abeto inutil se ha puesto anteojos verdes.
Hara la primavera, despues de algunos meses,
un pedido de tarros de frutas en conserva,
uvas glandulas de cristal duke
y hojas doradas para empacar la tristeza.
AHORCADAS en la viga del techo
con sus alas de canarlo las mazorcas.
Conejillos de Indias
enganan al silencio analfabeto
con chillidos de pajaro y arrullos de paloma.
JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE
& co.
THE almond tree has bought herself a dress
to make her first communion, and sparrows
in doorways are advertising their green wares.
Now Spring has sold
all her white clothes, her January masks,
and busies herself today only with carrying
puffs of propaganda into every quarter.
Reeds of glass. Flasks of spilt perfume.
Flowered carpets laid for schoolchildren.
Small baskets. Forked poles
of the cherry trees. Over-size gloves
of the duck from the pond. Heron : flying parasol i
Typewriter of breeze in the leaves,
sweet-scented inventory.
Come, see the show-window of the night:
cross of diamonds, little red lanterns,
and a rosary of precious stones.
March has lighted its fires in the grass
and the useless old fir tree has put on green goggles.
Spring, within a few months, will make out
an order for jars of fruit conserve,
grapes little bulbs of sweet crystal ,
and dry golden leaves in which to pack up distress,
R, O'C.
CORN hangs from the rafters
by its canary wings.
Little guinea-pigs
bewilder the illiterate silence
with sparrow twitter and dove coo.
JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE
Hay en la choza una muda carrera
cuando el viento empuja la puerta.
La montana brava
lia abierto su oscuro paraguas de nubes
con varillas de rayos.
El Francisco, el Martin, el Juan :
trabajando en la hacienda del cerro
les habra cogido el temporal.
Un aguacero de pajaros
cae chillando en los sembrados.
IGLESIA frutera
sentada en una esquina de la vida :
naranjas de cristal de las ventanas.
Organo de cafias de azucar.
Angeles: polluelos
de la Madre Maria.
La campanilla de ojos azules
sale con los pies descalzos
a corretear por el campo.
Reloj deSol;
burro angelical con su sexo inocente ;
viento buen mozo del domingo
que trae noticias del cerro;
indias con su carga de legumbres
abrazada a la frente.
JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE
There is a mute race through the hut
when the wind pushes against the door.
The angry mountain
raises its dark umbrella of cloud
lightning-ribbed.
Francisco, Martin, Juan
working in the farm on the hill
must have been caught by the storm,
A downpour of birds
falls chirping on the sown fields.
FRUIT-VENDER church,
seated at a corner of life :
crystal oranges of windows.
Organ of sugarcane stalks.
Angels: chicks
of Mother Mary,
The little blue-eyed bell
runs out barefoot
to scamper over the countryside.
Clock of the Sun;
angelical donkey with its innocent sex;
handsome Sunday wind
bringing news from the hill ; \
Indian women with their vegetable-loads
bound to their foreheads.
JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE
El cielo pone los ojos en bianco
cuando sale corriendo de la iglesia
la campamlla de los pies descalzos.
JML
CONE jo : tiermano tirnido, mi maestro y filosofo!
Tu vlda me ha ensenado la leccion del silencio*
Como en la soledad hallas tu rnina de oro
no te Importa la eterna marcha del universe.
Pequeno buscador de la sabiduria,
hojeas como un libro la col humilde y buena,
y observas las maniobras que hacen las golondrina<
como San Simeon,, desde tu oscura cueva.
Pidele atu buen Dios una huerta en el cielo,
una huerta con coles de cristal en la gloria,
un salto de agua duke para tu hocico tierno
y sobre tu cabeza un vuelo de palomas.
Tu vives enolor de santidad perfecta.
Te tocara el cordon del padre San Francisco
el dia de tu muerte. j Con tus largas orejas
jugaran en el cielo las almas de los ninos 1
mm
EN un cuerno vacio de toro
soplo el Juan el mensaje de la cebada lista.
En sus casas de barro
las siete familias
echaron un zumo de sol
en las morenas vasijas.
6
JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE
The sky rolls up its eyes
when the little barefoot bell
comes scampering out of the church.
M.L.
THE PERFECT LIFE
RABBIT: timid brother! My teacher and philosopher!
Your life has taught me the lesson of silence*
For since in solitude you find your mine of gold,
the world's eternal onward march means nothing to you.
Tiny seeker after wisdom,
you leaf, as through a^book, the good and humble cabbage;
and like Saint Simeon, from your dark hole
you watch the evolutions of the swallows.
Ask your good God for a garden in Heaven,
a garden with crystal cabbages in glory,
a spring of fresh water for your tender nose,
and a flight of doves above your head.
You Jive in the odour of perfect sanctity.
The cincture of Father Saint Francis will touch you
on the day of your death. And in Heaven
the souls of children will play with your long ears !
D.F.
REAPI1VG THE BARLEY
ON a bull's hollow horn
Juan blew the message that the barley was ready.
In their clay huts
the seven families
poured the sun-juice
into brown*ars.
JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE
La loma estaba sentada en el campo
con su poncho a cuadros.
El Colorado, el verde, el amarillo
empezaron a subir por el camino.
Entre un motin de colores
se abatian sonando las cebadas de luz
diezmadas por las hoces.
La Tomasa pesaba la madurez del cielo
en la balanza de sus brazos tornasoles.
Le moldeaba sin prisa la cintura
el giro lento del campo.
Hombres y mujeres de las siete familias,
sentados en lo tierno del oro meridiano,
bebieron un zumo de sol
en las vasijas de barro.
MA LLOV1DO P0R JLA N0CME
HA llovido por la noche :
las peras estan en tierra
y las coles se han quedado
postradas como abadesas.
Todas estas cosas dice
sobjBe la ventana el pajaro.
El pajaro es el periodico
de la manana en el campo.
j Afuera preocupaciones !
Dejemos la cama tibia.
Esta lluvia le ha lavado
como a una col, a la vida.
JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE
The hill squatted in'the field
wrapped in a plaid poncho.
Red, green, yellow dresses
began to climb the road.
Amid a riot of colours
the glowing barley sheaves went down with a swish,
decimated by the sickles.
Tomasa weighed the ripeness of the sky
in the scales of her sunflower arms.
The slow swing of the field
molded the shape of her waist.
Men and women of the seven families,
seated in the tender noon-day gold,
drank sun-juice
from the clay jars.
M.L.
IT R AI1VE7D IJV THE MIGHT
IT rained in the night
there are pears on the ground.
Prostrate as abbesses
the cabbages lie round.
From, the bird at the window
there's all this to be heard.
Out here in the country
our newspaper's the bird.
Goodbye to worries!
Let's leave the lazy bed.
Rain has washed life as clean
as a cabbage-head.
M.L.
9
JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE
JEJL
la gran puerta negra de la noche
dan doce aldabonazos.
Los hombres se incorporan :
con su escama de hielo les roza el sobresalto.
cj Qulen sera ? Por las casas
anda el miedo descalzo.
Los hombres ven su lampara
apagarse al clamor de los aldabonazos :
llama el huesped desconocido,
y una llamita azul les corre entre los parpados.
JESfJE JFO
GDANDO olvidan las cosas su forma y su color
y, acosados de noche,, los muros se repliegan
y todo se arrodilla, o cede o se confunde,
solo tu estas de pie, luminosa presencia.
Impones a las sombras tu clara voluntad.
En lo oscuro destella tu mineral silencio.
Como palomas subitas
a las cosas envias tus mensajes secretos.
Cada silla se alarga en la noche y espera
un invitado irreal ante un plato de sombra,
y solo tu, testigo transparente,
una leccion de luz repites de memoria.
JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE
I2I7E&T
AGAINST the huge black door o the night
twelve knocks resound.
Men sit up in their beds :
fear glides over them with icy scales.
Who can it be ? Through the houses
fear slips unsandalled.
Men see the flame of their lamps
blown out by the clamorous knocking:
the unknown guest is calling,
and a thin blue flame runs along their eyelids.
M.L.
VOCATION OF TME MIBfSOK
WHEN things forget their form and their colour,
and, beset by night, the walls fold up,
and everything kneels or withdraws or is confused,
you alone stay erect, luminous presence.
Your clear resolution dominates the shadows,
in the darkness shimmers your mineral silence;
like sudden doves
you send your secret messages to things.
Every chair is elongated in the night and awaits
an unreal guest before a plate of shadow,
and only you, transparent witness,
repeat by rote a lesson of light.
M.L.
JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE
CHIMENEAS de sombreros alados,
torcidas chimeneaSj parentesis de campo
en la ciudad, gargantas
por donde sube triste la cancion de las cosas :
la cancion familiar de la marmita,
del grille y el fogon en la oscura cocina,
la cancion de la silla de ruedas
y hasta el rumor monjil que hacen las puertas.
j Chimeneas hostiles como armas
del odio de la urbe contra el azul que canta !
I Humo sobre los techos : silenciosos disparos
contra el vuelo celeste de los pajaros !
I Bah. ! Subid hasta el cielo, apuntad los gorriones,
dejad la tierra oscura de los hombres '. . .
Mi alma tambien es una chimenea
en que arde la cancion de las vidas pequenas,
chimenea de hollin
que escupe, dia a dia, un humo triste y denso
sobre el bianco papel del tomo inedito.
JLA CAMPANA1* A BJE JLA I72VA
DESDE la oscura torre que es un mastil de barco
la campanada de la una
baja en la noche como el cuerpo de un ahogado.
En la negra pizarra escribe su palote
la campanada de la una.
Casas de ojos vidriosos bucean en la noche.
El rabo entre las piernas, los vagabundos perros
a la campanada de la una
le ladran como a un muerto.
JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE
CHIMNEYS with widebrimmed hats,
twisted chimneys, parentheses of country
in the city, throats
through which the song of things mounts sadly :
the homely song of the kettle,
of the cricket and the hearth in the dark kitchen,
the song of the castered chair,
and even the monkish sound that doors make.
Hostile chimneys like weapons
of urban hatred against the singing blue!
Smoke above the roofs : silent gunfire
against the birds' celestial flight!
Bah! Mount up to the sky, aim at the sparrows,
leave the dark earth of men . . .
My soul too is a chimney
where burns the song of little lives,
a sooty chimney
that spits forth, day after day, a sad dense smoke
upon the white pages of the unpublished volume.
D. D. W.
STROKE OF ONE
FROM the dark tower which is a ship's mast
the stroke of One
slips down through the night like the body of one drowned.
On the blackboard the stroke of One
inscribes its scrawl.
Glassy-eyed houses dive into the night.
Tails between their legs, the prowling dogs
howl at the stroke of One
as at a dead man.
M.L.
13
JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE
CON la fruta en conserva de tu voz
sube hasta el quinto piso
el cubo de cristal del ascensor.
El tren subterraneo
lleva la luz naranja de tu piel
par los tuneles anchos.
El omnibus
derrarna en la avenida sus pestanas de trigo
bajo la hoz esmeralda de tus ojos.
Cuaderno de vidrlo, la puerta giratoria
muestra el ex-libris de tu cuerpo
en la ultima hoja.
VJHML mm MI
OIGO en torno de mi tu conocido paso,
tu andar de nube o lento rio,
tu presencia imponiendo, tu humilde majestad
visitandome, subdito de tu eterno dominio,
Sobre un palido tiempo inolvidable,
sobre verdes f amiliaSj de bruces en la tierra.,
sobre trajes vacios y baules de llanto^
sobre un pais de lluvia, calladamente reinas.
Caminas en insectos y en hongos, y tus leyes
por mi rnano se cumplen cada dia
y tu voz, por mi boca, furtiva se resbala
ablandando mi voz de metal y ceniza.
14
JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE
JKX AR IB VON
WITH the preserved fruit of your voice
the elevator's crystal cage
mounts to the fifth floor.
The subway train
bears the orange light of your skin
through wide tunnels.
The omnibus
scatters along the avenue its wheaten lashes
before the emerald sickle of your eyes.
A glass pamphlet., the revolving door
reveals your body's Ex-Libris
on the last page.
M.L.
UTFE OF MY MO3TMJSM
I HEAR your familiar footsteps all about me,
your pace like a cloud's or a slow river's,
your presence making itself felt: your humble majesty
visiting me, subject of your eternal dominion.
Over a pale unforgettable time,
over green families prostrate on the ground,
over empty dresses and trunkfuls of weeping,
over a land of rain, you rule silently.
You walk in insects and in toadstools, your laws
are executed by my hand every day,
and your voice slips furtively through my mouth
softening the metal and ash of my voice.
JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE
Brujula de mi larga travesia terrestre.
Origen de mi sangre, fuente de mi destino.
Cuando el polvo sin faz te escondio en su guarida,
me desperte asombrado de encontrarme aun vivo.
Y quise echar abajo las invisibles puertas
y di vueltas en vano, prisionero.
Con cuerda de sollozos me ahorque sin ventura
y atravese, llamandote, los pantanos del sueno.
Mas te encuentras viviendo en torno mio.
Te siento mansamente respirando
en esas dulces cosas que me miran
en un orden celeste dispuestas por tu mano.
Ocupas en su anchura el sol de la manana
y con tu acostumbrada solicitud me arropas
en su manta sin peso, de alta lumbre,
aun fria de gallos y de sombras.
Mides el silbo liquido de insectos y de pajaros
la dulzura entregandome del mundo
y tus tiernas senales van guiandome,
mi soledad llenando con tu lenguaje oculto.
Te encuentras en mis actos, habitas mis silencios.
Por encima de mi hombro tu mandato me dictas
cuando la noche sorbe los colores
y llena el hueco espacio tu presencia infinita.
Oigo dentro de mi tus palabras prof eticas
y la vigilia entera me acompaSas
sucesos avisandome, claves incomprensibles^
nacimientos de estrellas, edades de las plantas.
Moradora del cielo, vive, vive sin afios.
Mi sangre original, mi luz primera.
Que tu vida inmortal alentando en las cosas
en vasto coro simple me rodee y sostenga.
16
JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE
Compass of my long earthly voyage.
Origin of my blood, source of my destiny.
When the featureless dust hid you in its lair
I woke astonished to find myself still alive.
And I tried to tear down the invisible doors,
and vainly, a prisoner, I prowled about them.
I hanged myself haplessly with a rope of sobs,
and calling on you, traversed the marshes of dream.
But you are here, living, all about me.
I am aware of you breathing gently
through those sweet things that gaze upon me
in heavenly order, ranged by your hand.
You inhabit the breadth of the morning sunlight
and with your accustomed care enfold me
in its weightless mantle of lofty light
still chilly with cocks and shadows.
You measure the liquid chirrup of insects and birds
making me a gift of the sweetness of earth,
and your tender signals keep guiding me,
my solitude filled with your hidden speech.
You are in all that I do, you inhabit my silence.
Yours is the mandate that stands at my shoulder
when night drinks up the colours
and your infinite presence fills hollow space,
I hear within me your prophetic words,
and throughout the vigil you companion me,
warning of things to come, incomprehensible keys,
births of stars, ages of the plants.
Dweller in the skies, live, live without years.
My original blood, my earliest light.
May your immortal life, breathing through all things
in vast simple chorus, surround and sustain me!
M.L.
17
JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE
IMS F*A$ AROS
NACI en el siglo de la defuncion de la rosa
cuando el motor ya habia ahuyentado a los angele*
Quito vela andar la ultima diligencia
y a su paso corrian en buen orden los arboles,
las cercas y las casas de las nuevas parroquias,
en el umbral del campo
donde las lentas vacas rumiaban el silencio
y el viento espoleaba sus ligeros caballos.
Mi madre, revestida de poniente,
guardo su juventud en una honda guitarra
y solo algunas tardes la mostraba a sus hijos
envuelta entre la musica, la luz y las palabras.
Yo amaba la hidrograf ia de la lluvia,
las amarillas pulgas del manzano
y los sapos que hacian sonar dos o tres veces
su gordo cascabel de palo.
Sin cesar maniobraba la gran vela del aire.
Era la cordillera un literal del cielo.
La tempestad venia, y al batir del tambor
cargaban sus mo j ados regimientos;
mas, luego el sol con sus patrullas de oro
restauraba la paz agraria y transparente.
Yo veia a los ttombres abrazar la cebada,
sumergirse en el cielo unos jinetes
y bajar a la costa olorosa de mangos
los vagones cargados de mugidores bueyes.
El valle estaba alia con sus haciendas
donde prendia el alba su reguero de gallos,
y al oeste la tierra donde ondeaba la cana
de azucar su pacifico banderin, y el cacao
18
JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE
JF0H THJE US F TME BIRDS
I WAS born in the century of the death of the rose
when the motor had already driven out the angels.
Quito watched the last stagecoach roll.,
and at its passing the trees ran by in good order,
and the hedges and houses of the new parishes,
on the threshold of the country
where slow cows were ruminating the silence
and the wind spurred its swift horses.
My mother, clothed in the setting sun,
put away her youth in a deep guitar,
and only on certain evenings would she show it to her
children,
sheathed in music, light, and words.
I loved the water-writing of the rain,
the yellow gnats from the apple tree,
and the toads that would sound from time to time
their bulging wooden bells.
The great sail of the air maneuvered endlessly.
The mountain range was a shoreline of the sky.
The storm would come, and at the roll of its drum
its drenched regiments would charge;
but then the sun with its golden patrols
would bring back translucent peace to the fields.
I would watch men clasp the barley,
horsemen sink into the sky,
and the wagons filled with lowing oxen
go down to the coast fragrant with mangoes.
The valley was there with its farms
where dawn touched off its trickle of roosters,
and westward was the land where the sugarcane
rippled its peaceful banner, and the cacao
19
JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE
guardaba en un estuche su f ortuna secreta.,
y ceman, la pina su coraxa de olor^
la banana desnuda su tunica de seda.
Todo lia pasado ya, en sucesivo oleaje,
como las vanas cif ras de la espuma.
Los anos van sin prisa enredando sus liquenes
y el recuerdo es apenas un nenufar
que asoma entre dos aguas
su rostro de aliogado.
La guitarra es tan solo ataud de canciones
y se lamenta herido en la cabeza el gallo.
Han emigrado todos los angeles terrestres,
hasta el angel moreno del cacao.
JORGE CARRERA ANDRADE
held close in a coffer its secret fortune,
and the pineapple girded on its fragrant cuirasse,
the naked banana its tunic o silk.
All has gone now, in sequent waves,
like the futile cyphers of the foam.
The years go leisurely entangling their lichens,
and memory is scarcely a water-lily
showing on the surface timidly
its drowned face.
The guitar is only a coffin for songs,
and die head-wounded cock laments.
All the angels of the earth have emigrated,
even the dark angel of the cacao tree.
D. D. w.
Ski
JOSE GOROSTIZA
ACT/AMI
Los PECES de colores juegan
donde cantaba Jenny Lind.
Jenny era casi una nina
por 1840,
pero tenia
un glu-glu de agua embelesada
en la piscina eterea de su canto-
New York era pequeno entonces.
Las casitas de cuatro pisos
debian de secar la ropa
recien lavada
sobre los tendederos
azules de la madrugada.
Iremos a Battery Place
aqui, tan cerca
a recibir saludos de panuelo
que nos dirigen los barcos de vela.
Y las sonrisas luminosas
de las cinco de la tarde,
oh, si darian
un brillo de luciernaga a las calles.
Luego, cuando el iris del faro
ponga a tiro de piedra el horizonte,
tendremos pesca
de luces blancas, amarillas,, rojas,
para olvidarnos de Broadway.
JOSE GOROSTIZA
THE goldfish play
where Jenny Lind once sang.
Jenny was almost a child
back in 1840,,
but she had
a gurgle of enraptured water
in the celestial fish-pond of her song.
New York was little then.
The small f ourstoried houses
had to dry
their new-washed clothes
on the azure
clothes-horse of the early morning.
"We shall go to Battery Place
so close at hand
to be greeted by the handkerchiefs
that the sailboats wave to us.
And the luminous smiles
of five in the afternoon,
oh., they would give
a firefly lustre to the streets.
Then,, when the beam of the lighthouse
brings the horizon within stone's throw.,
we shall have a catch
of white, yellow, red lights,
to forget about Broadway.
23
JOSE GOROSTIZA
Porque Jenny Lind era
como el agua reida de burbujas
en que los peces de colores juegan.
JPOJUKE?
UN" anciano consume su tabaco
en la vieja cachimba de nogaL
La tarde es solamente un cielo opaco
y el recuerdo amarillo de un rosaL
El anciano dormita. . ,
Es tan triste la tarde para ver
un reloj descompuesto, y la infinita
crueldad de un calendario con la f echa de aye:
Y silencio, un silencio propicio
para remorar
como canta una boca la lectura
de la antigua conseja familiar.
En el fino paisaje se depura
una tristeza del atardecer,
y el reloj descompuesto parece una dolida
conciencia de caoba en la pared,
Una pobre conciencia,, cuya charla
con la vieja cachimba de nogal
es el agrio murmullo de un postigo
y el recuerdo amarillo del rosaL
DE mi ciudad sonora
vine al pueblo de tibia somnolencia,
donde saben a sal los labios de la aurora.
JOSE GOROSTIZA
Because Jenny Lind
was like the bubble-laughing water
where goldfish play.
n. r>. w.
A .TOOJFt JLOTTJUE? COTVSCf E1VCJE
old man takes his tobacco
in an ancient walnut pipe.
The afternoon is only a lightless sky
and the yellow remembrance of a rosebush.
The old man dozes. . .
Afternoon is so sad a time to see
a run-down clock, and the infinite
cruelty of a calendar with yesterday's date.
And silence, a silence propitious
for dwelling again
on lips that repeat the reading
of the old familiar story.
Through the clear landscape filters
a twilight sadness,
and the run-down clock seems an aching
mahogany conscience on the wall.
A poor little conscience, whose chatter
with the old walnut pipe
is the sour creaking of a shutter
and the yellow remembrance of the rosebush.
D. D. W.
WOMJE2V
FROM my sonorous city
I came to the sleepy warm town
where the dawn's lips taste of salt.
JOSE GOROSTIZA
Y traje una dolencia
de mis valleSj
ansiosos de marina transparencia.
Cruzaban las angostas cintas de las calles
mujeres de aguzados senos
y agilidad de musica en los talles.
Habia sol en los rostros morenos;
dos agatas de luz en sus pupilas,
y en sus labios melifluos los venenos,
En onduladas filas,
eran como de calidas palomas
por el limpio tejado de las montanas lilas.
Y sonaban en pomas
paradisiacas de filtrado jugo,
y en un idilio de los vientos con las aromas.
Al Senor Nuestro plugo
darles lineas de copas transparentes,
como se reza en Hugo.
Y secaron mis fuentes
por esa gota languida de un beso
en las finas copas de labios adolescentes.
Cordoba, cofre de mujeres, dulce embeleso:
Les prometi la luz de un arrebol
por esa gota languida de un beso. . .
Y me dieron el sol !
JOSE GOROSTIZA
And I brought an aching
from my valleys,
which long for the transparent sea.
There passed through the narrow ribbons of the streets
women with pointed breasts
and waists of agile music.
The sun was on their dark faces ;
two agates of light in their eyes,
and poison on their honeyed lips.
In undulant files.,
they were like warm doves
on the clean roof of the lilac mountains.
And they dreamed of Paradise
apples with filtered juice,
an idyll of winds and sweet odours.
It pleased Our Lord
to shape them like clear goblets,
as in Hugo's prayer.
And my springs went dry
for that languid taste of a kiss
in the delicate cups of young lips.
Cordova, coffer of women, sweet ecstasy:
I pledged them the red blush of dawn for their cheeks
in return for that languid taste of a kiss. . .
And they gave me the sun !
D. D. W.
EUGENIO FLORIT
WEN A
YA entre nosotros, forma verdadera,
pequefia realidad de sangre viva,,
aun con el asombro,
con la inquietud aun
de no saber por que llegaste.
(Y no habras de saberlo ya jamas
aunque desplieguen a tu vista
sus vuelos serafines,
y Dios se f! e revele en una rosa,
y en una tarde el mundo se te entregue.)
No lo sabras. Y lloraras de pena ?
y reiras, y tendras el alma a flor de piel,
y amaras unos ojos,
y besaras labios de vida y muerte.
Pero no lo sabras.
Tu viaje aqui
va dentro del misterio de las musicas
que vuelan de astro en astro,
de cielo en cielo,
de corazon en corazon,
Y viene tu pregunta
hecha ya tu, con eso que nos f aha
a los que te miramos : la nube en que dormiste 3
tu sueno de molecula de luz,
de rafaga fugaz de pensamiento.
Porque te miro y me da miedo
que me mires el alma empedernida,
tu que la tienes fragil, pura, aerea,
^una llamita que sostiene apenas
el ansia de mas viva llamarada.
28
EUGENIC FLORIT
THE
Now you are among us, you really exist,
a tiny actuality of living blood,
still with some amazement,
uneasy still,
not knowing why you came.
(And you will never know,
although seraphs unfold
their wings to your gaze, although
God reveal Himself to you in a rose,
and the whole world yield itself to you in one evening.)
You will not know. And you will cry with grief,
and laugh, and wear your soul for all to see,
and love a pair of eyes,
and kiss the lips of life and death.
But you will not know.
Your journey here
is veiled in the mystery of music
that flows from star to star,
from sky to sky,
from heart to heart.
Your question comes
in you incarnate, with things
which we who watch you lack: the cloud you slept on,
your dream as an atom of light,
as a fleeting gleam of thought.
For I look at you and am afraid
to have you see my hardened soul,
you whose soul is so fragile, airy, pure,
a little flame that scarcely bears
the yearning of more ardent fires.
29
EUGENIO FLORIT
Y cuando sepas que te vi duraiiendo,
y, despierta, te quise preguntar
el color de tu nube,
la luz en que sonabas^
el pensamiento que eras en tu sueno,
me lloraras a mi, que vivo
este sueno de ausencia atormentada
por volver a mi nube,
a mi rayo de luz,
a mi atorno de tierra:
a mi definitiva presencia entre la nada.
A JLA MAMIP0SA MUERTA
Tu jubilo, en el vuelo;
tu inquietud, en el aire;
tu vida, al sol, al aire, al vuelo.
Que pequefia tu muerte
bajo la luz de fuego vivo.
Que serena la gracia de tus alas
ya para siempre abiertas en el libra.
Y en ti, tan suave, en tu morir callado,
en tu sueno sin suenos,
cuanta ilusion perdida al aire,
cuanto desesperado pensamiento.
EN LA WZJEi&TE &E ALGUIEN
AQUI esta, en la mirada vacia de paisajes y nubes;
en la frente sin sombras, aun humeda por la Mgrima ajena
en la boca seca, que dejo escapar el pajaro de la palabra;
en este pecho hundido,
EUGENIC FLORIT
And when you know that I watched you sleeping
and longed to ask you, when you woke,
the colour of your cloud,
the light in which you dreamed.,
the thought you became in your sleep :
you will weep for me, who live
in this dream of absence, yearning
to go back to my cloud,
to my ray of light,
to my atom of earth:
to my permanent place in nothingness.
D. D. W.
TO TMB BISAjS* BI7TTERFJLY
YOUR joy, in flight;
your restlessness, in air;
your life, of sun, of air, of flight.
How small your death
beneath the light of living fire!
How serene the grace of your wings
now held for ever open in this book!
And in you, so soft, in your hushed dying,
in your sleep without dreams,
what magic lost into air,
how much despairing thought !
R. O'C.
ON SOMEONE'S DEATH
HERE she is, in the gaze now empty of landscapes and
clouds;
in the unshadowed brow, still ^ - 1 * dih another's tear;
in the dry mouth, which let tL bL d of speech escape;
in this sunken breast,
3*
EUGENIO FLORIT
en estas manos f rias, donde estuvo hasta ayer un ademan de
angustia
y que ahora no sienten el peso de las horas negras.
Aqui, en todo este cuerpo inmovil caido sobre el leclio,
cruce de suspiros y palomas de rezos mecanicos.
Aqui, y mas aim, en la alcoba cerrada,
y en el rincon del sol amigo,
y en el puesto en la mesa, donde olvidaron de quitar el plato.
Y mas aun, debajo del sombrero,
y escondida en los pliegues del panuelo,
y hasta en la flor que se quedo en el libro.
(Que pena, Senor, que pena. Era tan joven.)
Alia lejos, se juntan dos palomas en vuelo.
tJE SAN SEBASTIAN
A Ricardo, mi hermano
Sfy venid a mis brazos, palomitas de hierro ;
palomitas de hierro, a mi vientre desnudo.
Que dolor de caricias agudas.
Si, venid a morderme la sangre,
a este pecho, a estas piernas, a la ardiente mejilla.
Venid, que ya os recibe el alma entre los labios.
S% para que tengais nido de carne,
y semillas de huesos ateridos.
Para que hundais el pico rojo
en la haz de mis musculos.
Venid a mis ojos, que puedan ver la luz,
a mis manos, que toquen forma imperecedera,
a mis oidos, que se abran a las aereas musicas,
a mi boca, que guste las mieles infinitas,
a mi nariz, para el perfume de las eternas rosas.
Venid, si, duros angeles de f uego,
pequenos querubines de alas tensas.
Si, venid, a soltarme las amarras
para lanzarme al vzaje sin orillas.
32
EUGENIC FLORIT
in these cold hands which until yesterday gestured in agony
and which now do not feel the weight of the black hours.
Here in all this inert body fallen upon the bed,
crossroad of sighs and doves of mechanical prayers.
Here, and even more: in the closed bedroom,
and in the friendly sunny nook,
and at the place at table where they forgot to remove the plate.
And even more: under the hat,
and hidden in the handkerchiefs folds,
and even in the flower left in the book.
(What a pity, Lord, what a pity. She was so young.)
Away there in the distance, two doves join in flight.
M.L.
THE MARTYRDOM OF SAINT SEBASTIAN
To Ricardo, my, brother
YES, come to my arms, little doves of iron;
little doves of iron, to my naked belly.
What sharp caressing pain.
Yes, come to bite my blood,
come to this breast, to these legs, to my burning cheek.
Come, for my soul now welcomes you upon my lips.
Yes, come that you may find a nest of flesh
with seeds of cold-numbed bones.
Come to sink your red beaks
into the sheaf of my muscles.
Come to my eyes, that they may see the light,
to my hands, that they may touch undying form,
to my ears, that they may "open to aerial music,
to my mouth, that it may taste sweetness without end,
to my nostrils, for the perfume of eternal roses.
Come, yes, hard angels of fire,
tiny cherubim with rigid wings.
Yes, come, cast loose my cable
to launch me on the shoreless voyage.
33
EUGENIO FLORIT
Ay !, que acero feliz, que piadoso martirio.
Ay !, punta de coral, aguila, iirio
de estremecidos petalos. Si. Tengo
para vosotras, flechas, el corazon ardiente,
pulso de anhelo, sienes indefensas.
Venid, que esta mi frente
ya limpia de metal para vuestra caricia.
Ya, que rio de tibias agujas celestiales! . . .
Que nieves me deslumbran el espiritu! . .
Venid I Una tan solo de vosotras, palomas,
para que anide dentro de mi pecho
y me atraviese el alma con sus alas ! . . .
Senor, ya voy, por cauce de saetas ! . . .
Solo una mas y quedare dormido.
Este largo morir despedazado
como me ausenta del dolor. Ya apenas
el pico de estos buitres me lo siento . . .
Que poco falta ya, Seiior, para mirarte! . . .
y mirare con ojos que vencieron las flech'as,
y escuchare tu voz con oidos eternos,
y al olor de tus rosas me estare como en extasis,
y tocare con manos que nutrieron estas fieras palomas,
y gustare tus mieles con los labios del alma! . . .
Ya voy, Senor. Ay !, que sueno de soles,
que camino de estrellas en mi sueiio . . .
Ya se que llega mi ultima paloma
Ay! Ya esta bien, Senor, que te la llevo
hundida en un rincon de las entranas.
JBSTHOFAS A UNA ESTATZJA
MONUMENTO cefiido
de un tiempo tan lejano de tu muerte.
Asi te estas inmovil a la orilla
de este sol que se uga en mariposas.
34
EUGENIC FLORIT
Ah what blissful steel, what compassionate agony I
Ah, barb of coral., eagle, lily
of quivering petals ! Yes, For you,
arrows, my burning heart,
ray eager pulse, my undefended temples.
Come : now my forehead, freed
from metal, awaits your caress.
Ah, what a stream of warm celestial needles!
What a snowy brightness overwhelms my spirit !
Come ! Only one from among you, doves,
to nestle in my breast
and with those wings to penetrate my soul ! . . .
Lord, I come ! By the way of channeling arrows ! . . .
One more only, and I shall fall asleep.
This long and piecemeal dying,
how it sets me apart from pain ! And now
I feel but faintly these vulture beaks . . .
How little the time, Lord, and I shall see Thy face !
and I shall see with eyes that have vanquished arrows,
and hear Thy voice with ears that shall not die,
and the scent of Thy roses will be my ecstasy,
and I shall feel with hands that fed these fierce doves,
and taste Thy honey with the lips of my very soul! . . .
I come, Lord. Ah the sunlit dreaming,
what a road of stars into my dream . . .
I know now that my last dove comes . . .
Ah! It is done, Lord, and I bring it Thee
buried in a corner of my heart.
D. D. W.
STROPHES TO
MONUMENT girdled
in a time so remote from your death.
Thus you stand motionless on the shore
of this sun which escapes into butterflies.
35
EUGENIC FLORIT
Tu, estatua blanca, rosa de alabastro,
naciste para estar pura en la tierra
con un dosel de ramas olorosas
y la pupila ciega bajo el sol.
No has de sentir como la luz se muere
sino por el color que en ti resbala
y el frio que se prende a tus rodillas
humedas del sllencio de la tarde.
Cuando en piedra moria la sonrisa
quebro sus alas la dorada abeja
y en el espacio eterno lleva el alma
con recuerdo de mieles y de bocas.
Ya tu perf ecta geometria sabe
que es vano el aire y timido el rocio ;
y como viene el mar sobre esa arena
con el eco de tantos caracoles.
Beso de estrella, luz para tu frente
desnuda de memorias y de lagrimas ;
que firme superficie de alabastro
donde ya no se suena.
Por la rama caida hasta tus hombros
bajo el canto de un pajaro a besarte.
Que serena ilusion tienes, estatua,
de eternidad bajo la clara noche.
EUGENIC FLORIT
You, white statue., alabastrine rose,
were born to be on earth, pure,
with a canopy of fragrant boughs
and sightless pupils underneath the sky.
You will know how the light dies only
by the colours that slip across you
and in the cold that grips your knees
damp from the evening silence.
"When your smile was dying into stone
the golden bee broke out its wings
and now' into eternal space bears your soul
with a memory of honey and of mouths.
Now your perfect geometry knows
that the air is empty and the dew is timid ;
and how the sea comes over that sand
with an echo of innumerable shells.
A star-kiss, light for your brow
bare of memories and tears ;
how firm the alabaster surface
where there are no more dreams !
Down the branch bent above your shoulders
a bird's song carried you a kiss.
How unclouded, statue, is your illusion
of eternity in the clearness of the night I
zx D. w.
37
GABRIELA MISTRAL
JLA MAN!A
QUE mi dedito lo cogio una almeja,
y que la almeja se cayo en la arena,
y que la arena se la trago el mar.
Y que del mar la pesco un ballenero
y que el ballenero llego a Gibraltar;
y que en Gibraltar cantan Pescadores :
TSTovedad de tierra sacamos del mar,
novedad de un dedito de nina :
j la que este manca lo venga a buscar 1*
Que me den un barco para ir a traerlo,
y para el barco me den capitan,
para el capitan que me den soldada,
y que el por soldada pida la ciudad :
Marsella con torres y plazas y barcos,
de todo el mundo la mejor ciudad,
que no sera hermosa con una ninita
a la que robo su dedito el mar,
y a que balleneros en pregones cantan
y estan esperando sobre Gibraltar . . .
SENOR, tu sabes como, con encendido brio,
por los seres extranos mi palabra te invoca.
Vengo ahora a pedirte por uno que era mio,
mi vaso de f rescura, el panal de mi boca,
38
GABRIELA MISTRAL
THIS UTTJUE GI mi; TM AT Z,OST A FTJVGJER
AND a clam caught my little finger,
and the clam fell into the sand,
and the sand was swallowed by the sea,
and the whaler caught it in the sea,
and the whaler arrived at Gibraltar,
and in Gibraltar the fishermen sing:
'News o the earth we drag up from the sea,
news of a little girl's finger:
let her who lost it come get it!'
Give me a boat to go fetch it,
and for the boat give me a captain,
for the captain give me wages,
and for his wages let him ask for the city:
Marseilles with towers and squares and boats,
in all the wide world the finest city,
which won't be lovely with a litde girl
that the sea robbed of her finger,
and that whalers chant for like town criers,
and that they're waiting for on Gibraltar . . .
Af.r.
TME PRAYER
THOU knowest, Lord, with what flaming boldness,
my word invokes Thy help for strangers.
I come now to plead for one who was mine,
my cup of freshness, honeycomb of my mouth,
39
GABRIELA MISTRAL
cal de mis huesos, dulce razon de la Jornada,
gorjeo de mi oido, cenidor de mi veste.
Me cuido hasta de aquellos en que no puse nada.
jNo tengas ojo torvo si te pido por este !
Te digo que era bueno, te digo que tenia
el corazon entero a flor de pecho, que era
suave de indole^ franco como la luz del dia 5
henchido de milagro como la primavera.
Me replicas, severo, que es de plegaria indigno
el que no unto de preces sus dos labios f ebriles,
y se ue aquella tarde sin esperar tu signo,
trizandose las sienes como vasos sutiles.
Pero yo> mi Seiior, te arguyo que he tocado,
de la misma manera que el nardo de su frente,
todo su corazon dulce y atormentado
i y tenia la seda del capullo naciente !
- 1 Que fue cruel ? Olvidas, Senor, que le querla,
y que el sabia suya la entrana que llagaba.
I Que enturbio para siempre mis linfas de alegria ?
[No impqrta! Tu comprendes: jyo le amaba, le amaba!
Y amar (bien sabes de eso) es amargo ejercicio;
un'mantener los parpados de lagrimas mojados,
un refrescar $le besos las trenzas del cilicio
conservando, bajo ellas, los ojos extasiados.
El hierro que taladra tiene un gustoso frio,
cuando abre, cual gavillas, las carnes amorosas.
Y la cruz (Tu'te acuerdas [oh Key de los judios!)
se llexa co'nHandura, como un gajo de rosas.
40
GABRIELA MISTRAL
lime of my bones, sweet reason of life's journey,
bird-trill to my ears, girdle of my garment*
Even those who are no part of me are in my care.
Harden not Thine eyes if I plead with Thee for this one !
He was a good man, I say he was a man
whose heart was entirely open; a man
gentle in temper, frank as the light of day,
as filled with miracles as the spring of the year.
Thou answerest harshly that he is unworthy of entreaty
who did not anoint with prayer his fevered lips,
who went away that evening without waiting for Thy sign,
his temples shattered like fragile goblets.
But I, my Lord, protest that I have touched,
just like the spikenard of his brow,
his whole gentle and tormented heart:
and it was silky as a nascent bud !
Thou sayest that he was cruel ? Thou f orgettest, Lord, that
I loved him,
and that he knew my wounded heart was wholly his.
He troubled for ever the waters of my gladness ?
It does not matter! Thou knowest: I loved him, I loved him!
And to love (Thou knowest it well) is a bitter exercise;
a pressing of eyelids wet with tears,
a kissing-alive of hairshirt tresses,
keeping, below them, the ecstatic eyes.
The piercing iron has a welcome chill,
when it opens, like sheaves of grain, the loving flesh*
And the cross (Thou rememberest, O King of the Jews !)
is softly borne, like a spray of roses.
GABRIEL A MISTRAL
Aqui me estoy, Senor, con la cara caida
sobre el polvo, parlandote un crepusculo entero,
o todos los creptisculos a que alcance la vida,
si tardas en decirme la palabra que espero.
Fatigare tu oido de pieces y sollozos,
lamiendoj lebrel timido, los bordes de tu manto,
y ni pueden huirme tus ojos amorosos
ni esquivar tu pie el riego caliente de mi llanto.
|Di el per don, dilo al fin! Va a esparcir en el viento
la palabra el perfume de cien pomos de olores
al vaciarse; toda agua sera deslumbramiento;
el yermo echara flor y el guijarro esplendores,
Se mojaran los ojos oscuros de las fieras,
y, comprendiendo, el monte que de piedra forjaste
llorara por los parpados blancos de sus neveras,
j toda la tierra tuya sabra que perdonaste !
SVJMNO
A NINO tan dormido
no me lo recordeis.
Dormia asi en mi entrana
con mucha dejadez.
Yo lo saque del suefio
de todo su querer,
y ahora se me ha vuelto
a dormir otra vez
42
GABRIELA MISTRAL
Here I rest. Lord, my face bowed down
to the dust, talking with Thee through the twilight,
through all the twilights that may stretch through life,
if Thou art long in telling me the word I await.
I shall weary Thine ears with prayers and sobs;
a timid greyhound, I shall lick Thy mantle's hem,
Thy loving eyes can not escape me,
Thy foot avoid the hot rain of my tears.
Speak at last the word of pardon ! It will scatter
in the wind the perfume of a hundred fragrant vials
as it empties ; all waters will be dazzling;
the wilderness will blossom, the cobblestones will sparkle.
The dark eyes of wild beasts will moisten,
and the conscious mountain that Thou didst forge from ston
will weep through the white eyelids of its snowdrifts ;
Thy whole earth will know that Thou hast forgiven !
DEEP SJLEEP
LET no one awaken
This child so fast asleep.
He sleeps as in my womb
He lay once, heavy and deep.
From that comfortable rest
I wakened him to life.
Now again on my breast
He has fallen asleep.
43
GABRIELA MISTRAL
La frente esta parada
y las sienes tambien.
Los pies son dos almejas
y los costados pez.
Rocio tendra el sueno
que es humeda su sien.
Tendra musica el sueno
que le da su vaiven.
Resuello se le oye
en agua de correr;
pestafias se le mueven
en hojas de laurel.
Les digo que lo dejen
con tanto y tanto bien,
hasta que se despierte
de solo su querer
El sueno se lo ayudan
el techo y el dintel,
la Tierra que es Cibeles,
la madre que es mujer,
A ver si yo le aprendo
dormir que me olvide
y se lo aprende tanta
despierta cosa infiel.
Y nos vamos durmiendo
como de su merced,
de sobras de ese sueno,
hasta el amanecer
44
GABRIELA MISTRAL
His forehead's pulse
Has almost stilled its beat.
O body of a small fish
With two pink clams for feet!
In sleep a dew must fall
Because his brow is wet;
In sleep there must be music
His limbs cannot forget.
Smooth as running water
Stirs his quiet breath.
His eyelids flutter
Like a laurel leaf.
Do not say a word
Until he awakens
Of his own accord.
His sleep is sheltered
By the roof, the door,
Simple things and human;
The earth which is our mother,
His mother who is woman.
In this quiet peace
May I learn again
The childhood sleep I lost,
Hunted for in vain ;
So to fall to rest
Innocent and deep
Using what is left
Of his gift of sleep.
K. G. a
45
GABRIELA MISTRAL
m os
LA tierra se hace madrastra
si tu alma vende a mi alma.
Llevan un escalofrio
de tribulacion las aguas.
El mundo f ue mas hermoso
desde que me hiciste aliada,
cuando junto de un espino
nos quedamos sin palabras,
I y el amor como el espino
nos traspaso de fragrancia!
Pero te va a brotar viboras
la tierra si vendes mi alma ;
baldias del hijo, rompo
mis rodillas desoladas.
Se apaga Cristo en mi pecho
j y la puerta de mi casa
quiebra la mano al mendigo
y avienta a la atribulada !
Beso que tu boca entregue
a mis oidos alcanza,
porque las grutas profundas
me devuelven tus palabras.
El polvo de los senderos
guarda el olor de tus plantas
y oteandolas como un ciervo,
te sigo por las montanas ____
A la que tu ames, las nubes
la pintan sobre mi casa.
Ve cual ladron a besarla
de la tierra en las entranas,
que, cuando el rostro le alces,
hallas mi cara con lagrimas.
46
GABRIELA MISTRAL
6?OB WILLS IT
THE very earth will disown you
If your soul barter my soul;
In angry tribulation
The waters will tremble and rise.
My world became more beautiful
Since the day you took me to you,
When, under the flowering thorn tree
Together we stood without words.
And love, like the heavy fragrance
Of the flowering thorn tree, pierced us.
The earth will vomit forth snakes
If ever you barter my soul !
Barren of your child, and empty
I rock my desolate knees.
Christ in my breast will be crushed,
And the charitable door of my house
Will break the wrist of the beggar,
And repulse the woman in sorrow.
The kiss your mouth gives another
Will echo within my ear,
As the deep surrounding caverns
Bring back your words to me.
Even the dust of the highway
Keeps the scent of your footprints.
I track them, and like a deer
Follow you into the mountains.
Clouds will paint over my dwelling
The image of your new love.
Go to her like a thief, crawling
In the boweled earth to kiss her.
When you lift her face you will find
My face disfigured with weeping.
47
GABRIELA MISTRAL
Dios no quiere que tu tengas
sol si conmigo no marchas ;
Dios no quiere que tu bebas
si yo no tiemblo en tu agua;
no consiente que tu duermas
sino en mi trenza ahuecada.
Si te vas, hasta en los musgos
del camino rompes mi alma;
te muerden la sed y el harnbre
en todo monte o llanada
y en cualquier pais las tardes
con sangre seran mis llagas.
Y destilo de tu lengua
aunque a otra mujer llamaras,
y me clavo como un dejo
de salmuera en tu garganta;
y odies, o cantes, o ansies,
I por mi solamente clamas !
Si te vas y mueres lejos,
trendras la mano ahuecada
diez afios bajo la tierra
para recibir mis lagrimas,
sintiendo como te tiemblan
las carnes atribuladas,
j hasta que te espolvoreen
mis huesos sobre la cara!
GABRIELA MISTRAL
God will not give you the light
Unless you walk by my side.
God will not let you drink
If I do not tremble in the water.
He will not let you sleep
Except in the hollow of my hair,
If you go, you destroy my soul
As you trample the weeds by the roadside.
Hunger and thirst will gnaw you,
Crossing the heights or the plains ;
And wherever you are, you will watch
The evenings bleed with my wounds.
When you call another woman
I will issue forth on your tongue,
Even as a taste of salt
Deep in the roots of your throat.
In hating, or singing, in yearning
It is me alone you summon.
If you go, and die far from me
Ten years your hand will be waiting
Hollowed under the earth
To gather the drip of my tears.
And you will feel the trembling
Of your corrupted flesh,
Until my bones are powdered
Into the dust on your face.
K.G.C.
49
ALFONSO REYES
VERACRUZ
La vecindad del mar queda abolida:
basta saber que nos guardan las espaldas,
que hay una ventana inmensa y verde
por donde echarse a nado.
LA HABANA
No es Cuba, donde el mar disuelve el alma.
No es Cuba que minca vio Gauguin,
que nunca vio Picasso
donde negros vestidos de amarillo y de guinda
rondan el malecon, entre dos luces,
y los ojos vencidos
no disimulan ya los pensamientos.
No es Cuba la que nunca vio Stravinsky
concertar sones de marimbas y giiiros
en el entierro de Papa Montero,
nanigo de baston y canalla rumbero.*
No es Cuba donde el yanqui colonial
se cura del bochorno sorbiendo granizados
de brisa, en las terrazas del reparto;
donde la policfa desinf ecta
el aguijon de los mosquitos ultimos
que zumban todavia en espanol.
* Veanse pag. 190 y 258.
50
ALFONSO REYES
GUJLF OF MEXICO
VERA CRUZ
The neighbourhood of the sea is abolished :
it's enough to know that its protection lies behind us,
that there's a window, huge and green,
through which we can go for a swim.
HAVANA
Not Cuba, where the sea dissolves the soul.
Not Cuba which Gauguin never saw,
Picasso never saw
where negroes clothed in yellow and cherry red
haunt the docks at twilight,
their conquered eyes
no longer hiding thoughts.
Not Cuba which Stravinsky never saw
harmonizing sons with marimba and gourd
for the burial of Papa Montero,
cane-swinging ndnigo and rumba-stepping fool.*
Not Cuba where the Yankee colonial
recovers from the scorcher by sucking down sherberts
of fresh breeze on suburban terraces,
and where the police disinfect
the stings of the last remaining mosquitoes
that still buzz in Spanish,
* See pages 191 and 259.
ALFONSO REYES
No es Cuba donde el mar se transparenta
para que no se pierdan los despojos del Maine,,
y un contra tista revolucionario
tine de bianco el aire de la tarde,
abanicando con sonrisa veterana,
desde su mecedora, la fragancia
de los cocos y mangos aduaneros.
VERACRUZ
No : aqui la tierra triunf a y manda
caldo de tiburones a sus pies.
Y entre arrecifes, ultimas cumbres de la Atlantida,
las esponjas de algas venenosas
manchan de bilis verde;, que se torna violeta,
los lejos donde el mar cuelga del aire.
Basta saber que nos guardan las espaldas:
la ciudad solo abre hacia la costa
sus puertas de servicio.
En el aburridero de los muelles,
los mozos de cordel no son maritimos :
cargan en la bandeja del sombrero
un sol de campo adentro :
hombres color de hombre,
que el sudor emparienta con el asno
y el equilibrio jarocho de los bustos,
al peso de las civicas pistolas.
Heron Proal, con manos juntas y ojos bajos,
siembra la clerical cruzada de inquilinos ;
y las bandas de funcionarios en camisa
sujetan el desborde de sus panzas
con relumbrantes dentaduras de balas,
52
ALFONSO REYES
Not Cuba where the sea shows clear
so as not to lose the wreckage of the Maine >
and a revolutionist subcontractor
whitens the afternoon air,
fanning, with a veteran smile
from his rocking-chair, the sweet scent
of the customs-house coconuts and mangoes.
VERA CRUZ
No : here the earth triumphs and commands
shark broth at its feet.
And among reefs, the last peaks of Atlantis,
the poisonous algae-sponges
stain with green bile turning violet
the far reaches where the sea hangs from the air.
It's enough to know that its protection lies behind us :
only towards the coast does the city
open its service entrances.
On the boredom of the docks
the porters are landlubbers :
on the trays of their hats
they carry an up-country sun :
men man-coloured,
whose sweat makes them cousins to the ass
and the countryfied thrust of their chests,
beneath the weight of civic horsepistols.
Heron Proal, hands joined, eyes downcast,
sows the tenants' clerical crusade ;
and the bands of shirtsleeve officials
confine their overflowing bellies
within shining rows of bullet-teeth.
53
ALFONSO REYES
Las sombras de los pajaros
danzan sobre las plazas mal barridas.
Hay aletazos en las torres altas.
El mejor asesino del contorno,
viejo y altivo, cuenta una proeza.
Y un juchiteco, esclavo manumiso
del f ardo en que descansa,
busca y recoge con el pie descalzo
el cigarro que el sueno de la siesta
le robo de la boca.
Los Capitanes, como han visto tanto,
disfrutan, sin hablarse,
los menjurjes de menta en los portales.
Y todas las tormentas de las Islas Canarias,
y el Cabo Verde y sus faros de colores,
y la tinta china del Mar Amarillo,
y el Rojo entresonado
que el profeta judio parte en dos con la vara-
y el Negro, donde nadan
carabelas de craneos de elefantes
que bombeaban el Diluvio con la trompa,
y el Mar de Azufre
donde perdieron cabellera, ceja y barba
y el de Azogue, que puso dientes de oro
a la tripulacion de piratas malayos,
reviven al olor del alcohol de azucar,
y andan de mariposas prisioneras
bajo el azul quepi de tres galones,
mientras consume nubes de tifones
la pipa de cerezo.
La vecindad del mar queda abolida.
Ganido errante de cobres y cornetas
pasea en un tranvia.
Basta saber que nos guardan las espaldas.
54
ALFONSO REYES
Bird-shadows
dance over the ill-swept squares.
Slap of wings in the high towers.
The best cut-throat of the neighbourhood,
old and haughty, describes a success.
And a man from Juchitlan, a slave freed
from the bale on which he rests,
gropes for and picks up with his naked toes
the cigaret that his siesta-nap
stole from his mouth.
The Captains who have seen so much
are enjoying on porches, with no wasted words,
their mint-flavoured concoctions.
And all the storms of the Canary Islands,
and Cape Verde with its coloured beacons,
and the Chinese ink of the Yellow Sea,
and the drowsing Red
which the Jew prophet splits asunder with his staff
and the Black, where swim
caravels of skulls of the elephants
who pumped the Flood with their trunks:
and the Brimstone Sea,
where they lost their hair, eyebrows and beards
and the Sea of Quicksilver, which provided gold teeth
for the Malay pirate crew:
all these revive at the tang of sugar alcohol
and move like captive butterflies
under the blue three-gallon hats
while their cherrywood pipes
burn up clouds of typhoons.
The neighbourhood of the sea is abolished.
A wandering yowl of brasses and cornets
rides by on a bus.
It's enough to know that its protection lies behind us.
55
ALFONSO REYES
(Atras 3 una ventana inmensa y verde . . .)
El alcohol del sol pinta de azucar
los terrones fundentes de las casas.
(. . . por donde echarse a nado).
Miel de sudor, parentesco del asno, .
y hombres color de hombre
conciertan otras leyes,
en medio de las plazas donde vagan
las sombras de los pajaros.
Y sientes a la altura de las sienes
los ojos fijos de las viudas de guerra.
Y yo te anuncio el ataque a los volcanes
de la gente que esta de espalda al mar:
cuando los comedores de insectos
ahuyenten las langostas con los pies,
y en el silencio de las capitales
se okan venir pisadas de sandalias
y el trueno de las flautas mexicanas.
ALFONSO REYES
(Behind, a window huge and green . . .)
Alcohol of sun paints with sugar
the melting lumps of the houses.
(. . . through which we can go for a swim.)
Honey of sweat, cousinhood with the ass,
and men man-coloured,
harmonize other laws
in the middle of squares where wander
bird-shadows.
And you feel, as high up as your temples,
the staring eyes of war widows,
I bring you news of an attack upon the volcanoes
by the people whose backs are to the sea:
when the devourers of insects
scatter the locusts with their feet,
and in the silence of the capitals
you will hear the approaching tread of sandals
and the thunder of Mexican flutes.
D.F.
57
ALFONSO GUTIERREZ HERMOSILLO
MIENTRAS pasaba la estacion de la luz, en el camino
de las estrellas ; en el sueno
que hablo por mi boca ; cuando mi boca era virgen;
ya que no era posible la tortura
era imposible el llanto;
la demonstrada sonrisa
y el propio corazon,
fueron como de angeles que no han visto a los hombres.
J Solo por una mujer era posible la tristeza,
pero un horpJbre debe siempre buscarla!
Cuando ella ocasiona un suf rimiento
porque hace descansar en su mano otra mano
o, sencillamente, no nos mira en los ojos,
da un dolor que bien puede
ser convertido en gozo, y el ansia
de ser fuertes, fuertes.
j Oh, no es la mujer esto que me entristece !
Desconozco el mismo aire que debiera apoyarme
porque en mi tacto se ha desvanecido. Estoy solo,
pero no es la mujer esto que me entristece.
Estoy solo.
Nada, ni la palabra, me rodea,
nada: no la estacion aquella de la luz
en el camino de las estrellas,
ni el eco mismo
cada da en la planicie insuficiente.
58
ALFONSO GUTIERREZ HERMOSILLO
FUGUE
WHILE the station of light was passing, on the highway
of the stars ; in the dream
speaking through my mouth; while my mouth was yet virgin;
since there was no possible anguish,
lamentation was impossible;
the demonstrated smile.,
my very heart,
were as of angels who have not yet beheld men.
Only through a woman was sadness possible^
but a man must always seek her !
Occasioning a pang
by resting in her hand another's hand,
or, simply, by not looking us in the eyes,
she is a source of pain that yet
may turn into delight, into
A yearning to be strong, strong!
Ah, it is no woman, this thing that saddens me !
Strange to me is the very air that should support me
for it vanishes from beneath my touch. I am alone,
but woman is not this thing that saddens me.
I am alone.
Nothing, not even speech, surrounds me,
nothing; neither that station of light
on the way of stars,
nor echo itself
each day on the meagre plain.
59
ALFONSO GUTIERREZ HERMOSILLO
Y esto que ahora digo con el fin de acallarme
es pobre, pobre, pobre, yo lo adivino sin mentira,-
sl Dios no me sostiene.
Y para que gritar, para que amar la angustia,
y ser dentro del Ilanto un llanto solo,
predecir desilusion y comulgar sin templo ?
Ahora callare. jNo es el silencio
que hace bien a mi alma !
VIVIMOS hasta ayer el minuto del suefio
que no sera posible continuar en la muerte.
Despertaremos hoy, hermanos suplicantes,
despertaremos para siempre,
Guardad bien los recuerdos, que yo traigo los mios
estremecidos por la frialdad de mi cuerpo.
Viviremos desnudos, sin mas armas
y sin mas holocaustos para la f uerza f uerte
pero abiertos los poros al tormento.
Se hallara con los parpados una luz que no alegra
y el vuelo
vivira con los pasos que destruyo la muerte.
Despertaremos hoy; que mis palabras,
hermanos suplicantes, os prevengan*
60
ALFONSO GUTIERREZ HERMOSILLO
And this that I say now to silence myself
is poor, poor, poor how surely I sense it!
if God does not sustain me.
And then why cry aloud, why fall in love with anguish,
why be a lone lament at lamentation's core,
predicting disillusion and an altarless sacrament?
Now I will be stilL But it is not silence,
this that is my soul's good!
D.F,
EAMTM
TILL yesterday we lived that moment of dreaming
that can not be continued in our death.
We shall awake today, O suppliant brothers,
we shall awake for ever.
Keep well your memories, for I bring you mine
shivering from the chill of my body.
Naked we'll live, with no more weapons
or holocausts for the brave bravura,
but with our pores open to torment.
Our eyes shall make discovery of a joyless light
and flight
shall live in our death cancelled steps.
We shall awake today : let my words,
O suppliant brothers, warn you.
61
ALFONSO GUTIERREZ HERMOSILLO
Apenas ayer, cantabamos.
Apenas ayer, sonreiamos.
Dejaran nuestros ojos de adorar los colores
solo abiertos al ritmo de la sangre.
Dejaran nuestros brazos de mover su alegria.
Y nuestra boca, amigos, nuestra boca de besos
esparcira secretos de lombre.
Apenas ayer, cantabamos.
Apenas ayer, sonreiamos.
Tuvimos un paraiso que nuestras propias manos f abricaron,
pero los dioses han querido, tan solo,
darnos la tierra.
ALFONSO GUTIERREZ HERMOSILLO
Only yesterday, we were singing.
Only yesterday, we smiled.
Our eyes shall quite give over the cult of color,
open only to the rhythm of the blood.
Our arms shall cease their dance of joy.
Our mouths, O friends, our mouths shall scatter
not kisses, but secrets of light.
Only yesterday, we were singing.
Only yesterday, we smiled.
Ours was a Paradise that our own hands had fashioned,
but it has pleased the gods and this only
to grant us the earth.
JORGE LUIS BORGES
MNSCRXPCMON SEPULCRAI*
Para el coronel don Isidoro Suarez^ mi bisabuelo
DILATO su valor allende los Andes.
Contrasto ejercitos y montes.
La audacia fue impetuosa costumbre de su espada.
Impuso en Junin termino formidable a la lucha,
y a las lanzas del Peru dio sangre espanola.
Escribio su censo de hazanas
en prosa rigida como los clarines belisonos.
Murio cercado de un destierro implacable.
Hoy es orilla de tanta gloria el olvido.
A ilAFAEL CANSENOS ASSENS
LARGA y final andanza sobre la exaltation arrebatada
del ala del viaducto.
A nuestros pies, busca velajes el viento, y las estrellas
corazones de Dios laten intensidad.
Bien paladeado el gusto de la noche, traspasados de sombra,
vuelta ya una costumbre de nuestra carne la noche.
Noche postrer de nuestro platicar, antes que se levanten
entre nosotros las leguas.
Aun es de entrambos el silencio donde como praderas
resplandecen las voces.
Aun el alba es un pajaro perdido en la vileza
mas lejana del mundo.
Ultima noche resguardada del gran viento de ausencia,
Grato solar del corazon, puno de arduo jinete que
sabe
sofrenar el agil manana.
64
JORGE LUIS BORGES
KVSCRI FTIO2V
For Colonel Isidore Suarez, my great-grandfather
His valour passed beyond the Andes.
He stood against armies and mountains*
Audacity was an impetuous custom of his sword.
At Junin he put a formidable end to the fight,
and gave Spanish blood to Peruvian lances.
He wrote his roll of deeds
in prose inflexible as battlesinging trumpets.
He died walled in by implacable exile.
Oblivion now environs so great a glory.
R. S. F.
TO RAFAEX CA1VSI JV0S ASSENS
LONG and final passage over the breathtaking height
of the trestle's span.
At our feet- the wind gropes for sails, and the stars
hearts of God throb intensity.
We relish the taste of the night, transfixed by darkness,
night now become again a habit of our flesh.
The final night of our talking, before
the leagues rise between us.
Still is ours the silence where like meadows
the voices glitter.
Dawn is still a bird lost in the farthest away
vileness of the world.
Ultimate night, sheltered from the great wind of absence.
Pleasant homestead of the heart, that tough trooper's fist that
knows
how to check nimble tomorrow.
JORGE LUIS BORGES
Es tragica la entrana del adios como de todo acontecer
en que es notorio el Tiempo.
Es duro realizar que ni tendremos en comun las
estrellas.
Cuando la tarde sea quietud en mi patio, de tus carillas
surgira la mafiana.
Sera la sombra de mi verano tu invierno
y tu luz sera gloria de mi sombra.
Aun persistimos juntos.
Aun las dos voces logran convenir,
como la intensidad y la ternura en las puestas del sol.
Ni la intimidad de tu frente clara como una fiesta,
Ni la privanza de tu cuerpo, aun misterioso y tacito y
de nina,
Nila sucesion de tu vida situandose en palabras o acallamient<
Seran favor tan persuasivo de ideas
Como el mirar tu sueno implicado
En la vigilia de mis avidos brazos.
Virgen milagrosamente otra vez por la virtud absolutoria del
Sueno,
Quieta y resplandeciente como una dicha en la seleccion del
recuerdo,
Me daras esa orilla de tu vida que tu misma no tienes.
Arrojado a quietud,
Divisare esa playa ultima de tu ser
Y te vere por vez primera quizas,
Como Dios ha de verte,
Desbaratada la ficcion del Tiempo
Sin el amor, sin mi.
66
JORGE LUIS BORGES
The inwardness of Goodbye is tragic like that of every event
in which Time is manifest.
It is bitter to realize that we shall not even have the stars in
common.
When evening is quietness in my courtyard, from your pages
morning will rise.
Your winter will be the shadow of my summer
and your light the glory of my shadow.
Still we persist together.
Still the two voices achieve understanding,
like the intensity and tenderness of the setting sun.
R.S.F.
JLOVE'S PRIORIirY
NEITHER the intimacy of your forehead, fair as a feast-day,
Nor the favour of your body, still mysterious, reserved and
childlike,
Nor what comes to me of your life, settling in words or silence,
Will be a grace so provocative of thoughts
As the sight of your sleep, enfolded
In the vigil of my covetous arms.
Virgin again, miraculously, by the absolving power of Sleep,
Quiet and luminous like some happy thing recovered by
memory,
You will deed to me that shore of your life that you yourself
do not own.
Cast up into silence,
I shall discern that ultimate beach of your being
And see you for the first time as, perhaps,
God must see you,
The fiction of Time destroyed,
Free from love, from me.
R. $. F^:
67
JORGE LUIS BORGES
CAS AS COM o
DONDE San Juan y Chacabuco se cruzan
Vi las casas azuies>
Vi las casas que tienen colores de aventura.
Eran como banderas
Y hondas como el naciente que suelta las afueras.
Las hay color de aurora y las hay color de alba.
Su resplandor es una pasion ante la ochava
De la esquina cuaiquiera, turbia y desanimada.
Yo pienso en las mujeres
Que buscaran el cielo en sus patios fervientes.
Pienso en los claros brazos que ilustraran la tarde
Y en el negror de trenzas; pienso en la dicha grave
De mirarse en sus ojos, hondos como parrales.
Es una pena altiva
La que azula la esquina,
Empujare la puerta cancel que es hierro y patio
Y habra una clara nina, ya mi novia, en la sala.
Y los dos callaremos, tremulos como llamas,
Y la dicha presente se aquietara en pasada.
WIN
CON la tarde
se cansaron los dos o tres colores del patio.
La gfan franqueza de la luna llena
ya no entusiasma su habitual firmamento.
Hoy que esta crespo el cielo
dira la agoreria que ha muerto un angelito.
Patio, cielo encauzado.
El patio es la ventana
por donde Dios mira las almas.
El patio es el declive
por el cual se derrama el cielo en la casa.
68
JORGE LUIS BORGES
MOUSES UKE ANGELS
WHERE San Juan and Chacabuco intersect
I saw the blue houses.
The houses that have the colours of adventure.
They were like banners
And deep as the East that sets free the suburbs.
Some are daybreak colour and some the colour of dawn.
Their radiance is a passion before the facet
Of any corner,, murky, dispirited.
I think of the women
Who will be looking heavenward from their burning patios.
I think of the pale arms still clear in the evening
And of the blackness of braids; I think of the grave delight
Of being mirrored in their eyes, deep as honey-jars.
It is a haughty sorrow
That stains the corner blue.
I will thrust through the inner gate of iron and courtyard
And there will be a fair girl, already mine, in the room.
And the two of us will hush, trembling like flames,
And the present joy will grow quiet in that passed.
R.S.F.
PATIO
WITH the evening
the two or three colours of the patio grew weary.
The huge candour of the full moon
no longer enchants its habitual firmament.
Now that heaven is crisp with clouds
augury will say that a little angel has died.
The patio is a conduit of Heaven.
The patio is the window
through which God looks at souls.
The patio is the slope
down which the brimming sky flows into the house.
69
JORGE LUIS BORGES
Serena
la eternidad espera en la encrucijada de estrellas.
Lindo es vivir en la amistad oscura
de un zaguan, de un alero, y de un aljibe.
EN &&,
POR el deceso de alguien
misterio cuyo vacante nombre poseo, cuya
realidad no abarcamos ,
hay hasta el alba una casa abierta en el Sur,
una ignorada casa que no estoy destinado a rever,
pero que me espera esta noche
con desvelada luz en las altas horas del sueno,
demacrada de malas noches^ distinta,
minuciosa de realidad.
A su vigilia gravitada en muerte camino
por las calles elementales como recuerdos,
por el tiempo abundante de la noche,
sin mas oible vida
que los vagos hombres de barrio junto al apagado
almacenj
y algun silbido solo en el mundo.
Lento el andar, en la posesion de la espera,
llego a la cuadra y a la casa y a la sincera puerta
que busco
y me reciben hombres obligados a gravedad
que participaron de los anos de mis mayores,
y nivelamos destinos en una pieza habilitada que mira
al patio
pieza que esta bajo el poder y en la integridad de la
noche
70
JORGE LUIS BORGES
Serenely
eternity waits at the crossway of the stars,
It is lovely to live in the dark friendliness
of the covered entrance, the eaves, and the sweet cistern.
R. S. F.
THE IVI&MT THEY iEPT VIGIL IN TME SHI7TH
BECAUSE of someone's death
a mystery whose empty name I possess, whose
reality we do not grasp ,
there is in the South a house open wide till dawn,
an unknown house I am destined not to see again,
but which awaits me tonight
with a sleepless light in the dead hours of sleep,
wasted away by bad nights, distinct,
precise in its reality.
Toward its heavy death-watch I make my way
through streets as simple as memories^
through the abundant night-time,
with a life no more audible
than the neighbourhood loiterers idling near the dark
store,
and a whistle alone in the world.
Walking slowly, possessed by hope,
I arrive at the block and the house and the honest
door I am seeking,
and they receive me : men bound to be grave,
who shared the years of my elders,
and we size up our destinies in a prepared room that looks
on the court
a room that is under the power and wholeness of
night
71
JORGE LUIS BORGES
y decimos, porque la realidad es mayor, cosas indif erentes
y somos desganados y criollos en el espejo
y el mate cotnpartido mide horas raras.
Me enternecen las menudas sabidurias
que en todo f allecimiento de hombre se pierden
habito de unos libros, de una Have, de un cuerpo
entre los otros ,
frecuencias irrecuperables que fueron
la precision y la amistad del mundo para el.
Yo se que todo privilegio, aunque oscuro, es de linaje
de milagros
y mucho lo es el de participar en esta vigilia,
reunida alrededor de lo que no se sabe : del Muerto,
reunida para incomunicar o guardar su primera noche
en la muerte.
(El velorio gasta las caras;
los ojos se nos estan muriendo en lo alto como Jesus.)
I Y el muerto, el increible ?
Su realidad esta bajo las flores diferentes de el,
y su mortal hospitalidad nos dara
un recuerdo mas para el tiempo
y sentenciosas calles del Sur para merecerlas despacio
y brisa oscura sobre la frente que vuelve
y la noche que de la mayor congoja nos libra:
la prolijidad de lo real.
JORGE LUIS BORGES
and we speak, since the reality is greater, of indifferent things,
and we are apathetic and familiar in the mirror,
and the shared mate measures out empty hours.
I am touched by the little pieces of wisdom
which in every man's death are lost
the habit of books, of a key, of one body
among the others ,
irrecoverable rhythms that were
the order and friendliness of the world for him.
I know that every privilege, though obscure, is of the lineage
of miracles,
and surely it is a privilege to take part in this watch,
gathered around what no one knows; the dead;
gathered to set him apart or to guard him this first
night in death.
(Faces grow haggard with watching:
our eyes are dying on the height like Jesus.)
And the dead man, the incredible?
His reality remains beneath the different flowerings of him,
and his hospitality in death will give us
one memory more for time,
and sententious and slowly-to-be-inerited streets of the South,
the dark breeze across the forehead that turns back,
and the night that sets us free from the greatest sorrow:
the endless chatter of the real.
R. S. F.
73
JORGE DE LIMA
IAJ JOA0
PAE Joao seccou como um pau sem raiz.
Pae Joao vae morrer.
Pae Joao remou nas canoas,
cavou a terra,
fez brotar do chao a esmeralda das f olhas :
cafe, canna, algodao.
Pae Joao cavou mais esmeraldas que Paes Lerne.
A filha de Pae Joao tinha um peito de vaca
para os filhos de yoyo mamar.
Quando o peito seccou a filha de Pae Joao
tambem seccou agarrada num ferro de engomar.
A pelle de Pae Joao ficou na ponta dos chicotes.
A forga de Pae Joao ficou no cabo da enxada e da f oice.
A mulher de Pae Joao o branco furtou
para fazer mucamas.
O sangue de Pae Joao se sumiu no sangue bom
como um torrao de assucar bruto
numa panella de leite.
Pae Joao foi cavallo
para os filhos de yoyo montar.
Pae Joao sabia historias tao bonitas
que davam vontade de chorar.
Pae Joao vae morrer.
Ha uma noite la fora como a pelle de Pae Joao.
Nem uma estrella no ceu.
Parece ate mandinga de Pae Joao.
74
JORGE DE LIMA
JOfflV
DADDY John withered like a tree without roots.
Daddy John is dying.
Daddy John pulled at the oars,
tilled the earth,
drew from the soil a green wealth of leaves:
coffee, sugar cane, cotton.
Daddy John dug more emeralds than Paes Leme.
Daddy John's daughter, with her cow's dugs,
suckled the massa's children.
When her breast was dry, Daddy John's daughter
withered also, still clutching her flatiron.
The skin of Daddy John stayed on the whip-lash.
The strength of Daddy John stayed on the handle of the hoe
and sickle.
The white man stole Daddy John's wife
to be wet-nurse to his children.
The blood of Daddy John melted in the blood of the quality
like a lump of brown sugar
in a jar of milk.
Daddy John was a horse
for the massa's children to ride.
Daddy John knew stories so pretty
they made you want to cry.
Daddy John is dying.
The night out yonder is like the skin of Daddy John.
Not a star in the sky.
So that it seems the very magic of Daddy John.
D.P.
75
JORGE DE LIMA
A AWE
NINGUEM sabia donde viera a extranha ave.
Talvez o ultimo cyclone a arrebatasse
de incognita ilha ou de algum golpho;
ou nascesse das algas gigantescas do mar,
ou caisse de uma outra atmosphera,
ou de outrb mundo ou de outro mysterio.
Velhos hoinens do mar nunca a haviam visto nos gelos
nem nenhum andarillho a encontrara jamais :
era anthropomorpha como um anjo e silenciosa
como qualquer poeta.
Primeiro pairou na grande cupola do templo,
mas o pontifice tangeu-a de la como se tange um demonio
doente.
E na mesma noite poisou no cimo do pharol,
e o pharoleiro tangeu-a: ella podia atrapalhar as naus.
Ninguem Ihe off ereceu um pedago de pao
ou um gesto suave onde se dependurasse.
E alguem disse: "Essa ave e uma ave ma das que devoram o
gado."
E outro: "Essa ave deve ser um demonio faminto."
E quando as suas azas pairavam espalmadas dando sombra
as creanjas cansadas,
ate as maes jogavan pedras na mysteriosa ave perseguida e
inquieta.
Talvez houvesse fugido de qualquer pico silencioso entre
as nuvens
ou perdesse a companheira abatida de setta.
A ave era anthropomorpha como um anjo
e solitaria como qualquer poeta.
E parecia querer o convivio dos homens
que a enxotavam como se enxota um demonio doente.
Quando a enchente periodica afogou os trigaes,
alguem disse:
"A ave trouxe a enchente/'
7 6
JORGE DE LIMA
THE
No MAN knew whence the strange bird came.
Possibly the last hurricane had swept it
from an unknown island or from some gulf;
or it was born of gigantic seaweeds,
or it fell from another atmosphere,
from another world, another mystery.
Old sailors had never seen it among the ice,
nor had any wanderer ever met up with it:
man-shaped it was, like an angel, and silent
like any poet.
At first it hovered over the great dome of the temple ;
but the high priest drove it away, as one would drive a malign
spirit.
In the same night it lit on the summit of the lighthouse,
and the keeper drove it thence, lest it mislead the ships.
No one offered it a morsel of bread
or the kindly shelter of a resting place.
Someone said: This is one of those evil birds that devour the
flocks.
And another : This bird is no doubt a hungry demon.
When with outstretched wings it sheltered weary children,
the mothers themselves stoned the mysterious, persecuted and
unresting bird.
It had fled, perhaps,, from a silent peak among
the clouds,
or had lost its mate by an arrow.
The bird was man-shaped, like an angel,
and solitary as any poet.
And it seemed to desire the companionship of men
who drove it from them as one would drive a malign spirit.
When the accustomed flood overwhelmed the wheatfields,
someone said:
The bird brought the flood.
77
JORGE DE LIMA
Quando a secca annual assolou os rebanhos, alguem disse:
"A ave comeu os cordeiros."
E todas as f ontes Ihe negando agua,
a ave desabou sobre o mundo como um Samsao sem vida.
Entao urn simples pescador apanhou o cadaver macio e falou:
"Achei o corpo de uma grande ave mansa."
E alguem recordou que a ave levava ovos aos
anachoretas.
Um mendigo f alou que a ave o abrigara muitas vezes
do frio.
E um nu: "A ave cedeu as pennas para meu gibao."
E o chefe do povo : "Era o rei das aves,
que desconhecemos."
E o filho mais mof o do chef e que era sosinho
emanso:
"Da-me as pennas para eu escrever a minha vida
tao igual a da ave em que me vejo
mais do que me vejo em ti, meu pae."
&&EWA mm QUALQUEH
As GERAgoES da virgem estao tatuadas no ventre
escorreito,
porque a virgem representa tudo o que ha de vir.
Ha arco-iris tatuados nas maos, ha Babeis tatuadas
nos brafos.
A virgem tern o corpo tatuado por Deus porque e a semente do
mundo que ha de vir.
Nao ha um milimetro do corpo, sem desenho e sem plantas
futuras.
Nao ha um poro sem tatuagem: por isso a virgem
e tao bella.
Vamos ler a virgem, vamos conhecer o f uturo : reparae
que nao sao
enfeites, 6 homens de vista curta. Olhae: sao tatuagens
dentro
7 8
JORGE DE LIMA
When the yearly drought wasted the herds, someone said:
The bird ate the lambs.
And since ail the fountains denied it water,
the bird fell upon the earth like a Samson deprived of life.
Then a humble fisherman gathered up the soft body and said :
I found the body of a great gentle bird.
And someone remembered that the bird used to carry eggs to
the hermits.
A beggar told how the bird often sheltered him from the
cold.
And a naked man said : The bird gave me feathers for a coat.
And the leader of the people: It was the king of the birds and
we knew him not.
And the leader's youngest son, who was lonely and gentle,
said:
Give me the quills that I may write my life,
so like that bird's, wherein I see myself
more than I see myself in thee, my father.
D.P.
FHEM HF ANJ?
THE generations of the virgin are tattooed on her unblemished
belly,
for the virgin represents all that is to be.
Rainbows are tattooed on her hands. Towers of Babel on her
arms.
The virgin's body is tattooed by God because she is the source
of the world to be.
There is not a particle of her body without designs and future
plans.
Not a pore is without tattooing: that is why the virgin is so
beautiful.
Come, let us read the virgin, let us learn the future: note that
the tattooings are not
mere adornments, O men of little sight. See, there are
tattooings within
79
JORGE DE LIMA
de tatuagens, sao gera^oes saindo de geragoes.
Quern tatuou a virgem ? Foi Deus no dia da Queda.
Vede a serpente tatuada nella. Vede o anjo tatuado nella.
Vede uma Cruz tatuada nella. Vede, senhores, que
nao pagareis nada. E' o supremo espectaculo, meus
senhores. Ensinarei os mysterids, as letras sym-
bolicas ate o omega. Vinde ver o trabalho ad-
mixavel gravado no corpo da virgem; a historia do
mundo, a estratosphera habitada, o magico Tim-
Ka-Lu viajando na lua. Porque a vkgem e admk-
avel e tern tudo. Vinde senhores, que nao pagareis
nada. A imagem da innocencia, da volupia, do
crime, da bondade, as representa^oes incriveis estao
no dorso da virgem, no pescojo, na face. Vao sahir
tumultos das tatuagens. E' um momento muito
serio, senhores. Vao sahir grandes revoltas. Ha um
mar tatuado na vkgem, com os sete dias da creagao,
com o diluvio, com a morte, Vinde senhores, que
nao pagareis nada.
Senhores, hoje ha espectaculo no mundo.
Vamos ver a virgem, a virgem tatuada, a virgem tatuada por
Deus.
Ella esta nua e ao mesmo tempo vestida de tatuagens.
Meus senhores, a virgem vae se desdobrar em milenios.
Ha intuigks nas tatuagens, ha poemas, ha mysterios.
E' por isso que o espectaculo e bonito. E' por isso que a virgem
vos attrae.
Vinde, senhores!
O GRANDE CIHCO MYSTICO
O MEDICO de camara da imperatriz Thereza Frederico
Knieps
resolveu que seu filho tambem fosse medico,
80
JORGE DE LIMA
tattooings, there are generations issuing from generations.
Who tattooed the virgin ? It was God on the day of the Fall.
See the serpent tattooed on her. See the angel tattooed on her.
See the Cross tattooed on her. Look, gentlemen, there is
nothing to pay. This is the supreme spectacle, gentle-
men. I will explain the mysteries, the symbolical letters
even to omega. Come and see the marvelous work
etched on the virgin's body: the history of the world,
the inhabited stratosphere, the magician Tim-Ka-Lu
taking a journey in the moon. For the virgin is marvel-
ous and contains everything. Come gentlemen, there
is nothing to pay. The image of innocence, of lust, of
crime, of goodness, all these incredible pictures are on
the virgin's back, on her neck, on her face. Disorders
are about to issue from die tattooings. The moment is
extremely grave, gentlemen. Great revolts are in the
making. There is a sea tattooed on the virgin, with the
seven days of creation, with the flood, with death.
Come, gentlemen, there is no admission to pay.
Gentlemen, today there is a spectacle on earth.
Come and see the virgin, the tattooed virgin, the virgin
tattooed by God.
She is naked and at the same time clothed with tattooings.
Gentlemen, the virgin is going to be on show for ages.
There are prognostications in the tattooings, there are poems,
there are mysteries.
That is why the show is pretty. That is why the virgin attracts
you.
Come, gentlemen!
D.P.
THE BIG MYSTICAL CIRCUS
FREDERICK Knieps, Physician of the Bed-Chamber to the
Empress Theresa,
resolved that his son also should be a doctor,
JORGE DE LIMA
mas o rapaz fazendo relates com a equilibrista
Agnes,
com ella se casou, fundando a dynastia de circo Knieps
de que tanto se tern occupado a imprensa.
Charlotte., filha de Frederico, se casou com o clown,
de que nasceram Marie e Otto.
E Otto se casou com Lily Braun, a grande deslocadora,
que tinha no ventre um santo tatuado.
A filha de Lily Braun a tatuada no ventre
quiz entrar para um convento,
mas Otto Frederico Knieps nao attendeu,
e Margarethe continuou a dynastia do circo
de que tanto se tern occupado a imprensa.
Entao, Margarethe tatuou o corpo
soifrendo muito por amor de Deus,
pois gravou em sua pelle rosea
a Via-Sacra do Senhor dos Passos.
E nenhum tigre a offendeu jarnais;
e o leao Nero que ja havia comido dois ventriloquos,
quando ella entrava nua pela jaula a dentro,
chorava como um recemnascido.
Seu esposo o trapezista Ludwig nunca mais a poude
amar
pois as gravuras sagradas afastavam
a pelle della e o desejo delle.
Entao, o boxeur Rudolf que era atheu
e era homem f era derrubou Margarethe e a violou,
Quando acabou, o atheu se converteu, morreu,
Margarethe pariu duas meninas que sao o prodigio do Grande
Circo Knieps.
Mas o maior milagre sao as suas virgindades
em que os banqiieiros e os homens de monoculo teem
esbarrado;
sao as suas levitates que a platea pensa ser truque;
e a sua pureza em que ninguem acredita;
sao as suas magicas que os simples dizem que 6 o diabo;
82
JORGE DE LIMA
but the youth, having established relations with Agnes, the
tightrope artist,
married her and founded the circus dynasty of Knieps
with which the newspapers are so much concerned.
Charlotte, the daughter of Frederick, married the clown,
whence sprang Marie and Otto.
Otto married Lily Braun, the celebrated contortionist,
who had a saint's image tattooed on her belly.
The daughter of Lily Braun she of the tattooed belly
wanted to enter a convent,
but Otto Frederick Knieps would not consent,
and Margaret continued the circus dynasty
with which the newspapers are so much concerned.
Then Margaret had her body tattooed,
suffering greatly for the love of God,
and caused to be engraved on her rosy skin
the Fourteen Stations of our Lord's Passion.
No tiger ever attacked her;
the lion Nero, who had already eaten two ventriloquists,
when she entered his cage nude,
wept like a new-born babe.
Her husband, the trapeze artist Ludwig, never could love her
thereafter,
because the sacred engravings obliterated
both her skin and his desire.
Then the pugilist Rudolph, who was an atheist
and a cruel man, attacked Margaret and violated her.
After this, he was converted and died.
Margaret bore two daughters who are the wonder of Knieps'
Great Circus.
But the greatest of miracles is their virginity,
against which bankers and gentlemen with monocles beat in
vain;
their levitations, which the audience thinks a fraud;
their chastity, in which nobody believes;
their magic, which the simple-minded say is the devil's ;
83
JORGE DE LIMA
mas as crean^as crem nellas, sao seus fieis, seus amigos, seus
devotos.
Marie e Helene se apresentam nuas,
dansam no arame e deslocam de tal forma os membros
que parece que os membros nao sao dellas.
A platea bisa coxas, bisa seios, bisa
sovacos.
Marie e Helene se repartem todas,
se distribuem pelos homens cynicos,
mas ninguem ve as almas que ellas conservam puras.
E quando atiram os membros para a visao dos homens,
atiram as almas para a visao de Deus.
Com a verdadeira historia do grande circo Knieps
muito pouco se tern occupado a imprensa.
ESFIKITO PARACLtTO
QUEIMA-ME Lingua de Fogo !
Sopra depois sobre as achas incendiadas
e espalha-as pelo mundo
para que tua chamma se propague!
Transforma-me em tuas brazas
para que eu queime tambem como tu queimas
para que eu marque tambem como tu marcas !
Esphacela-me com tua tempestade,
Espirito violento e dulcissimo,
e recompoe-me quando quizeres,
e cega-me para que os prodigios de Deus se realisem,
e illumina-me para que tua gloria se irradie !
Espirito, tu que es a bocca de todas as sentengas,
toca-me para que os meus irmaus desconhecidos e longinquos e
extranhos,
comprehendam a minha fala para todos os ouvidos que
creares!
84
JORGE DE LIMA
yet the children believe in them, are their faithful followers,
their friends, their devoted worshipers.
Marie and Helene perform nude;
they dance on the wire and so dislocate their limbs
that their arms and legs no longer appear their own.
The spectators shout encore to thighs, encore to breasts, encore
to armpits.
Marie and Helene give themselves wholly,
and are shared by cynical men;
but their souls, which nobody sees, they keep pure.
And when they display their limbs in the sight of men,
they display their souls in the sight of God.
With the true history of Knieps' Great Circus
the newspapers are very litde concerned.
D.P.
PARACLETE
BURN me, Tongue of Fire!
Then blow upon the kindled fagots
and scatter them through the earth
that Thy flames may multiply !
Transform me in Thy burning coals
that I, too, may burn as Thou burnest,
that I, too, may brand with fire as Thou dost!
Destroy me with Thy tempest,
Spirit violent and most gentle,
and restore me when Thou wilt;
blind me that the miracles of God may come to pass,
and grant me light that the rays of Thy glory may spread!
Spirit, Thou who art the mouth of all wisdom,
kindle me, that my nameless brothers in far off unfamiliar
lands
may know my speech through all the ears Thou
hast created!
85
JORGE DE LIMA
Exceder-me-hel em meus limites,
crescerei em todas as distancias,
serei a palavra transcendent^ a prophecia,, a revelagao e as
realidades!
Devora-me, renova-tne, resurge~me em tua vontade
creadora
deante da morte e deante do nada!
Agu$a a minha intui^acx,
descanga em minhas pupilias,
agita a minha lentidao,
f aze-me numeroso como tu,
cobre todo o meu corpo de palpebras que espreitem todas as
latitudes e longitudes
e espectativas e annunciates e partos e concep^oes
e gera^oes e seculos de seculos !
Resurgirei de todos os ventres
e voarei no sentldo da perpetuidade sobre as aguas e sobre
as terras!
Desata-me, Espirito Paraclito! Corta os meus lacos,
sopra a terra que ha sobre a minha sepultura !
Enche-me de tua verdade e sagra-me teu moderno
apostolo !
Amo como poeta a forma com que te apresentaste
a assemblea do Cenaculo !
E sinto a tua presen^a,
a tua approximagao, a tua un^ao sobre a minha alma!
Da-me tua fecundidade sobrenatural,
tua heroicidade e tua Luz !
Unge-me teu sacerdote,
teu soldado, teu vinho, teu pao,
tua semente, tuas perspectivas!
Espirito Paraclito, dedo da direita do Pae,
soergue as minhas palpebras descidas e sopra sobre ellas o teu
halito e tua essencia!
Espirito Paraclito, amo-te, com os meus cinco sentidos,
com a minha imaginafao,
86
JORGE DE LIMA
That I may surpass my limitations,,
that I may grow in all dimensions/
that I may be the transcendent word, the prophecy, the revela-
tion and the reality!
Consume me, renew me, bring me forth again through Thy
creative will
in the face of death and in the face of nothingness!
Increase my awareness,
stay within my sight,
quicken in me what is slow,
make me manifold as Thou art,
cover my whole body with lidded eyes to spy out all latitudes
and longitudes,
all hopes and annunciations, all births, all conceptions,
all generations, world without end!
I shall rise again from all wombs,
I shall fly towards eternity above the waters and above the
lands!
Set me free, Paraclete! Loosen my bonds,
blow the earth from my tomb !
Fill me with Thy truth and consecrate me Thy apostle for
today!
I love as a poet the form in which Thou didst reveal Thyself
to the gathering at the Last Supper!
And I feel Thy presence,
Thy nearness, Thy unction upon my soul!
Endow me with Thy fruitfulness surpassing nature,
Thy courage and Thy light!
Anoint me Thy priest,
make me Thy soldier, Thy wine, Thy bread,
Thy seed, Thy horizon!
Paraclete, finger of the right hand of the Father,
lift my drooping eyelids and blow Thy breath and Thy being
upon them!
Paraclete, I adore Thee with my five senses,
with my imagination,
87
JORGE DE LIMA
com a minha memoria e com os outros dons poeticos e
prophetlcos e reconstituidores
que ultrapassam minha espessa materia e meu espirito
translucido!
Sou teu ramo de oliveira que trazes dos diluvios constantes
da humanidade
e cujo oleo ungira os meus iguaes e os desiguaes de meu
tamanho !
Espirito Paraclito, tu que es o unico passaro que desce s6bre
mim na minha noite untuosa,
fura os meus olhos para que eu veja mais,
para que eu penetre a unidade que tu es,
a liberdade que tu es,
a multiplicidade que tu es,
para eu subir de minha pequenez e me abater em ti!
POEM A HO CHRISTAO
PORQUE o sangue de Christo
jorrqu sobre os meus olhos,
a minha visao e universal
e tern dimensoes que ninguem sabe.
Os milenios passados e os futuros
nao me aturdem porque nasf o e nascerei,
porque sou uno com todas as creaturas,
com todos os seres, com todas as coisas
que eu decomponho e absorvo com os sentidos
e comprehendo com a intelligencia
transfigurada em Christo.
Tenho os movimentcs alargados.
Sou ubiquo : estou em Deus e na materia;
sou velhissimo e apenas nasci hontem,
estou molhado dos limos primitives,
88
JORGE DE LIMA
with my memory and with all other faculties poetic, prophetic
and creative,
faculties transcending my gross substance and my translucent
spirit!
I am the olive branch which Thou bringest from the recurrent
floods of mankind
whose oil shall anoint alike my equals and those who are not
my equals !
Paraclete, Thou who alone descendest like a bird upon me in
my dark night,
sharpen my eyes that I may see more clearly,
that I may penetrate the unity which Thou art,
the liberty which Thou art,
the multiplicity which Thou art,
that I may rise from my littleness and humble myself before
Thee!
D.P.
CHRISTIAN'S POEM
BECAUSE the blood of Christ
spurted upon my eyes
I see all things
and so profoundly that none may know.
Centuries past and yet to come
dismay me not, for I am born and shall be born again,
for I am one with all creatures,
with all beings, and with all things;
all of them I dissolve and take in again with my senses
and embrace with a mind
transfigured in Christ.
My reach is throughout space.
I am everywhere: I am in God and in matter;
I am older than time and yet was born yesterday,
I drip with primeval slime,
89
JORGE DE LIMA
e ao mesmo tempo resoo as trombetas finaes,
comprehendo todas as Iinguas 3 todos os gestos, todos os signos,
tenho globulos de sangue das ragas mais oppostas.
Posso enxugar com um simple aceno
o choro de todos os irmaos distantes.
Posso estender sobre todas as cabegas um ceo unanime e
estrellado.
Chamo todos os mendigos para comer commigo,
e ando sobre as aguas como os prophetas biblicos.
Nao ha escuridao mais para mim.
Opero transfusoes de luz nos seres opacos,
posso mutilar-me e reproduzir meus membros como as
estrellas do mar,
porque creio na resurreif ao da carne e creio em Christo,
e creio na vida eterna, amen.
E tendo a vida eterna posso transgredir leis
naturaes:
a minha passagem e esperada nas estradas,
venho e irei como uina prophecia,
sou espontaneo como a intuijao e a Fe.
Sou rapido como a respostk do Mestre,
sou inconsutil como a sua tunica,
sou numeroso como a sua Igreja,
tenho os bra^os abertos como a sua Cruz despeda^ada e
refeita
todas as horas., em todas as direc^oes, nos quatro pontos
cardeaes;
e sobre os hombros A conduzo
atravez de toda a escuridao do mundo, porque tenho a luz
eterna nos olhos.
E tendo a luz eterna nos olhos sou o maior magico :
resuscito na bocca dos tigres, sou palhago, sou alpha e
omega, peixe, cordeiro, comedor de
gafanhotos, sou ridiculo, sou tentado e perdoado, sou
derrubado no chao e glorificado, tenho
mantos de purpura e de estamenha, sou burrissimo
90
JORGE DE LIMA
and at the same time I blow the last trumpet.
I understand all tongues, all acts, all signs,
I contain within me the blood of races utterly opposed.
I can dry, with a mere nod,
the weeping of all distant brothers.
I can spread over all heads one all-embracing and starry sky.
I invite all beggars to dine with me,
and I walk on the waters like the prophets of the Bible.
For me there is no darkness.
I imbue the blind with light,
I can mutilate myself and grow my limbs anew like the
starfish,
because I believe in the resurrection of the flesh and because I
believe in Christ,
and in the life eternal, amen.
And possessing eternal life I am able to transgress the laws
of nature:
my passing is looked for in the streets,
I come and go like a prophecy,
I come unbidden like knowledge and Faith.
I am ready like the Master's answer,
I am seamless like His garment,
I am manifold like His Church,
my arms are spread like the arms of His Cross, broken yet
always restored,
at all hours, in all directions, to the four points of the compass;
and I bear His Cross on my shoulders
through all the darkness of the world, because the light
eternal is in my eyes.
And having in my eyes the light eternal, I am the greatest
worker of wonders :
I rise again from the mouth of tigers, I am clown, I am alpha
and omega, I am fish, lamb, eater of locusts, I am
ridiculous, I am tempted and pardoned, I am
cast down upon earth and uplifted in glory, I am clothed in
mantles of purple and fine linen, I am : ;jnorant like
9*
JORGE DE LIMA
como Sao Christovam e sapientissiino como Santo
Thomaz. E sou louco, louco, inteiramente louco, para
sempre> para todos os seculos, louco de Deus, amen.
E sendo a loucura de Deus, sou a razao das coisas, a ordem e a
medida,
sou a balanf a 5 a creagao, a obediencia,
sou o arrependimento, sou a humildadej
sou o autor da paixao e morte de Jesus,
sou a culpa de tudo,
Nada sou.
Miserere mei, Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam!
JORGE DE LIMA
Saint Christopher and learned like Saint Thomas. And
I am mad, mad, wholly mad f orever, world without
end, mad with God, Amen.
And being the madness of God I am the reason in all things,
the order and the measure,
I am judgment, creation, obedience,
I am repentance, I am humility,
I am the author of the passion and death of Jesus,
I am the sin of all men,
I am nothing.
Miserere mei, Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam!
D.P.
93
MURILO MENDES
Eu Te proclamo grande, admirlvel,
Nao porqne fizeste o sol para presidir o dia
E as estrelas para presidir em a noite;
Nao porque fizeste a terra e tudo que se contem nela,
Os frutos do campo, as flores, os cinemas,
aslocomotivas;
Nao porque fizeste o mar e tudo que se contem nle,
Seus animais, suas plantas, seus submarinos, suas sereias;
Eu Te proclamo grande e admiravel eternamente
Porque Te fazes pequenino na Eucaristia,
Tanto assim que eu ? fraco e miserando, posso Te conter ! . ,
94
MURILO MENDES
PSAIM
I PROCLAIM Thee great and wonderful,
Not because Thou hast made the sun to avail by day
And the stars to avail by night;
Not because Thou hast made the earth and all that is therein.
The fruits of the field, the flowers, the cinemas, the
locomotives;
Not because Thou hast made the sea and all that is therein,
The animals and plants, submarines and sirens;
I proclaim Thee great and eternally wonderful
Because Thou makest Thyself tiny in the Eucharist,
So tiny that I, weak and wretched, am able to contain
Thee!...
D.P.
95
SALVADOR KOVO
ME escribe Napoleon :
C E1 Colegio es muy grande
nos levantamos muy temprano
hablamos unicamente ingles,
te mando un retrato del edificio. . .'
Ya no robaremos juntos dulces
de las alacenas, ni escaparemos
hacia el rio para ahogarnos a medias
y pescar sandias sangrientas.
Ya voy a presentar sexto ano,
despues, segun todas las probabilidades,
aprendere todo lo que se deba,
sere medico,
tendre ambiciones, barba, pantalon largo.
Pero si tengo un hljo
hare que nadie nunca le ensene nada.
Quiero que sea tan perezoso y f eliz
como a mi no me dejaron mis padres,
ni a mis padres mis abuelos
ni a mis abuelos Dios.
Los NOPALES nos sacan la lengua,
pero los maizales por estaturas
con su copetito mal rapado
y su cuaderno debajo del brazo
nos saludan con sus mangas rotas.
96
SALVADOR NOVO
wrtes me :
*The School is very big
we get up very early
we speak nothing but English,
I'm sending you a picture of the building . .
"We won't steal candy together any more
from the cupboards, or run
off to the river to half drown ourselves,
or snitch the bloodstained watermelons.
I'm ready now for my sixth-year exams;
afterwards, as far as I can make out,
111 learn everything you ought to learn,
111 be a doctor,
111 have ambitions, a beard, long pants. . .
But if I have a son
111 see that no one ever teaches him anything.
I want him to be lazy and happy
the way I never could be because of my parents,
nor my parents because of my grandparents,
nor my grandparents because of God.
L.M.
&OXJKNETY
THE prickly pears stick out their tongues at us,
but the cornfields, lined up according to height,
with their badly cropped topknots,
and notebooks under their arms,
salute us with their ragged sleeves.
97
SALVADOR NOVO
Los tnagueyes hacen glmnasia sueca
de quinientos en fondo,
y el sol policia secreto
(tira la piedra y esconde la mano)
denuncia nuestxa fuga ridicula
en la linterna magica del prado.
A la noche nos vengaremos
encendiendo nuestros f aroles
y echando por tierra los bosques.
Alguno que otro arbol
quiere dar clase de filologia.
Las nubes inspectoras de momimentos
sacuden las maquetas de los montes.
<J Quien quiere jugar tenis con nopales y tunas
sobre la red de los telegrafos ?
Tomaremos mas tarde un bafio ruso
en el jacal per dido de la sierra.
Nos bastara un duchazo de arco iris.
Nos secaremos con algun 'stratus'.
POJE7SIA
PARA escribir poemas,
para ser un poeta de vida apasionada y romantica
cuyos libros estan en las manos de todos
y de quien hacen libros y publican retratos los periodico
es necesario decir las cosas que leo,
esas del corazon, de la mujer y del paisaje,
del amor fracasado y de la vida dolorosa,
en versos perf ectamente medidos,
sin asonancias en el mismo verso,
con metaforas nuevas y brillantes.
SALVADOR NOVO
The magueys do Swedish gymnastics
five hundred in a rank,
and the sun secret police
(hurl the stone and hide the hand)
exposes our ridiculous flight
in the magic lantern o the meadow.
Well take revenge at night
by the light of our lanterns,
smashing the woods flat.
Some tree or other
wants to teach a class in Philology.
The clouds, inspectors of monuments,
shake out the scale-model mountains.
Who wants to play tennis with prickly pears
over the net of the telephone wires ?
Later we shall take a Russian bath
in the lost hut in the mountains,
The rainbow will do for a shower.
Any rag of cloud will dry us.
H. R. H
To WHITE poems,
to be a poet with a passionate and romantic life
whose books are in everyone's hands,
about whom books are written and whose picture is
published in the papers,
I must say the things that I read,
matters of the heart, women and landscapes,
love come to grief and grievous life,
in perfectly measured verses,
avoiding assonance within a single line,
with new and brilliant metaphors.
99
SALVADOR NOVO
La musica del verso embriaga
y si uno sabe ref erir rotundamente su inspiracion
arrancara las lagrimas del auditorio.,
le comunicara sus emociones reconditas
y sera coronado en certamenes y concursos.
Yo puedo hacer versos perf ectos,
medirlos y evitar sus asonancias,
poemas que conmuevan a quien los lea
y que las hagan exclamar : j Que nino tan inteligente!
Yo les dire entonces
que los he escrito desde que tenia once anos :
no he de deckles nunca
que no he hecho sino darles la clase que he aprendido
de todos los poetas.
Tendre una habilidad de histrion
para hacerles creer que me conmueve lo que a ellos.
Pero en mi lecho, solo, dulcemente,
sin recuerdos, sin voz,
siento que la poesia no ha salido de mi.
100
SALVADOR NOVO
The music of the verse intoxicates,
and if one can state his inspiration clearly
he will draw tears from the audience,
he will communicate to it his recondite emotions,
and be crowned in contests and competitions.
I can make perfect verses,
measure them and avoid their assonances,
poems that will move the readers
and make them exclaim: "What a bright child!"
I will tell them then
that I have been writing poems since I was eleven:
I must never tell them
that I have merely given them the course that I have learned
from all the poets.
I shall have an actor's skill
to make them think that what moves them moves me.
But in my bed, alone, softly,
without memories, without voice,
I feel that poetry has not come out of me.
D. D. w.
101
OCTAVIO PAZ
MMJR
DEJA que te recuerde o que te suefie,
amor, mentira cierta y ya vivida,
mas que per los sentidos, por el alma.
Atras de la memoria, en ese limbo
donde recuerdos, musicas, deseos,
suenan su renacer en esculturas,
cae tu pelo suelto, tu sonrisa,
puerta de la blancura, aun sonrie
y alienta todavia ese ademan
de flor que el aire mueve. Todavia
la fiebre de tu mano, donde corren
esos rios que mojan clertos suefios, >
hace crecer dentro de mi mareas
y aun suenan tus pasos, que el silencio
cubre con aguas mansas, como el agua
al sonido sonambulo sepulta.
Cierro los ojos : nacen dichas, goces>
bahias de hermosura, eternidades
substraidas, fiuir vivo de imagenes,
delicias desatadas, pleamar,
ocio que colma el pecho de abandono
como el brillo deun ala anega el ojo
de dichas amarillas, instantaneas.
j Dichas, dias con alas de suspiro,
leves como la sombra de los paj aros !
102
OCTAVIO PAZ
TMJK WAIJL
LET me remember you or dream you,
love (a lie clear and already lived),
more than with my senses, with my soul.
Far back of memory, in that limbo
where memories, music, longings
dream their rebirth in sculptures,
your flowing hair falls ; and your smile,
portal of whiteness, smiles yet,
still brings forth that gesture of a flower
moving upon the air. And still
the fever of your hand, wherein
those rivers run that water certain dreams,
raises up tides within me;
and still your footsteps sound, hushed
by silence under gentle waters, as water
buries the somnambular sound.
I close my eyes ; and joys are born, and pleasures,
bays of beauty, eternities
withdrawn, the living flow of images,
delights unbound, full tide,
ease filling the heart with release,
as a flashing wing can drown the eye
in yellow, instant pleasure*
O delights, days sigh-wing*d,
light as the shadow of birds !
103
OCTAVIO PAZ
Y su quebrada voz abre en mi pecho
un ciego paraiso, una agonia,
el recordado infierno de unos labios
(tupaladar: un cielo rojo, golfo
donde duermen tus dientes, caracola
donde oye la ola su caida),
el infinite hambriento en unos ojos,
un pulso, un tacto, un cuerpo que se f uga,
la sombra de un aroma, la promesa
de un cielo sin orillas, pleno, eterno.
Mas cierra el paso un muro y todo cesa.
Mi corazon a oscuras late y llama;
con pufio ciego y arido golpea
la sorda piedra y suena su latido
a lluvia de ceniza en un desierto.
CIERRA los ojos y a oscuras pierdete
bajo el follaje rojo de tus parpados.
Hundete en esas espirales
del sonido que zumba y cae
y suena alia, remoto,
hacia el sitio del timpano,
como una catarata ensordecida.
Hunde tu ser a oscuras,
anegate en tu piel,
y mas, en tus entranas ;
que te deslumbre y ciegue
el hueso, livida centelia,
y entre simas y golf os de tiniebla
abra su azul penacho el f uego f
104
OCTAVIO PAZ
And their broken voice opens in my heart
a blind paradise, an agony,
the remembered hell of two lips
(your mouth : red heaven, gulf
where your teeth sleep, shell
where the wave hears its own breaking),
The limitless hunger in a pair of eyes,
a pulse, a touch, a fleeing body,
shadow of perfume, promise
of a shoreless heaven, full, for ever.
But a wall cuts me off, and all is over.
My heart beats and calls in the dark :
with its blind and sterile fist the deaf
stone strikes, and its beating sounds
like an ashy rain falling in the waste land
D.F.
OBUVION
CLOSE your eyes and lose yourself in darkness
beneath the red foliage of your lids.
Sink within those spirals
of sound buzzing, falling,
echoing there, remote,
toward the place of drums,
like a muted waterfall.
Submerge your being in the darkness ;
drown yourself in your flesh,
even more, in your very heart;
let the bone, that livid lightning,
dazzle and blind you,
and the will-o'-the-wisp stream its blue crest
along the gulfs and chasms of shadow.
105
OCTAVIO PAZ
En esa sombra Kquida del sueno
moja tu desnudez;
abandona tu forma, espuma
que no se sabe quien dejo en la orilla;
pierdete en ti, infinita,
en tu infinito ser,
mar que se pierde en otro mar :
olvidate y olvidame.
En ese olvido sin edad ni fondo
labios., besos, amor, todo,, renace :
las estrellas son hijas de la noche.
106
OCTAVIO PAZ
In that liquid shade of sleep
drench your nakedness;
renounce your form, that lace of spume
left on the shore by whom ?
"Woman infinite, lose yourself
in your infinite self,
a sea merging with another sea :
forget yourself, forget me.
In that oblivion ageless and unplumed
all things, lips, kisses, love, have their rebirth :
the stars are daughters of the night.
D. F.
107
JAIME TORRES BODET
CH/DAD
RECUERDO ahora un sueiio de coiera y de viento
a cien, a cien kilometxos
en que los automoviles estampan
tropeles de f antasmas
sobre paredes de papel poroso.
Un sueiio que colgaba
en las pantallas de los anuncios electricos
musculos 3 brazes^ piernas,
rios de sombra y bosques de blancura
paises numerados
del Atlas de esa enorme Geografia
que ensenan los adetas en los circos.
Un sueiio
en que el frio escarchaba las miradas
con un barniz opaco, de parpados de hielo.
El publico necesltaba
pedir anteojos de humo para ver
la sangre de las lunas amarillas
en el clavel prof esional
con que la risa quema de pronto la cara de los payasos.
Recuerdo
un sueno en que se entraba por el techo
a un taller de maniqufes de cera,
higienico y cerebral
como un Museo de Escultnra
o un anfiteatro de Hospital.
108
JAIME TORRES BODET
CMTY
Now I remember a dream of rage and of wind
at a hundred, a hundred kilometers
where automobiles print
a jumble of apparitions
on cardboard walls.
A dream that hung
on screens of electric signs
muscles, arms, legs,
rivers of shadow and woods of whiteness
numbered countries
out of the Atlas of that huge Geography
that athletes teach in circuses.
A dream
in which frost glazed the stare
with an opaque varnish, eyelids of ice.
The public had
to get smoked glasses in order to see
the blood of the yellow moons
in the professional carnation
that laughter suddenly burns on the faces of clowns.
I remember
a dream of entering through the roof
into a wax manikin shop,
hygienic and mental
as a Museum of Sculpture
or hospital amphitheatre.
109
JAIME TORRES BODET
Las damas
extraian de sus estuches enciclopedicos
con los dedos que faltan aun a la Venus de Milo
una sonrisa articulada
I para la cabeza invisible de que Victoria de Samotracia ?
Y las alcobas envejecian
esas esposas morganaticas
patrocinando el adulterio
de las ventanas con los espejos.
Recuerdo
una noche de opera wagneriana
en que las Reinas ultimas caian
fulminadas
por una embolia subita de perlas
en la circulacion de sus collares.
Un sueno
en que los profesores de Fisica del Colegio
apresuraban los eclipses
para poner un vals en el fonografo
que no repite ya los siete compases
de la gavota de Newton.
Recuerdo
un sueno en que la noche, cubierta de periodicos,
caia desmayada en los umbrales de las pu'ertas.
(El corazon latia
dentro del pulso de los hombres exactos
a sesenta minutos por segundo.)
TENER, al mediodia, abiertas las ventanas
del patio iluminado que mira al comedor.
Oler un olor tibio de sol y de manzanas.
Decir cosas sencillas: las que inspiren amor
no
JAIME TORRES BODET
Ladies
extracted from their encyclopedic handbags
with fingers that even the Venus de Milo lacks
a jointed smile
for the invisible head of what Winged Victory ?
And bedrooms were growing old
those morganatic wives
sponsoring the adultery
of windows and mirrors.
I remember
a night of Wagnerian opera
where the last Queens fell
stricken
by a sudden embolism of pearls
in the circulation of their necklaces,
A dream
where the Physics professors at the School
hurried up the eclipses
in order to get a waltz onto the phonograph
that no longer repeats the seven rhythms
of Newton's gavotte.
I remember
a dream where night, covered with newspapers,
fell in a swoon on the thresholds of the doors.
(The heart beat on
in the pulse of punctual mortals
sixty minutes to the second.)
R.H.
NOON
To keep, at noon, the windows open
where the shining patio looks into the diningroom.
To smell the warm smell of apples in the sun.
Say simple things, things that awaken love . . .
JAIME TORRES BODET
Beber un agua pura> y en el vaso profundo
ver coincidir los angulos de la estancia cordial.
Palpar, en un duirazno, la redondez del mundo.
Saber que todo cambia y que todo es igual.
Sentirse, \ al fin I, maduro, para ver, en las cosas,
nada mas que las cosas : el pan 5 el sol, la mlel . . .
Ser nada mas el hombre que deshoja unas rosas 5
y graba, con la una, un nombre en el mantel
LLAIVIA
que por morir mas pronto se levanta,
flotas entre las brasas de la danza.
Y te arranca de ti,
al principiar, un salto tan esbelto
que el sitio en que bailabas
se queda sin atmosf era.
Asi el pedazo negro de la noche
en que paso un lucero.
Pero de pronto vuelves
del torbellino de las f ormas
a la inmovilidad que te acechaba
y ocupas,
como un vestido exacto,
el hueco
de tu propla figura.
Pareces una cosa
caida en el espejo de un recuerdo :
te bisela
el declive del tiempo.
JAIME TORRES BODET
To drink a pure water, and deep in the glass behold
the fusing angles of the friendly room.
To touch, in a peach, the roundness of the world.
To know that all changes and is still the same.
To feel finally ! ripeness of seeing in every thing
the simple thing itself: bread, honey, sun . . .
To be merely the man who strips the petalled roses,
and with his nail inscribes a name on the tablecloth . ,
R.H.
FLAME
rising the sooner to die,
you hover among the embers of the dance,
plucked from yourself,
at the very start, by so lithe a leap
that the place where you were dancing
hangs like a void.
So the dark space of night
when a great star has gone by.
But suddenly you return
from the whirlwind of forms
to the immobility that stalked about you,
and you invest,
like an exact garment,
the hollow
of your own figure.
You seem a thing
fallen into the mirror of a memory:
bevelled
by the edge of time.
JAIME TORRES BODET
Un minuto despues, estas desnuda . . .
La brisa
te peina en ondulado movimiento
y a cada nueva linea
que las flautas dibujan en la musica
obedece una linea de tu cuerpo.
No resoneis ahora,
cimbalos, que la danza es como el sueno.
mums
Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?
W. SHAKESPEAHE
LE toque entre la rubia
y delicada pulpa ^ de que fruta ?
el hueso negro y aspero al verano.
Y me senti de pronto, ante la muda
sinceridad cruel de la semilla,
como quien halla en una tumba el nombre
de la mujer que nunca
imaginara, en vida, sustentada
por el recondito esqueleto
de miseria, de colera y de tedio
que todavia, muerta, la desnuda.
AMOR
PARA escapar de ti
no bastan ya peldanos,
tuneles^ aviones,
telef onos o barcos*
Todo lo que se va
14
JAIME TORRES BODET
A moment later, you are naked . . .
The wind
dresses you in undulating motion,
and to each new line
that flutes trace in music,
an answering line of your body is obedient.
Resound no more,
cymbals : this dance is like a sleep.
R.H.
CORE
Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?
W. SHAKESPEARE
I TOUCHED amid the blond
and delicate flesh of what fruit ?
the black harsh pit of the summer.
And I suddenly felt, before
the seed's mute, cruel sincerity,
like one finding on a tomb the name
of the woman never
imagined, living, as sustained
by the hidden skeleton
of misery, of anger, of boredom
which even after death exposes her.
Af.L.
LOVE
IN order to escape you,
stairs are no longer enough,
nor tunnels, nor airplanes,
telephones, nor ships.
All that accompanies
JAIME TORRES BODET
con el hombre que escapa:
el silencio, la voz,
los trenes y los anos,
no sirve para huir
de este recinto exacto
sin horas ni reloj,
sin ventanas ni cuadros
que a todas partes va
conmigo, cuando viajo.
Para escapar de ti
necesito un cansancio
nacido de ti misma:
una duda, un rencor,
la vergiienza de un llanto;
el miedo que me dio
por ejemplo poner
sobre tu fragil nombre
la forma impropia y dura
y brusca de mis labios . . .
El odio que senti
nacer al mismo tiempo
en ti que nuestro amor,
me hara salir de tu alma
mas pronto que la luz,
mas de prisa que el sueno,
con mayor precision
que el ascensor mas raudo :
el odio que el amor
esconde entre las manos.
AJffiRIJL
donde? En que lugar
secreto del invierno
esta oculto el boton
116
JAIME TORRES BODET
the man escaping:
silence, speech,
the trains and the years,
avails not to flee
from this precise corner-
without clock or hours
or windows or pictures
that goes with me
wherever I go.
In order to escape you
I need a weariness
born of you yourself:
a doubt or a rancour,
the shame of a weeping;
the fear that I felt
(for example) shaping
unfitly with my lips,
harsh and brusque,
your frail name
The hatred that I sensed
being born simultaneously
in you with our love,
will thrust me forth from your soul
sooner than light,
quicker than dream,
with greater precision
than the swiftest elevator:
the hatred which love
hides between its hands.
M.L.
APMSL
WHERE? In what secret
place of winter
is hidden the electric
117
JAIME TORRES BODET
mecanlco, la rosa,
el vals o la mujer
que un dedo sin esfuerzo
deberia tocar
para ponerte en marcha,
automatico abril
de un aiio descompuesto ?
Lo siento. Estas ya aqui,
junto a mi pensamiento,
como sobre el cristal
de una ventana oscura-
la exigencia sin voz
de un aletazo terco.
Pero, si salgo a abrir,
lo unico que encuentro
es la noche, otra vez :
la noche y el silencio.
I Palabras ? Para que ?
En ellas, por mementos,
creo tocarte al fin 3
abril * . . Pero las digo
raiz, pajarOj luz
y me contesta el viento :
invierno; invierno el so! 3
y soledad los ecos.
Libros de viaje busco.
Mapas de amor despliego.
A rostros de mujeres
que hace tiempo murieron,
en retratos y en cartas
pregunto como eras;
que nubes o que alondras
fueron, en otros puertos,
118
JAIME TORRES BODET
button rose,
waltz, or woman
that a finger
should press without effort
to set you moving,
automatic April
of a run-down year?
I feel it You are here
close to my thought,
as upon the pane
of a darkened window
beats the mute urgency
of a persistent wing.
But if I go to open it,
all that I find
is the night once again:
night and the silence.
Words? For what?
In them at times
I feel that I touch you at last,
April ... But I say them
root, bird, light
and the wind answers me.
Winter'; Winter/ the sun;
and 'Loneliness/ the echoes.
I search out books of travel
I unfold maps of love.
Of the faces of women
who died long ago,
in portraits and in letters,
I ask what you were like;
what clouds, what skylarks
were, in other harbours,
119
JAIME TORRES BODET
de tu regreso eterno
credulos mensajeros.
Pero nadie te ha visto
llegar, abriL A nadie
puedo pedir consejo
para esperarte. Nadie
conoce tus andenes,
sino acaso este ciego
que pugna por hallar
a tientas, en mis versos,
el secreto boton
que pone en marcha al mundo
cuando vacila el sol
y dudan los inviernos . . *
120
JAIME TORRES BODET
the trustful messengers
of your endless return.
But no one has seen you
come, April Of no one
can I ask advice
for awaiting you. No one
knows your railway platforms,
save, perhaps, this sightless creature
that, groping, strives
to find in my verses
the secret button
that sets the world moving
when the sun hesitates
and winters doubt* . .
B. L C.
121
DEMETRIO HERRERA S.
EL mar boxeador rapid
tiene de pun
ching
ball
a los barqufllos inquietos.
Con la toalla del viento 3
la tarde frota el cuerpo
sudoroso del boxer.
Los edificios
f anaticos del ring
contemplan apinados
el gran entrenamiento.
(El muelle cuchichea
con un vapor que fuma) . .
Y un aplauso de ola
hace empinar la torre
con el relo } en mano
para llevar el tiempo.
Chiquillos vagabundos,
los pajaros marinos,
se cuelan por el techo.
DEMETRIOHERRERAS.
TRAINING
THE sea quick pugilist-
uses for a pun
ching
ball
the restless little boats.
With the towel of the wind,
evening rubs down the boxer's
sweaty body.
The buildings-
ringside fans-
crowd close to watch
the big training.
(The dock is whispering
with a smoking ship. . .)
And the surfs applause
makes the tower stand on tiptoe
with its watch in hand
to keep the time.
Stray kids,
the sea-birds
sneak in through the roof.
D.F.
123
MANUEL BANDEIRA
DO
RECIFE
Nao a Veneza americana
Nao a Mauritsstad dos armadores das Indias Ocidentais
Nao o Recife dos Mascates
Nem mesmo o Recife que aprendi a amar depois Recife
revolu$oes libertarias
Mas o Recife sem historia nem literatura
Recife sem mais nada
Recife da minha infancia
A rua da Uniao onde eu brincava de chicote queimado e
parria as vidraf as da casa de dona Aninha Viegas
Totonio Rodrigues era muito velho e botava o pincene
ponta do nariz
Depois do jantar as familias tomavam a cal^ada com cadeir
mexericos namoros risadas
A gente brincava no meio da rua
Os meninos gritavam:
Coelho sai!
Nao sai!
A distancia as vozes macias das meninas politonavam:
Roseira da-me uma rosa
Craveiro da-me um botao
(Dessas rosas muita rosa
Tera morrido em botao * . .)
De repente
nos longes da noite
um sino
Uma pessoa grande dizia:
Fogo em Santo Antonio!
124
MANUEL BANDEIRA
SALtJTE TO RECIFE
RECIFE
Not the Venice of America
Not the Mauritsstad of the merchant adventurers to the West
Indies
Not the Recife of Levantine peddlars
Not the Recife I learned to love afterwards the Recife of
libertarian revolutions
But a Recife without history or literature
A Recife remarkable for nothing
The Recife of my childhood
Union Street where I played snap-the-handkerchief and broke
the windows of Dona Aninha Viegas' house
Totonio Rodrigues was very old and wore his nose-nippers on
the end of his nose
After dinner the families took their chairs out on the sidewalk
gossiping, making love, laughing
Children played games in the middle of the street
The boys shouted:
Will the rabbit come out ?
Or won't he?
In the distance the sleek voices of little girls sang slightly off key :
Rose tree give me a rose
Clove tree give me a bud
(Of those roses many a rose
Died in the bud)
Suddenly
far away in the night
a bell
One grown-up person said:
Fire in Santo Antonio!
125
MANUEL BANDEIRA
Outra contrariava: Sao Jose!
Totonio Rodrigues achava sempre que era Sao Jose.
Os homens punham o chapeu saiam fumando
E eu tinha raiva de ser menino porque nao podia ir ver o fogo
Rua da Uniao . . .
Como eram lindos os nomes das ruas da minha inf ancia
Rua do Sol
(Tenho medo que hoje se chame do dr, Fulano de Tal)
Atras de casa ficava a rua da Saudade , . .
. . . onde se ia fumar escondido
Do lado de la era o cais da rua da Aurora . . .
. . . onde se ia pescar escondido
Capiberibe
Capiberibe
La longe o sertaozinho de Caxanga
Banheiros de palha
Um dia eu vi uma moga nuinha no banho
" Fiquei parado o corajao batendo
Ela se riu .
Foi o meu primeiro alumbramento
Cheia! As cheias! Barro boi morto arvores destrogos
redomoinho sumiu
E nos pegoes da ponte do trem de f erro os caboclos destemidos
em jangadas de bananeiras
Novenas
Cavalhadas
Eu me deitei no colo da menina e ela comegou a passar a mao
nos meus cabelos
Capiberibe
Capiberibe
126
MANUEL BANDEIRA
Another, contradicting him, Sao Jose!
Totonio Rodrigues insisted it was in Sao Jose.
The men put on their hats and went out smoking
And I was furious because I was a child and could not go to
the fire
Union Street . . .
What lovely names they had, the streets of my childhood
Street of the Sun
(Nowadays, I fear, it is called after Dr. So-and-so)
Behind our house was the Street of Regretful Longing . ,
. . . where I went to smoke on the sly
Not far away, on the water front, was the Street of Dawn . .
. . . where I went to fish on the sly
Capiberibe
Capiberibe
There beneath the tangled woods of Caxanga
Bath-houses of straw
One day I saw a young woman bathing without a stitch
I stood still with beating heart
She laughed
For the first time I was aware
Flood-time! The river-floods! Slime, dead oxen, uprooted
trees submerged in the eddies
And in the whirlpools under the railway bridge the reckless
half-breeds on rafts of banana trees
Novenas
Riding on horses
I lay in the girFs lap and she began to run her hand through
my hair
Capiberibe
Capiberibe
127
MANUEL BANDEIRA
Rua da Uniao onde todas as tardes passava a preta das
bananas
Com o chale vistoso de pano da Costa
E o vendedor de roletes de cana
O de amendolm
que se chamava midubim e nao era torrado
era cozido
Me lembro de todos os pregoes:
Ovos frescos e baratos
Dez ovos por uma pataca
Foi ha muito tempo .
A vida nao me chegava pelos jornais nem pelos livros
Vinha da boca do povo na lingua errada do povo
Lingua certa do povo
Porque ele e que fala gostoso o portugues do Brasil
Ao passo que nos
O que f azemos
E macaquear
A sintaxe lusfada
A vida com uma porf ao de coisas que eu nao entendia bern
Terras que nao sabia onde ficavam
Recife . . .
Rua da Uniao . . .
A casa de meu avo . .
Nunca pensei que ela acabasse!
Tudo la parecia impregnado de eternidade
Recife . . .
Meu avo morto . . .
Recife morto, Recife bom, Recife brasileiro como a casa de
meu avo.
128
MANUEL BANDEIRA
Union Street where every afternoon the negress with bananas
went by
In her gaudy African shawl
And the man who sold stalks of sugar-cane
And the peanuts
which were called tnidubim and were not roasted
but boiled
I remember all the street-cries:
Eggs fresh and cheap
Ten eggs for a pataca
That was long ago . . .
Life did not come to me through newspapers or books
It came on the lips of the people in the rude language of the
people
The apt language of the people
For it is they who speak with gusto the Portuguese of Brazil
To a tune of our own
What we do
Is to ape
The Lusitanian syntax
Life with a parcel of things I did not clearly understand
Countries of whose existence I did not know
Recife . . .
Union Street . . .
My grandfather's house . . .
Never did I think it would all come to an end!
Everything there seemed imbued with eternity
Recife . . .
My grandfather dead . . .
Dead Recife, good Recife, Recife as Brazilian as my
grandfather's house.
D.P.
129
MANUEL BANDEIRA
NA mSJA BO SABA
CAI cai balao
Cai cai balao
Na ru-a do Sa-bao I . . .
O que custou arranjar aquele balaozinho de papel !
Quern fez foi o filho da lavadeira.
Um que trabalha na composigao do jornal e tosse muito.
Comprou o papel de seda, cortou-o com amor, compos os
gomos oblongos . . .
Depois ajustou o morrao de pez ao bocal de arame.
Ei-lo agora que sobe, pequena coisa tocante na escuridao do
ceu
Levou tempo para criar f 61ego.
Bambeava, tremia todo e mudava de cor.
A molecada da rua do Sabao
Gritava com maldade:
Cai cai balao!
Subitamente, porem, entesou, enfunou-se e arrancou das
maos que o tenteavam.
E foi subindo * . .
para longe . . .
serenamente . . .
Como se o enchesse o soprinho tfsico do Jose.
Cai cai balao!
A molecada salteou-o com atiradeiras
assobios
apupos
pedradas.
30
MANUEL BANDEIRA
IN S0A&SXJ&S STREET
COME down! Come down, balloon!
Come down! Come down, balloon!
In Soapsuds Street! . .
What it cost to contrive that tiny paper balloon!
It was the son of the laundress who made it,
A boy who worked as typesetter on the newspaper and
coughed all the time.
He bought the tissue paper, lovingly cut it, fitted the narrow
sections together . . .
Then adjusted the tarred wick to the wire mouthpiece.
Now up it goes, so small, so touching, in the dusky sky.
It took time to fill.
It swayed, trembled all over and changed color.
The little black brats of Soapsuds Street
Yelled with malice:
Come down! Come down, balloon!
Yet suddenly it stretched, filled and pulled away from the
hands that held it
And began to rise . . .
higher and higher . . .
serenely . . .
Buoyant with Jose's phthisic breath.
Come down! Come down, balloon!
The little brats attacked it with slings
jeers
catcalls
stones
MANUEL BANDEIRA
Caicaibalao!
Um senhor advertiu que os haloes sao prohibidos pelas
posturas municipals.
Ekj f oi subindo . . .
muito serenamente . . .
para muito longe . . .
Nao caiu na rua do Sabao.
Caiu muito longe . . . Caiu no mar, nas aguas puras do mar
alto.
MOXAHT NO JBU
No dia 5 de dezembro de 1791 Wolfgang Amadeus Mo-
zart entrou no ceu, como urn artista de circo, fazendo
piruetas extraordinarias sobre um mirabolante cavalo
branco.
Os anjinhos atonitos diziam: Que foi? Que nao foi?
Melodias jamais-ouvidas voavam nas linhas suplementares
superiores da pauta.
Um momento se suspendeu a contemplaf ao inefaveL
A Virgem beijouo na testa
E desde entao Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart foi o mais mogo
dos anjos.
A MAT A
A MATA agita-se, revoluteia, contorce-se toda
e sacode-se!
A mata hoje tern alguma coisa para dizer.
E ulula, e contorce-se toda, como a atriz de uma pantomina
tragica,
132
MANUEL BANDEIRA
Come down! Come down, balloon!
A gentleman warned that balloons were prohibited by city
regulations.
Still, it went on mounting . . .
ever so calmly . .
ever so high . . .
It did not fall in Soapsuds Street.
It fell far away ... It fell in the sea, in the pure waves of the
open sea.
D.P.
MOZART IN MEAVEN
ON the 5th of December 1791 Wolfgang Amadeus Mo-
zart entered heaven as a circus performer, turning mar-
velous pirouettes on a dazzling white horse.
The small astonished angels said: Who can that be? Who in
the world can that be ?
As never-before-heard melodies began to soar
Line after line above the staff.
For a moment the ineffable contemplation paused.
The Virgin kissed him on the forehead
And from then on Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was the
youngest of the angels.
D.P.
THE WOODS
THE woods toss and whirl and writhe and shake themselves
from end to end!
Today the woods have something to tell.
And they howl and strain, root and branch, like an actress in
a tragic play.
133
MANUEL BANDEIRA
Cada galho rebelado
Inculca a mesma perdida ansia.
Todos eles sabem o mesmo segredo panico.
On entao e que pedem desesperadamente a mesma instante
coisa.
Que sabera a mata? Que pedira a mata?
Pedira agua ?
Mas a agua despenhou-se ha pouco, fustigando-a,
escorra^ando-a,, saciando-a como aos alarves.
Pedira o fogo para a purificaf ao das necroses
milenarias ?
Ou nao pede nada, e quer falar e nao pode ?
Tera surpreendido o segredo da terra pelos ouvidos finissimos
das suas raizes ?
A mata agita-se, revoluteia, contorce-se toda e sacode-se!
A mata esta hoje como uma multidao em dellrio coletivo.
So uma tou^a de bambus, a parte,
Balouga levemente . . . levemente . , . levemente . . .
E parece sorrir do delirio geral.
CACTO
AQUELE cacto lembrava os gestos desesperados da estatuaria:
Laocoonte constrangido pelas serpentes,
Ugolino e os filhos esfaimados.
Evocava tambem o seco nordeste ? carnaiibais, caatingas . . ,
Era enorme, mesmo para esta terra de feracidades
excepcionais.
134
MANUEL BANDEIRA
Every rebellious branch
Betrays the same frantic anxiety.
All feel the same secret fear.
Or if not, then they are all desperately begging the same
urgent thing.
What do the woods know ? What are the woods beseeching ?
Are they begging water ?
But the water fell in floods only just now, whipping them,
beating them, shaking them without mercy.
Are they begging fire to cleanse themselves of the century-old
dry rot ?
Or do they ask for nothing ? Do they merely wish to speak and
cannot?
Have they surprised the earth's secret through the delicate
ears of their roots ?
The woods toss, whirl, strain and shake from end to end!
Today the woods are like a mob in collective delirium.
Only a single tuft of bamboos, standing somewhat apart,
Sways ever so lightly, so lightly, so very lightly,
As if smiling at the general madness.
D.P.
THE CACTUS
That cactus recalled the despairing gestures of marble:
Laocoon strangled by the serpents,
Ugolino and his famished sons.
It called to mind also the dry northeast, the parched
wilderness, the bush.
It was enormous, even for this land so monstrously
fertile.
135
MANUEL BANDEIRA
Um dia um tufao furibundo abateu-o pela raiz.
O cacto tombou atravessado na rua,
Quebrou os beirais do casario fronteiro,
Impediu o transito de bondes, automoveis, carrogas,
Arrebentou os cabos eletricos e durante vinte e quatro horas
privou a cidade de ilumina^ao e energia:
Era beta, aspero, intrataveL
A ESWHAI9A
ESTA estrada onde moro, entre duas voltas do carninho,
Interessa mais que uma avenida urbana.
Nas cidades todas as pessoas se parecem.
Todo o mundo e igual. Todo o mundo e toda a gente.
Aqui, nao: sente-se bem que cada um traz a sua alma.
Cada criatura e unica.
Ate os caes.
Estes caes da roa parecem homens de negocios:
Andam sempre preocupados.
E quanta gente vem e vai!
E tudo tern aquele carater impressivo que az meditar:
Enterro a pe ou a carrocinha de leite puxada por um
bodezinho manhoso.
Nem f alta a murmurio da agua, para sugerir pela voz dos
sfmbolos
Que a vida passa! que a vida passa!
E que a mocidade vai acabar.
NOMTE WORT A
Noite morta.
Junto ao poste de ilumina^ao
Os sapos engolem mosquitos.
136
MANUEL BANDEIRA
One day an angry gust uprooted it.
The cactus fell across the street.
Demolished the eaves of the houses across the way,
Obstructed the passage of streetcars, automobiles, wagons;
Tore down the electric wires, and during twenty-four hours
deprived the city of light and power:
It was beautiful, harsh, intractable.
D.P.
THE HIGHWAY
THIS street where I live, between two bends of the road,
Is more interesting than a city avenue.
In towns all the people look alike.
Everyone is alike. Everyone is everybody.
Here, not so ; it is plain that everyone has a soul of his own.
Every creature is unique,
Even to the dogs.
These country dogs have the air of business men:
They are always preoccupied.
And how many people come and go!
Each with a character so distinct as to start a whole train of
meditation:
The funeral procession on foot or the little milk cart drawn
by a crafty he-goat.
Nor is there lacking a murmur of water, to suggest by the
voice of symbols
That life is passing, that life is passing,
And that youth comes to an end.
D.P.
BEAD OF NIGHT
IN the dead of night
Beside the lamp post
The toads are gulping mosquitoes.
137
MANUEL BANDEIRA
Ninguem passa na estrada.
Nem um bebedo.
No entanto M seguramente por ela uma procissao de sombras.
Sombras de todos os que passaram.
Os que ainda vivem e os que ja morreram.
O corrego chora.
A voz da noite . . .
(Nao desta noite, mas de outra maior.)
13*
MANUEL BANDEIRA
No one passes in the street,
Not even a drunkard.
Nevertheless there is certainly a procession of shadows:
Shadows of all those who have passed,
Of those who are still alive and those already dead.
The stream weeps in its bed.
The voice of the night . . .
(Not of this night, but of one yet vaster.)
D.P.
139
ENRIQUE BUSTAMANTE Y BALLIVIAN
JE7JL
, largo,
solo en la cumbre,
colgado de los alambres
esta el poste
del telegrafo.
A traves
de los vidrios
del sleeping-car
miro a Cristo
clavado en el,
con los brazos abiertos.
No sufre.
Con sus manos,
con sus pies
que sangran,
esta tranquilo
y diafano.
Los alambres,
electxlzandose
se estremecen,
palpitan,
llevan palabras,
deseos.
Cristo desf allece*
Ninguna de las palabras
es la que espera,
la que viene de su padre.
140
ENRIQUE BUSTAMANTE Y BALLIVIAN
TJEJLEGRAPIT
black,,
alone on the hill-top,
hanging from wires
is the telegraph
pole.
Through
the panes
of the sleeping-car
I see Christ
nailed upon it
with outflung arms.
He does not suffer.
With his hands,
"with his feet
that bleed,
he is calm,
transparent.
The wires,
electrified,
shudder,
palpitate,
bear words,
desires.
Christ swoons.
None of the words
is the word he awaits,
the word coining from his Father.
ENRIQUE BUSTAMANTE Y BALLIVIAN
Ninguna
dice de Dlos.
La golondrina
que aun tienc en el pedtio
bianco sabor de cascarones,
juntas las manos,
le dice aquello
que nunca llevaran los alambres
en el alfabeto de Morse.
ENRIQUE BUSTAMANTE Y BALLIVIAN
Not one
speaks of God.
The swallow which still
bears on its breast
the white taste of the shell^
with joined hands^
tells him what
the wires will never carry
in Morse code.
M.L.
143
RONALD DE CARVALHO
AffERCADO JJE7
MERCADO de Trinidad
na tepidez molhada da manha!
Dourados tropicais de asas e frutas,
verdes maritimos franjados de alcatrazes,
mar de corais, fogos de madreperolas ao sol.
Das cestas de vime rolam ananases de escamas oxidadas,
o amarelo e o vermelho dos papagaios riscam o ar,
as mangas queimam penumbras de folhas murchas,
a terra e uma vibra^ao de coloridos.
Sobe das f aluas o aroma grosso do breu e do alcatrao,
c ha deuses de bronze no azul da vaga,
no azul da vaga tremula e faiscante . . .
Mercado de Trinidad
na tepidez molhada da manha!
Por tras dos mastros e cordames pardos,
na cinta elastica das bananeiras e dos limoeiros,
espiam cottages e bungalows,
E, s6bre as livres solidoes selvagens,
entre araras, tucanos, goiabeiras e coqueirais 3
passeia gravefnente, de capacete branco^
a ruiva sentinela do Forte colonial . .
INTERIOR
POETA dos tropicos, tua sala de jantar
e simples e modesta como um tranquilo pomar;
144
RONALD DE CARVALHO
TRINIDAD MARKET
MARKET of Trinidad
in the warm moist morning!
Tropical golds of wings and fruits,
ocean greens edged by pelicans,
seas of coral, fires of mother-of-pearl in the sun.
From wicker baskets roll pineapples with rusty scales,
yellow and scarlet parrots flash through the air,
mangoes burn the penumbra of tarnished leaves,
and the earth vibrates with colours.
Up from the ships comes a reek of pitch and tar,
and there are gods of bronze in the blue of the waves,
in the blue of the sparkling and tremulous waves . . ,
Market of Trinidad
in the warm moist morning!
Beyond the gray masts and the rigging,
from the swaying girdle of banana and lemon trees,
peep cottages and bungalows.
And against the wild free solitudes,
among parrots, toucans, palms and guava trees,
in a white helmet gravely paces
the fair-haired sentry of the colonial fort . . .
D.P.
INTERIOR
POET of the tropics, your dining room
is simple and unpretending as a quiet orchard;
145
RONALD DE CARVALHO
no aquario transparente, cheio de agua limosa,
nadam peixes vermelhos, dourados e cor de rosa;
entra pelas verdes venezianas uma poeira luminosa,
uma poeka de sol ? tremula e silenciosa,
uma poeka de luz que aumenta a solidao.
Abre a tua janela de par em par. La fora, sob o ceu do verao,
todas as arvores estao cantando ! Cada folha
e um passaro, cada f olha e uma cigarra, cada folha
e um som . . .
O ar das chacaras cheira a capim melado,
e ervas pisadas, a baunilha, a mato quente e abafado.
Poeta dos tropicos,
da-me no teu copo de vidro colorido um gole d'agua.
(Como e linda a paisagem no cristal de um copo d'agua!)
BRASIL
NESTA hora de sol puro
palmas paradas
pedras polidas
claridades
faiscas
cintilagoes
Eu ouo o canto enorme do Brasil!
Eu ouo o tropel dos cavalos de Iguassu correndo na ponta das
rochas nuas, empinando-se no ar molhado, batendo^ com
as p^tas de agua na manha de bolhas e pingos verdes;
146
RONALD DE CARVALHO
in the transparent bowl, full of weedy water,
swim the vermilion fishes, the golden, the pink;
through the green shutters comes a shining dust,
a dust of sun-motes, inconstant and without sound,
a dust of light that increases the solitude.
Open your window wide. Outside, under the summer sky,
all the trees are singing! Every leaf
is a bird, every leaf is a cicada, every leaf
is a sound . . .
The air of the lonely farms smells of sweet grass,
of trampled undergrowth, of vanilla, of hot and sultry woods.
Poet of the tropics,
give me, in your goblet of coloured glass, a draught of water,
(How lovely the landscape, reflected in a glass of water!)
D.P.
BRAZIL
IN this hour of pure sunlight
still palms
shining rocks
flashes
gleams
scintillations
I hear the vast song of Brazil!
I hear the thundering steeds of Iguassu pounding the naked
rocks, prancing in the wet air, trampling with watery
feet the morning of spume and green trills;
147
RONALD DE CARVALHO
Eu ougo a tua grave melodia, a tua barbara e grave melodia,
Amazonas, a melodia da tua onda lenta de oleo
espesso, que se avoluma e se avoluma, lambe o barro
das barrancas, morde raizes, puxa ilhas e empurra o
oceano mole como um touro picado de f arpas, varas,
galhos e folhagens;
Eu ouO a terra que estala no vento quente do nordeste, a
terra que f erve na planta do pe de bronze do
cangaceiro, a terra que se esboroa e rola em surdas
bolas pelas estradas de Joazeiro, e quebra-se em crostas
secas, esturricadas no Crato chato;
Eu ou$o o chiar das caatingas trilos, pios, pipios, trinos,
assobios, zumbidos, bicos que picam, bordoes que
ressoam retesos, timpanos que vibram limpidos, papos
que estufam, asas que zinem zinem rezinem 3 cris-cris,
cicios, cismas, cismas longas, langues caatingas
debaixo do ceu !
Eu ougo os arroios que riem, pulando na garupa dos dourados
gulosos, mexendo com os bagres no limo das luras e das
locas;
Eu oufo as moendas espremendo canas, o gluglu do mel
escorrendo nas tachas, o tinir das tigelinhas nas
seringueiras;
e machados que disparam caminiios,
e serras que toram troncos,
e matilhas de "Corta-Vento", "Rompe-Perro", "Faiscas"
e "Tubaroes" acuando sussuaranas e
magarocas,
e mangues borbulhand^ na luz,
e caitetus tatalando as queixadas para os jacares que dormem
no tejuco morno dos igapos . . .
Eu oujo todo o Brasll cantand^, zumbindo, gritando,
vociferando!
RMes que se balanf am }
sereias que apitam,
RONALD DE CARVALHO
I hear thy solemn melody, thy barbaric and solemn melody,
Amazon, the melody of thy lazy flood, heavy as oil,
that swells greater and ever greater, licking the mud of
banks, gnawing roots, dragging along islands, goring
the listless ocean like a bull infuriated with rods, darts,
branches and leaves;
I hear the earth crackling in the hot northeast wind, earth
that heaves beneath the bare bronze foot of the
outlaw, earth that turns to dust and whirls in silent
clouds through the streets of Joazeiro and falls to
powder on the dry plains of Crato;
I hear the chirping of jungles trills, pipings, peepings,
quavers, whistles, whirrings, tapping of beaks, deep
tones that hum like taut wires, clearly vibrating drums,
throats that creak, wings that click and flicker, cries
like the cricket's, whispers, dreamy calls, long languid
calls jungles beneath the sky!
I hear the streams laughing, dashing the flanks of greedy
golden carp, disturbing the bearded catfish in their oozy
holes and hiding-places beneath submerged stones;
I hear the millstones grinding sugar cane, the gurgle of sweet
juice flowing into vats, the clank of pails among
rubber trees;
and axes opening paths,
and saws cutting timber,
and packs of hounds named Wind-cutters, Iron-breakers,
Flashes and Sharks holding at bay the red leopards and
the jaguars,
and mangroves leafing in the sun,
and peccaries snapping their jaws at alligators asleep in the
tepid mud of bayous . . .
I hear all Brazil singing, humming, calling,
shouting!
Hammocks swaying,
whistles blowing,
149
RONALD DE CARVALHQ
usinas que rangem, martelam, arf am, estridulam, ululain e
roncam,
tubos que explodem,
guindastes que giram,
rodas que batem,
trilhos que trepidam,
rumor de coxilhas e planaltos, campainhas, rellnchos,
aboiados e mugidos,
repiques de sinos, estouros de foguetes, OuroPreto, Baia,
Congonhas, Sabara,
vaias de Bolsas empinando numeros como papagaios,
tumulto de ruas que saracoteiam sob arranha-ceus,
vozes de todas as ragas que a maresia dos portos joga no
sertao!
Nesta hora de sol puro eu oupD o Brasil.
Todas as tuas conversas, patria morena^ correm pelo ar , . .
a con versa dos fazendeiros nos cafezais^
a conversa dos mineiros nas galerias 4e ouro,
a conversa dos operarios nos f ornos de ago, -
a conversa dos garimpeiros, peneirando as bateias,
a conversa dos coroneis nas varandas das rogas . . .
Mas o que eu ougo, antes de tudo, nesta hora de sol puro
palmas paradas
pedras polidas
claridades
brilhos
faiscas
cintilagoes
e o canto dos teus beros 3 Brasil, de todos esses teus ber?os,
onde dorme, com a boca escorrendo leite, moreno,
confiante,
o homem de amanha!
150
RONALD DE CARVALHO
factories grinding, pounding, panting, screaming, howling
and snoring,
cylinders exploding,
cranes revolving,
wheels turning,
rails trembling,
noises of foothills and plateaux, cattlebells, neighings,
cowboy songs, and lowings,
chiming of bells, bursting of rockets, Ouro-Preto, Baia,
Congonhas, Sabara,
clamour of stock-exchanges shrieking numbers like parrots,
tumult of streets that seethe beneath skyscrapers,
voices of all the races that the wind of the seaports tosses into
the jungle!
In this hour of pure sunlight I hear Brazil.
All thy conversations, tawny homeland, wander in the air . .
the talk of planters among coffee bushes,
the talk of miners in gold mines,
the talk of workmen in furnaces where steel is made,
the talk of diamond- hunters shaking seives,
the talk of colonels on the verandas of country houses . . .
But what I hear, above all, in this hour of pure sunlight
still palms
shining rocks
flashes
gleams
scintillations
is the song of thy cradles, Brazil, of all thy cradles, in which
there sleeps, mouth dripping with milk, dusky,
trusting,
the man of tomorrow!
ZXP.
MENOTTI DEL PICCHIA
OKBCO
O BECO ao crepusculo e uma paisagem de limbo
um carvao de Steinleiru
Mulheres endomingadas atravancam as cal^adas
onde homens sisudos de bragos peludos
fumam cachimbo.
Um rancho inf antil o silencio desinancha
e a cangao se desata:
Senhora D. Sancha
coberta de ouro e prata . . .
Salta de uma janela um gramofone rouco
que rasca range ri parece louco.
Brusco cessa. O silencio desce pelas
almas. Nos ceus ardem constelagoes.
Passa o acendedor de lampioes
como um magico doido que andasse a semear estrelas
DA GUANABARA
O Pao de Agucar e um pescador filosof o
de costas voltadas para o mar.
Fisga com um anzol errante
dependurado nos fios eletricos da sua vara de pesca
meia duzia de ingleses "globe-trotters"
e uma "miss" triste como Lady Gody va.
152
MENOTTI DEL PICCHIA
NAMMOW STREET
AT dusk the narrow street is a landscape in Limbo
a drawing in charcoal by Steinlein.
Girls in their Sunday best crowd upon the pavements
where thoughtful men with hairy arms
smoke their pipes.
Playing children startle the silence
with a burst of singing:
Senhora Dona Sancha
clothed in gold and silver . . .
Out of a window leaps a raucous phonograph,
scraping and shrieking in delirium.
Suddenly it is still. Silence descends
upon all souls. Constellations are kindled in the skies.
The lamplighter passes
like a spendthrift magician scattering stars . . .
zx R
BAY OF GVJANAJBAMA
THE Sugar Loaf is a philosophic fisherman
with his back turned to the sea.
He hooks, with a wandering hook
hanging from the electric wires of his fishing pole,
half a dozen English tourists
and a young miss as forlorn as Lady Godiva.
153
MENOTTI DEL PICCHIA
A Urea o ermitao taciturno
resiste petreamente a tentagao das nuvens
que dansam em seu redor como mulheres nuas.
Na sua salva de prata a baia
oferta os peixes irrequietos das ondas
preparados na salsa branca da espuma.
Os cargueiros alcatroados,
rijos operarios atlanticos
olham com inveja fumando o cachimbo das chamines
enormes
a elegancia internacional dos "yachts"
e o f austo enfastiado dos transatlanticos de luxo.
Uma barca ondulante
acena o tropismo racial e nomade das travessias
e marca com a proa aguda a tentagao oceanica das viagens.
Sobre a paisagem marinha
uma gaivota acrobatica
faz Ioopings-the4oopings par^ divertir os catraeiros.
E o mar canta no cais nostalgico
a sinfonia de Mgrimas e solugos
de todas as despedidas . . .
154
MENOTTI DEL PICCHIA
The Urea, a taciturn hermit,
stonily resists the temptings of the clouds
that dance about him like naked women.
The Bay, on its silver platter,
offers the restless fishes of the flood
poached in a white sauce of foam.
The tarry freighters,
tough Atlantic workmen,
eye with envy, smoking the pipes of enormous funnels,
the international elegance of yachts
and the bored splendour of luxurious liners.
A rocking schooner
hints of restless race-old longing for the open sea
and with its pointed bow sharpens the temptation of far
voyages.
Against the marine backdrop
an acrobatic seagull
loops the loop to amuse the bumboats.
And the sea sings, along the homesick quay,
the tearful and sighing melody
of all farewells . .
D.P.
155
MIGUEL ANGEL ASTURIAS
JHVJDJTOS
Los rNDios bajan de Mixco
cargados de azul oscuro
y la ciudad les recibe
con las calles asustadas
por un manojo de luces
que, como estrellas, se apagan
al venir la madrugada.
Un ruido de corazones
dejan sus manos que reman
como dos remos al viento;
y de sus pies van quedando
como plantillas las huellas
en el polvo del camino.
Las estrellas que se asoman
a Mixco, en Mixco se quedan,
porque los indios las cogen
para canastos que llenan
con gallinas y floronas
blancas de izote dorado.
Es mas callada la vida
de los indios que la nuestra,
y cuando bajan de Mixco
solo se escucha el jadeo
que a veces silba en sus labios
como serpiente de seda.
156
MIGUEL ANGEL ASTURIAS
JTZIUNLdLlVS COMJE I&OW2V JFJROMf iOTXCO
Indians come down from Mixco
laden with deep blue
and the city with its frightened
streets receives them
with a handful of lights
that, like stars, are extinguished
when daybreak comes.
A sound of heartbeats
is in their hands that stroke
the wind like two oars;
and from their feet fall
prints like little soles
in the dust of the road.
The stars that peep out
at Mixco stay in Mixco
because the Indians catch them
for baskets that they fill
with chickens and the big white flowers
of the golden Spanish bayonet*
The life of the Indians
is quieter than ours,
and when they come down from Mixco
they make no sound but the panting
that sometimes hisses on their lips
like a silken serpent.
IX D. W,
R. OLIVARES FIGUEROA
EN un campo bianco,
semillitas negras. . .
j Que llueva, que llueva !
I Sembrador, que sietnbras ?
jComo canta el surcol
j Que llueva, que llueva. , , !
Yo siembro arco-Iris,
albas y trompetas !
{ Que llueva, que llueva. . . !
158
R. OLIVARES FIGUEROA
THE SOWER
ON a white field,
black little seeds. . .
La it rain! rain!
'Sower, what do you sow ? s
How the furrow sings!
Let it rain! rain!
1 sow rainbows,
dawns and trumpets!*
Let it rain! rain!
DJ.
159
WINETT DE ROKHA
VAUSE EN A PJLA^A
LA mujer de marmol, desnuda entre sus violetas,
se ruboriza al contacto del aire,
sus senos de manzana y heliotropo
mantienen la melodia provinciana del atardecer languido.
Curvas puras,
explosion de vida extasiada,,
gota de belleza en suspenso, cantar*
Mis ojos la penetran de castidad
y la tarde vuelve la cabeza
al sorprenderme en actitud
de cubrirle los hombros floridos
con mi abrigo de penumbras.
CANCl ON DE TOMAS, EL, AUSENTE
A LA entrada, en el indice de todos los caminos : tu,
de todas las perspectivas, de todas las lontananzas,
como el nido de un pajaro que no existio
y lo ofmos cantar en nosotros*
Frata de recuerdo,
ya estaras cambiado, Tomasito^ en el pais de los muertos,
con aquella flor resonante,
que txaias en tu manito de hombre escojido por el destino,
y esos ojos de ilusion de aventurero.
Voy a deshojar los innumerables pajaros
para tu navio de sombra.
160
WINETTDEROKHA
WAJLTZ IN ITCHVGAIT SQUARE
THE marble woman, naked among her violets,
blushes at the touch of the air,
her breasts of apple and heliotrope
sustain the provincial melody of the languid twilight.
Pure curves,
explosion of enraptured life,
drop of beauty in suspension, song.
My eyes pierce her with innocence
and the evening turns its head
and catches me in the act
of covering her flowering shoulders
with my cloak of shadows.
H. R. H.
SONG OF THOMAS,
AT the entrance, there where all roads begin: you,
all perspectives before you, all distances,
like the nest of a bird that never existed,
though we heard it sing in ourselves.
Fruit of memory,
you shall indeed be changed, Tommy, in the country
of the dead,
with that echoing flower
in your little hand, the hand of a man chosen by destiny,
and those eyes beguiled by adventure.
I am going to pluck the leaves from the numberless birds
for your ship of shadow.
' H. JR. H.
H. SANCHEZ QUELL
EJLOCT0 JMB JLA CAHJUE SACCAJOOBEJLO
TORTUOSA calleja, orillada de arboles
que a los ojos dan sombra y acarician al alma:
tienes, como tu ycua*, la gracia ingenua y fresca
de las cosas humildes.
Y un no se que de f emenina, oh ! calle Palma
del suburbio Vidrieras consteladas de joyas ?
No, ni falta que te hacen. Tu, dichosa ries
en la cordialidad de tus macetas, mientras
te alumbran en las noches los eternos letreros
luminosos del cielo.
En una esquina gira loca la calesita
(anoranzas de infancia giran en el recuerdo. . .)
Atardece: los chicos se alejan del baldio
que poblaron de gritos floridos todo el da.
Baldio suburbano^ donde se amalgarnaron
el ajetreo urbano y la quletud del campo.
Largo a largo en la tarde se ha tendido el silencio.
Preludiando las nuevas del celuloide el 'Cine
Progreso' se engalana de carteles chillones.
Tambien el barrio tiene sus finas pref erencias :
adora a Mary Pickford por sus bucles de oro
y a Douglas por sus saltos.
. . . Calle Saccarello, la de las tardes claras
y los silencios hondos; que entre tus dos fraternas
hileras de esmeralda 3 ahuyentando la pena,
dance eterna la dicha!
* Manantial, en idioma guarani.
H. SANCHEZ QUELL
FKAISfE OF SACCAREUM
TWISTING little street, lined with trees
that shade the eyes and caress the soul:
like your ycud*, you have the fresh and candid grace
of humble things.
And a something that is feminine, oh suburban
Palm- Street! . . . Show-windows starry with jewels?
No, nor do you miss them. Happily you laugh
amid the warmth of your flower-pots, while
your nights are lit by the eternal
electric signs of the sky.
At a corner the little buggy wheels crazily
(a longing for childhood wheels in our memories. . .)
Dusk: the children come back from the vacant lots
that they filled all day with their blossoming cries.
Suburban lots, where mingled
the city's hubbub and the country quiet
From one end to the other the evening silence has stretched.
Announcing a film, the Progress
. Theatre decks itself out with noisy posters.
Our neighbourhood too has its nice preferences:
we adore Mary Pickf ord for her golden curls
and Douglas for his leaps.
Saccarello Street of clear evenings
and deep stillnesses : between your two brotherly
emerald rows, putting care to flight,
may joy eternal dance !
D. F.
* 'Spring, fount,' in the Guarani language.
163
JOSE VARALLANOS
TROPEL de montanas
es esta nuestra tierra
y tu eres el sol,
el aire y el agua
de todita ella.
Ah mi nifia chola :
dureza de azucena,
fruta es tu cuerpo,
fruta que aroma,
antojo de hombres,
pecado que nos aloca.
Tus cejas ya vuelan
golondrinas sin alas,
congona, congonita
fior del aire,
flor del agua
siempre fresca y llena;
que por ti no pasa,
no pasa el tiempo
con stis arados !
Dime que si mi nina
ungiiento de malva,
ojos luceros,
muslos de estxella,
dos pies de caramelo*
Pero solo el aire^
el aire
sabe de tus olores !
164,
JOSE VARALLANOS
MOWJNTAM1VS
A ;MOB of mountains
is this our land,
and you are the sun,
the air and the water
of every bit of it.
Ah my chola girl:
firm as a white lily,
your body is a fruit,
a sweetsmelling fruit,
caprice of men,
sin that drives us mad.
Your eyebrows soar
wingless swallows ,
reed-lily., lily bud,
blossom of the air,
blossom of tjjie water,
always fresh, flowering ever,
since Time, for you,
Time passes never,
Time with his plowshares !
Say yes, my little one,
unguent of mallow,
eyes aglow',
thighs like stars,
two caramel feet.
But the air only,
only the air
senses your fragrance t
M.JL.
165
ALEJANDRO PERALTA
IA AIVBIIVISOTA
EL silencio se desmorona frente a la cabalgata
Marejadas de relinchos
Brinca el amanecer sobre las penas
la aldea desnuda sus vertebras de piedra
La campana de la iglesia navega hacia la pampa
Bebemos el ler alcohol matinal
EL SOL ESTA LIMPIANDO LOS TE JADOS
Las calles cuecen su fiambre de palabras
En las crines de los caballos enredada la alegria
El dia va sujeto a los estribos
LEJOS
vuela la armazon del pueblo
LA PAMPA
abre -sus tiendas de montanas
Llenamos de oxigeno nuestras alforjas
El camino desdobla sus veredas de tierra firme
Del norte viene una polvareda de palomas m
i en lo alto
es talla
la pirotecnia de los loros
EN MARCHA
Proyectiles de amanecer nuestros ojos perforan la tela del
horlzonte
El sol va sobre las ancas de los caballos
Un cortejo nupcial de indios de la comarca
cine la cintura del cerro de gala
Monteras de geraneos rebozos como llamaradas
refulgen
pitos
i tamboriles
166
ALEJANDRO PERALTA
SILENCE crumbles before the cavalcade
Tides of neighing
Dawn leaps over the rocks
the hamlet strips its stone vertebrae
The churchbell sails toward the pampa
We drink the ist morning alcohol
THE SUN IS CLEANING THE ROOF-TILES
The streets are cooking up their leftover words
Joy entangled in the horses' manes
Day runs captive to the stirrups
PAR OFF
flies the framework of the town
THE PAMPA
f opens up the shops of its mountains
We stuff our saddlebags with oxygen
The road unfolds its trails of firm ground
A dustcloud of doves blows from the north
and aloft
burst
fireworks of parrots
ON OUR WAY
Projectiles of dawn our eyes riddle the cloth of the
horizon
The sun passes over the horses' rumps
A wedding party of Indians from the district
makes a festive girdle around the hill
Geranium caps shawls like flames
blaze
flutes
and tabors
167
ALEJANDRO PERALTA
Vicentina la no via espolvorea amapolas i espigas
en la manana
de lentejuelas
I-A L3LAKURA ESTA VERDE DE CANTARES
A carrera abierta
llevamos el paisaje sobre la grupa como un poncho
de colores
indios viajeros
cimbran el lomo del camino
Suda la pampa su cansancio de medio dia
Pajaros
truncos
otean
la carnaza
de los penascos que duermen
La tarde a horcajadas por la ladera
Viajeros retrasados han emparedado el sol
La tierra esta supurando por los f angos
Arrojamos al rfo los penascos de la quebrada
Las montanas se alinean apretadas contra la noche
El latigo de las riendas
corta pedazos
den ebl ina
El viento deshilado de voces
FOGONES DE ANOCHECER
LUENAN EL CIELO DE F AROLAS
Salvas de ladridos
golpean la siendel pueblo
EL CAMINO SACTJDE SITS ESPALDAS
168
ALEJANDRO PERALTA
Vicentina the bride sprinkles poppies and barley-stalks
on the spangled
morning
THE PLAIN IS GREEN WITH SONGS
At full gallop
we carry the landscape on the croup like a manycoloured
poncho
Indian wayfarers
drub the crest of the road
The pampa sweats its noontime weariness
Birds
foreshortened
inspect
the stretched hides
of the sleeping rocks
Afternoon straddling the slope
Belated travellers have walled in the sun
The earth is suppurating through mudholes
Into the river we toss the stones from the gulch
The mountains form a compact line against the night
The whip of the reins
cuts off pieces
of mountain mist
The wind ravelled with voices
BONFIRES OF TWILIGHT
HANG THE SKY WITH LANTERNS
Salvos of barking
knock at the town's aching temples
THE ROAD SHRUGS ITS SHOULDERS
M.L.
169
RAFAEL ESTRADA
M -EXMCA2VOS
CUANTX> en la aurora congelada
se detuvo el tren ?
y en la llanura solitaria
los soldados liacian su poco de cafe,
quede admirado de como
la mas grata dulzura
reflejaba mejor en los rostros
la indomita bravura.
No miente don Diego en sus muros
cuando pinta a estos hombres feroces
con semblantes humildes y obscuros
y serenas miradas de dioses.
Yo NO se por que a veces
me pongo triste.
Me he asomado un momento
para ver la tarde:
el agua de la lluvia caia lentamente,
y alia lejos el sol encendia las nubes
tras los montes lejanos y azules;
ha pasado un carruaje,
hgi pasado una nina^
ha pasado una vieja que llevaba un panuelo
sobre la blanca testa,
se ha oido a lo lejos el pitazo del tren
170
RAFAEL ESTRADA
MEXICAN SOJLDIE1CS
, in the frozen dawn,
the train stopped,
and on the desolate plain
the soldiers were making their bit of coffee,
I saw in amazement how
the most touching gentleness
was the clearest reflection on their faces
of indomitable courage.
Don Diego does not lie when in his murals
he paints these fierce men
with humble dark faces
and the tranquil gaze of gods.
D. D. w.
TRACKS
I DO not know why at times
I become sad.
I have looked out a moment
to watch the evening:
rain was falling slowly,
and far off yonder the sun was kindling the clouds
behind the distant blue hills ;
a carriage has passed,
a girl gone by,
an old woman has passed, wearing a shawl
upon her white head,
in the distance the train-whistle has sounded. .
171
RAFAEL ESTRADA
Y yo he visto la tarde^
y he visto la lluvia,
y mis ojos han visto las miradas ardientes
de la niiia que pasa,
y la figura escualida de la vieja harapienta.
Y mi alma desde adentro
se ha puesto triste,
y mi pecho se ha turbado
y me he puesto a sollazar y a suspirar
amargamente. . .
BAJO la vidriera policroma del cielo
pasa en su lento volar>
una garza, mas serena que la tarde.
Senalando hacia arriba,
alguien dice: "Alia, bajo aquella nube/
El ave de paz remonta hacia el norte
su vuelo, en linea recta;
parece que vuela sobre un lago pulido;
mientras yo me quedo absorto, viendola^
ella vuela, vuela, vuela,
como si remara sobre un lago de rosas;
ya lejos, se adelgaza, se perfila,
son dos lineas flexibles que se pier den;
descienden lentamente: el ave de paz
remonta su vuelo hacia el norte;
descienden mas : las lineas obscuras
son dos rayitas blancas en el azul de las colinas;
descienden mas y mas : las dos rayitas blancas
son un punto bianco que aletea
sobre los ramajes de los arboles lejanos.
Pasaron por la ciudad tranquila,
una tarde serena, y una garza,
mas serena que la tarde.
172
RAFAEL ESTRADA
And I have watched the evening,
and I have watched the rain,
and my eyes have seen the burning glances
of the girl who passes by,
and the squalid figure o the shabby old dame.
And my soul
has become sad from within,
and my breast has been troubled,
and I have begun to sob and to sigh
bitterly
D. D. W.
TWIJLIGJffT
UNDER the many coloured showcase of the sky
it passes in its slow flight,
a heron, more tranquil than the evening.
Pointing upward,
someone says: 'Up there, beneath that cloud/
The bird of peace points northward
its straightlined flight:
it seems to fly upon a polished lake:
while I remain absorbed, watching,
it flies, flies, flies,-
as though it were rowing on a lake of roses;
far off now, it becomes slender, moves sidewise,
two flexible lines that fade away,
sink slowly : the bird of peace
points its flight northward ;
they sink lower: the dark lines
are two faint streaks of white in the blue of the hills;
lower and lower: the two faint streaks of white
are a white dot that flutters
upon the branches of the distant trees.
They passed through the peaceful city:
a tranquil evening, and a heron
more tranquil than the evening.
D. D. W.
WILBERTO L. CANTON
JSJL JL4LGO
EL cielo fiel en agua y luz duplica
la desnudez azul de su posada
y recoge prendida la mirada
el reflejo que al arbol crucifica.
La mon tafia tenaz en nieve rica
levanta su materia congelada:
se acerca el sol, quebrando su llegada
tras el espejo que la multiplica.
Magallanico viento tras la risa
con que el triangulo puro de la brisa
agita levemente nuestra vela.
Y en el momento absorto, sorprendida
la placldez del Sur, su dulce vida
que, cual la luz., sobre este lago riela.
ISJLA
ME asomo hacia mi mismo,
desciendo por mis pasos
a descubrir la imagen amarilla del tiempo
gastada por las horas
y por el largo abismo entre existir y olvido.
En la verde llanura de espadas quietas y altas,
entre el sol y la piedra, ..
hacia la luz absorta bajo la piel morena,
desciendo por la cueva de viejas sensaciones.
174
WILBERTO L. CANTON
ON I^AKm UA2VQI7IIH7JB
THE faithful sky in lake and light repeats
the azure nakedness in which it dwells
and gathers there within its steady gaze
the mirrored light that crucifies the tree.
The constant mountain in its snowy wealth
thrusts upward to the sky its frozen mass:
the sun draws near and shatters its arrival
behind the multiplying mirror.
Magellan-wind behind the laughter
with which the pure triangle of the breeze
softly stirs our sail.
And in the moment of absorption, startling
the South's placidity, its gentle life
that shimmers, like the light, upon this lake.
D. D. W.
I PEER into myself,
I go down by my own steps
to discover time's yellow image
wasted by the passing hours
and the long abyss between existence and forgetting.
On the green plain of quiet lofty swords,
between the sun and the rock,
towards the rapt light beneath the brown skin,
I descend through the cave of old sensations.
175
WILBERTO L. CANTON
Encuentro un nine, a veces ;
un inocente nino en su cruz de preguntas:
amarrado a su muelle de tristeza y misterio
como un nuevo navio.
En nlebla gris recuerdo
se presenta y exclama:
*Es algo triste, si,
pero el gato persiste en su tierno bostezo,
y entre piratas queda
la fragil heroina de salvajes y mares.
Es triste, si,
pero aun permanece junto al brocal del pozo
aquella hierba ria de placer y humedades,
Interroga a la tierra,
y en la suave marea del ocaso de otono
se enrarece y deshace.
Es triste, si,
mas las paglnas todas de figuras y sales
estan llenas de angustia,
y las acldas frutas se pudren de abandono.
Tal vez sea triste:
pero todo eso queda, y espera, y permanece/
ii
Taladrando la piedra,
hacia el tambor que el agua con su pupila ciega
con su ciega mirada
con la encendida llama de su ciega distancia
forma entre infierno y cielo :
el tunel prodigioso, vertical e infranqueable:
mas alia de ese circulo
de verdes ramazones y oscuras cavidades,
176
WILBERTO L. CANTON
I meet a child, sometimes ;
an innocent child upon its cross of questions,
moored to its dock of mystery and sorrow
like a new boat.
In the grey fog memory
rises and cries:
'Yes, it is sad, yes,
'but the cat persists in yawning adorably,
'and your frail heroine of savages and seas
'is lost still among the pirates,
'It is sad, yes,
'but still that chill herb of delight and damp
'clings to the lip of the well,
'questioning the earth,
'and in the gentle tide of autumn sunset
'dwindles and withers.
'Yes, it is sad,
'but the pages, all imagery and wit,
'are full of pain,
'and the acid fruits rot deserted,
'Perhaps it is sad :
'but all of it remains, and waits, and endures/
ii
Drilling the rock
towards the drum formed between hell and heaven
by water with its sightless eyes,
its blind stare,
with the burning flame of its blind distance:
the monstrous tunnel, vertical, not to be pierced:
beyond that circle
of lopped branches and dark hollows,
177
WILBERTO L. CANTON
estas con tu sonrisa,
f antasma transparente,
estas
con tu invisible paisaje de leyenda,
entre las galopantes mariposas y luces,
estas en tu silencio,
en tu quietud celeste.
ni
Quiero encontrar apoyo
por cimentar aurora,
quiero sentir la vida que me dejo esta carne,
esta forma,
este arado sutil,
este tormento.
Quiero tierra sepulcro enredadera.
Quiero un metal profundo,
siemprevivo:
la huella de pisadas que me sigue,
Por eso jo prcgunto a mi conciencia nueva
por vegetal recuerdo,
yo pregunto a mi mismo por ese nino ahogado,
removiendo las aguas del tunel del silencio
pregunto del fantasma,
pregunto
por las lentas mareas,
por la tibia llanura y sus quietas espadas.
Y en ese eterno abismo entre existir y olvido,
en ese eterno abismo
abierto por el tiempo con su gris paletada.
solo el tiempo amarillo, solamente el olvicio.
178
WILBERTO L. CANTON
there you are with your smile,
translucent ghost,
there you are
with your invisible storybook landscape
among the galloping butterflies and the lights,
you with your silence
in your celestial repose.
m
I want to find support, seek
to establish the dawn,
I want the life that bequeathed me this flesh,
this form,
this delicate plough,
this torment.
I want the twining earth to wind about me.
I want a deep metal, ..
living always:
the trail of footsteps following me.
As to this I enquire of my new conscience,
as to vegetal memory,
I enquire of myself as to that drowned boy,
stirring the waters of the tunnel of silence
I ask of the ghost,
I ask
concerning the slow tides,
the warm plain and its quiet swords.
And in that eternal abyss between existence and forgetting,
in that eternal abyss
opened by time's grey digging,
nothing but yellow time, nothing but forgetting.
D.F.
179
EDUARDO CARRANZA
En donde im hornbre $e lamenta como un hornbre.
UJST doraingo sin tf, de ti perdido,
es corao un tunel de paredes grises
donde voy alumbrado por tu nombre,
es una noche clara sin saberlo
o un lunes disfrazado de domingo;
es como un dia azul sin tu permiso.
Llueve en este poema, tu lo sientes
con tu alma vecina del cristal :
llueve tu ausencia como una agua triste
y azul sobre mi frente desterrada.
He comprendido como una palabra
pequena, igual a un alfiler de luna
o un leve corazon de mariposa.,
alzar puede murallas infinitas^
jtnatar una manana de repente,
evaporar azules y jardines,
tronchar un dia como si fuera un lirio,
volver granos de sal a los luceros.
He comprendido como una palabra
de la materia azul de las espadas
y con aguda vocacion de espina,
puede estar en la luz como una iterida
que nos duele en el centro de la vida.
80
EDUARDO CARRANZA
SUNDAY
Wherein a man laments like a man.
A SUNDAY without you, lost away from you,
is like a tunnel with grey walls
through which I pass lighted by your name;
it is a clear night, clear without knowing it,
or a Monday masquerading as Sunday;
it is like a dark blue day without your consent.
It is raining in this poem: you feel it
with your soul that verges upon crystal :
your absence descends like rainfall, sad
and dark, upon my banished brow.
I have come to know how a little
word, like a pin of moonlight
or a butterfly's fragile heart,
can raise up infinite walls,
in an instant kill a morning,
dry up blue and gardens together,
crop a day as though it were a lily,
change the morning stars 'into grains of salt.
I have come to know how a word
made of the sword's blue substance^
with its thorn-sharp intention,
can gather the light like a wound
aching in the centre of our lives.
181
EDUARDO CARRANZA
Llueve en este poema y el domingo
gira como un lejano carrusel:
tan cerca estas de mi que no te veo,
hecha de mis palabras y mi sueno.
Yo pienso en ti detras de la distancia,
con tu voz que me inventa los domingos
y tu sonrisa como vago petalo
cayendo de tu rostro sobre mi alma.
Con su hoja volando hacia la noche,
rayado de llovissna y desencanto,
este domingo sin tu visto bueno
llega como una carta equivocada.
La tarde, nina., tiene esa tristeza
del aire donde hubo antes una rosa :
Yo estoy aqui, rodeado de tu ausencia,
hecho de amor y solo como un hombre*
182
EDUAEJDO CARRANZA
It Is raining In this poem, and Sunday
whirls like a far-off carrousel :
so close are you to me that I can not see you.,
fashioned of my words and my dreaming.
I think of you beyond the distance,
inventing Sundays for me with your voice :
of your smile like a drifting petal
drifting down upon my soul from your face.
"With its leafage flying toward night,
streaky with mist and disillusion,
this Sunday, without the seal of your approval,
arrives like a misdirected letter.
And evening, dearest, holds the sadness
of air where there was once a rose :
I am here, surrounded by your absence,
made of love and lonely as a man*
D. D. W.
183
CARLOS DRUMMOND DE ANDRADE
MEU pai montava a cavallo, ia para o campo.
Minha mae ficava sentada cosendo.
Meu irmao pequeno dorjtnia.
Eu sosinho menino entre mangueiras
lia a historia do Robinson Cruzoe,
comprida historia que nao acaba mais.
No meio dia branco de luz uma voz que aprendeu
a ninar nos longes da senzala e nunca
se esqueceu
chamava para o cafe.
Cafe preto que nem a preta velha
cafe gostoso
cafe bom.
Minha mae ficava sentada cosendo
olhando para mim:
Psiu . . . Nao acorde o menino!
para o bergo onde pousou um mosquito^
e dava um suspiro , . . que fundo !
La longe meu pai campeava
no mato sem fim da f azenda.
E eu nao sabia que minha historia
era mais bonita que a do Robinson Cruzoe.
84
CARLOS DRUMMOND DE ANDRADE
CfllJUMIOOD
MY father mounted his horse and rode away into the country.
My mother stayed behind, sewing in her chair.
My little brother lay asleep.
I, a lonely child under the mango trees,
read the story of Robinson Crusoe,
a long story that never came to an end.
In the white sunlight of noontime a voice that had learned
to sing us to sleep long ago in the slave quarters and had
never been forgotten
called us to coffee.
Coffee black as the old negress herself
savoury coffee,
good coffee.
My mother sat sewing,
looking at me:
Hush . . . Don't wake the baby !
at the cradle on which a mosquito had lit,
and sighed from the depths of her being.
Somewhere far off my father was exploring
the endless woods of the plantation.
And I never knew that my own story
was more beautiful than Robinson Crusoe's.
D.P.
185
CARLOS DRUMMOND DE ANDRADE
FANTASIA
No azul do ceo de methyleno
a lua ironica
diuretica
compoe uma gravura de sala de jantar.
Anjos da guarda em expedi^ao nocturna
velana somnos puberes
espantando mosquitos
dos cortinados e grinaldas.
Pela escada em espiral
diz que tern virgens tresmaliiadaSj
incorporadas a via4actea,
vagaluraeando . , ,
Por uma frincha
o diabo espreita com o olho torto.
Diabo tern uma luneta
que varre leguas de sete leguas
e tern o ouvido fino
que nem um violino.
S. Pedro dorme
e o relogio do ceo ronca mecanlco.
Diabo espreita por uma frincha.
La em baixo
suspiram boccas machucadas.
Suspiram rezas ? Suspiram manso,
de amor.
CARLOS DRUMMOND I>E ANDRADE
IK a sky of mediylene blue
the moon, ironical,
diuretic,
composes a print for the dining room.
Guardian angels on nocturnal rounds
keep watch over adolescent dreams
scaring mosquitoes
from the curtains and garlands of the bed*
Up the spiral staircase,
they say, the foolish virgins,
embodied in the milky way,
glimmer like fireflies.
Through a chink
the devil peers with a squinting eye.
The devil has a telescope
that sees for seven leagues
and his ears are as fine
as a violin's.
Saint Peter sleeps
and the clock of heaven mechanically snores.
The devil peers through a chink.
Down there,
crushed lips are sighing.
Sighing prayers? They sigh lightly
with love.
187
CARLOS DRUMMOND DE ANDRADE
E os corpos enrolados
ficam mais enrolados ainda
e a carne penetra na carne.
Que a vontade de Deus se cumpra!
Tirante dois ou tres
o resto vae para o inferno.
JTARDIM 2A JPHACA BA LIBEtWADE
>
VERDES bolindo.
Sonata cariciosa da agua
fugindo entre rosas geometrlcas.
Ventos elysios,
Maclo.
Jardim tao pouco brasileiro . . . mas tao lindo.
Paisagem sem fundo.
A terra nao soffreu para dar estas flores*
Sem resonancia.
O minuto que passa
desabrochando em flora^ao inconsciente.
Bonito demais. Sem humanidade.
Literario demais.
(Pobres jardins do meu sertao
atras da Serra do Curral !
Nem repuxos frios nem tanques langues,
nem bombas nem jardineiros officiaes.
So o matto crescendo indifferente entre semprevivas
desbotadas
e o olhar desditoso da moga desfolhando malmequeres.)
188
CARLOS DRUMMOND DE ANDRADE
And the entwined bodies
twine more closely still
and love invades love.
God's will be done!
Two or three may be spared,
the rest are all going to hell.
D.P.
G ARDEN IN LIBERTY
SWAYING greenery.
Caressing music of water
flowing between geometrical roses.
Elysian winds.
Sleek turf.
Garden so little Brazilian, and yet so lovely,
Landscape without depth.
It cost the earth no pain to yield these flowers.
Landscape without echoes.
Each moment that passes
unfolding in unpremeditated bloom.
Too pretty. Too inhuman.
Too literary.
(Poor gardens of the wilds of my country
beyond the Serra do Curral!
With neither cool fountains, nor languid pools,
with no running water, no appointed gardeners.
Only the dry thicket, carelessly growing among tarnished
evergreens
and the forlorn face of a girl tearing the daisy petals apart*)
189
CARLOS DRUMMOND DE ANDRADE
Jardim da Praga da Liberdade,
Versailles entre bondes.
Na moldura das Secretarias compenetradas
a graa intelligente da relva
compoe o sonho dos verdes.
PROHIBIDO PISAR NO GRAMMA0O
Talvez fosse melhor dizer:
PROHIBIDO COMER O GRAMMADO
A PreiEeitura vigilante
vela a somneca das hervinhas.
E o capote preto do guarda e uma bandeira na noite
estrellada de funccionarios.
De repente uma banda preta
vermelha retinta suando
bate urn dobrado batuta
na do^ura do jar dim.
Repuxos espavoridos fugindo.
190
CARLOS DRUMMOND DE ANDRADE
Garden in Liberty Square,
Versailles among streetcars.
In the frame of the brooding Ministries
the conscious grace of the lawns
composes a revery of green.
DO NOT WALK ON THE GRASS
Perhaps it were better to say:
DO NOT EAT THE GRASS
The watchful Prefecture
stands guard over the slumber of the grass-blades.
And the black cloak of the watchman is a banner in the
night starred with guards.
Suddenly a negro brass band,
sweating in pure vermilion,
breaks into a rousing military march
in the stillness of the garden.
Startled fountains take flight.
D.P.
191
FRANCISCO MENDEZ
SANGKE EN UNA PIEDRA
POBRE Poncho, lo fregaron los gringos
cuando la revolution de Nicaragua.
I Con lo andariego que era y amigo de aventuras !
Nacido en mi mismo pueblo;
de trece o catorce anos, huyo a la costa
con unos volantines.
Se le fueron ocho anos por esos andurriales,
comiendo frijol negro, amansando potros,
en cortes de cafe y 'amolando' en las cantinas.
Porque aprendio de los indios a tomar el trago*
Un dia, lo mordio una culebra. . .
Bueno, tiene mil trances pintorescos
que recalentaron su sangre de maton.
jComo el sol de las fincas se le monto para siempre!
jComo el paisaje recio e impetuoso
carcomio en sus entranas !
Raices de arbol retorcian sus venas
y en su pecho pateaba el corazon.
Ya era hombre cuando regreso al poblado.
Y resollaba como bestia andariega.
Su gran sombrero de petate con no se que de rancho y pajonal
se salia de madre por calles, por atajos
y por la plaza los dias domingos.
Pero se robo una moza y avento de nuevo
por esos mundos.
I Que bien rne acuerdo ahora de sus bigotes lacios
y de una vez que me 'pelo* el machete !
Presidios.
Cuatrerias.
Balazos y "puyones*.
192
FRANCISCO MENDEZ
BLOOD ON A STONE
POOR Poncho, tlft gringos drove him nuts
during the revolt in Nicaragua.
What a tumbleweed he was ! How he went for adventure !
Born right in my home town;
when he was thirteen or fourteen he ran off to the coast
with some crazy kids.
He put in eight years off in the wilds,
eating black beans, busting colts,
working the coffee clearings, raising hell in bars.
Because the Indians showed how to gulp it down.
One day, a snake bit him. . .
Well, he got mixed up in a thousand queer jams,
and how they got into the big bruiser's blood !
The plantation sun burned ibjto him for good !
How that tough fierce countryside
gnawed into his guts !
His veins twisted like tree roots
and his heart kicked out in his chest.
He was man grown when he got back to the village,
and he went snorting around like an animal on the loose.
His big thatch hat, with something ranchy or hayseed about it>
spilled through the streets, through short cuts,
and through the square on Sundays.
But he grabbed himself a girl and went roaming again
oft through the world.
How it comes back to me now, his drooping mustache,
and once when he pulled his cane-knife on me!
Jails.
Cattle-rustling.
Bullet and knife wounds.
193
FRANCISCO MENDEZ
Asi anduvo su nombre par doquiera.
Por fin anclo en aguas del General Sandino
el ano veintiseis*
jEn cuantas balaceras no estuvo el pobre Poncho
metiendo onzas de plomo a la gringada!
Pasaba entre la humareda su sombrero, amarillo
de tanto arder al sol y sudar los crepusculos;
y una ducha de polvo detras de su caballo.
<j En que orilla de rio, en que rejoya,
en que 'guataF lo c mecateo* la muerte ?
El vientre ablerto y los ojos castrados
lo hallaron los muchachos del Teniente Visquera,
con slete balas gringas trabadas en los huesos.
Olvido.
Ni siquiera una lagrima.
Ni siquiera su nombre en una piedra.
j No pasari, no pasara el sombrero de petate
debajo de los arcos de la historial
194
FRANCISCO MENDEZ
And so his name spread everywhere.
Finally he anchored in the waters of General Sandino
back in ^26*
What shootings wasn't poor Poncho mixed up in,
slamming ounces of lead into the gringos !
His hat would pass through the clouds of smoke, yellow
from so much burning in the sun and from twilight sweat;
and a quick shower of dust behind his horse.
On what river-bank, in what cozy spot,
in what flash joint, did death tangle with him ?
His belly slit wide, eyeballs yanked out,
Lieutenant Visquera's lads found him
with seven gringo bullets sunk in his bones.
Forgotten,
Not even a tear.
Not even his name on a stone,
It's never going to pass, that thatch hat,
under the arches of history !
D. D. W.
195
GILBERTO GONZALEZ Y CONTRERAS
CAJLOM
MEBIODIA del tropico. Galbana.
La desnudez rojiza
de la arada
implora al cocotero
agite el abanico de sus palmas.
El crepitar de la madera
imita la cigarra.
Anda el silencio de puntillas
por la casa.
Y el agua de la acequia toma el pulso
al calor que aletarga.
IGUESIA
Tus torres son agujas
para ensartar estrellas.
Etes en tu blancor una paloma
con las alas abiertas.
A pesar de tu grave .
serenidad concentxas
el consuelo de todos los dolores,
la esperanza de todas las tristezas.
En tus pararrayos el sol danza,
y las nubes se enredan.
96
GILBERTO GONZALEZ Y CONTRERAS
HJEA5T
TROPICAL mid-day. Indolence.
The reddish nudity
of the plowed field
begs the coconut-tree
to wave its palmy fan.
The creaking wood
mimics the cicada. -
Silence walks on tiptoe
through the house.
And the water in the ditch takes the pulse
of the languid heat.
IX F.
YOUR spires are needles
for stringing stars.
In your whiteness you are a dove
with wings unfolded.
Despite your grave
serenity you distil
the anodyne of every sorrow,
the hope of every grief.
Your lightning-rods are for the sun's dancing
and the snaring of clouds.
z>. F.
197
CLAUDIA LARS
ALTA vision de sueno sin espina;
honda vision en realidad clavada.
Ansia del vuelo en recta que se empina ;
fuerza del paso en ctirva accidentada.
Rosa de sombra^ rosa matutina,
nna cafda y otra levantada.
Angeles invisibles en la esquina
donde el presente cambia de Jornada.
Marcha el momento signo de Taltura :
brote de sangre limpia y carne pura
en renovado cai^po de infinito.
Y en promesa inef able y verdadera^
Gabriel de anunciaciones y de espera
un mundo sin cadenas y sin grito.
el lodo empinada.
No como el tallo de la flor
y el ansia de la mariposa . - ,
Sin raices ni juegos:
mas recta-, mas segura
y mas libre.
Conocedora de la sombra y de la e.spina.
Con el milagro levantado
198
CLAUDIA LARS
LOFTY vision of thornless sleep ;
deep vision nailed to reality.
Upward thrust of yearning for straight flight;
strength of footsteps In a broken curve.
Rose of shadows, rose of the morning,
the one fallen, the other raised.
Angels invisible at the corner
where the present changes the guard.
The moment marches, symbol of height :
bud of clean blood and pure flesh
in a field endlessly renewed.
And in promise ineffable and true
Gatfriel of annunciations and of hope
a world without chains, without cries.
> D. w.
SM3ETCM OJP Of ME JFMOJVMJSR WOMA2V
erect in the retire.
Unlike the flower's stalk
and the butterfly's eagerness . . .
Without roots or fluttering:
more upright, more sure,
and more free.
Familiar with the shadow and the thorn.
With the miracle uplifted
199
CLAUDIA LARS
en los brazos triunf antes.
Con la barrera y el abismo
debajo de su salto.
Duefia absoluta de su carne
para volverla centre del espiritu :
vaso de lo celeste,
domus aurea,
gleba donde se yerguen, en un brote,
la mazorca y el nardo.
Olvidada la sonrisa de Gioconda.
Roto el embrujo de los siglos.
Vencedora de miedos.
Clara y desnuda bajo el dia limpio.
Amante inigualable
en ejercicio de un amor tan alto
que hoy ninguno adivina.
Duke,
con filtrada dulzura
que no dana ni embriaga a quien la prueba.
Maternal todavia,
sin la caricia que detiene el vuelo,
ni ternuras que cercan,
ni mezquinas daciones que se cobran.
Pionqra de las nubes.
Guia del laberinto.
Tejedora de vendas y de cantos.
Sin mas adorno que su sencillez.
Se levanta del polvo * . .
No como el tallo de la flor
que es apenas belleza.
200
CLAUDIA LARS
in her triumphant arms.
With the barrier and the abyss
beneath her leap.
Absolute mistress of her flesh
to make it the core of her spirit:
vessel of the heavenly,
domus aurea,
a lump of earth from which rise, budding,
the corn and the tuberose.
*
Forgotten the Gioconda smile.
Broken the spell of centuries.
Vanquisher of fears.
Clear and naked in the limpid day.
Lover without equal
in a love so lofty
that today no one divines it.
Sweet,
with a filtered sweetness
that neither harms nor intoxicates him who tastes it.
Maternal always,
without the caress that hinders flight,
or the tenderness that confines,
or the petty yieldings that must be redeemed.
Pioneer of the clouds.
Guide to the labyrinth.
Weaver of tissues and songs.
Her only adornment, simplicity.
She rises from the dust . . .
Unlike the flower's stalk
which is less than beauty.
D. D. w.
201
LUIS L. FfiANCO
AJPJKMSCO
Eisr el apristo calido y oliente
balan timi<Samente las cabrillas ;
irguiendos^ en dos patas de repente>
los cliivatos dirimen su rencilla ;
las cabras 5 llena la ubre a no poder
ya maSj rumian hincadas de rodillas :
sus ojos claros de Inocencia impudica
soslayan con miradas de mujer
al vlejo chivo de la barba talmudica.
202-
LUIS L. FRANCO
IN the hot malodorous pen
timidly the little she-goats are bleating;
suddenly upon two feet upreared
the fractious kids settle their grudge :
the nannies, "with udders full as full can be,
rest ruminating upon their knees :
their clear eyes of shameless innocence
glance sidelong, as a woman's might,
at the old goat with the Talmudic beard.
M. L.
203
LUIS PALES MATOS
JEJL JPOZO
Mi alma es como un pozo de agua sorda y profunda,
en cuya paz solemne e imperturbable ruedan
los dias, apagando sus rumores mundanos
en la quietud que cuajan las oquedades muertas.
Abajo el agua pone su claror de agonia:
irisacion morbosa que en las sombras fermenta,
linfas que se coagulan en largos limos negros
y exhalan esta exangiie y azul f osf orescencia.
Mi alma es como un pozo. El paisaje dormido,
turbiamente en el agua se forma y se dispersa,
y abajo, en lo mas hondo, hace tal vez mil anos,
una rana misantropa y agazapada suefia.
A veces al influjo lejano de la luna
el pozo adquiere un vago prestigio de leyenda:
se oye el cro-cro prof undo de la rana en el agua,
y un remoto sentido de eternidad lo llena.
C&A.RO DE JLCWA
EN la noche de luna, en esta noche
De luna clara y tersa,
Mi corazon como una rana oscura
Salta sobre la hierba.
Que alegre esta mi corazon ahora!
Con que gusto levanta la cabeza
Bajo el claro de luna pensativo
Esta medrosa rana de tragedia!
204
LUIS PALES MATOS
THE WELL
MY soul is like a well of dead, deep water
in whose solemn, imperturbable peace the days
go by, stilling their worldly murmurs
in the silence curdled in the dead hollows.
Down there the water shows its agonized brightness:
soft iridescence fermenting in shadow,
lymphs which coagulate in long black slime
and exhale this bloodless blue phosphorescence.
My soul is like a well. The sleeping landscape
darkly forms and disintegrates in the water,
and down below, deep down, perhaps a thousand years past,
a hidden misanthropic frog is dreaming.
Sometimes at the distant influx of the moon
the well takes on a vague legendary spell :
the f rog's deep croaking echoes in the water,
filled with a remote sense of eternity.
D.D.W.
CLAm B E
IN the moonlight, in this night
Of clear and glossy moonlight,
My heart like a dark frog
Leaps upon the grass.
How gay is my heart now !
With what delight this fearful
Tragic frog uplifts its head
Beneath the pensive brightness of the moon !
205
LUIS PALES MATOS
Arriba, por los arboles.
Las aves blandas suenan,
Y mas arriba aun, sobre las nubes,
Rccien lavadas brillan las estrellas.
Ah, que no llegue nunca la mafiana!
Que se alargue esta lenta
Hora de beatitud en que las cosas
Adquieren una irrealidad suprema,
Y en que mi corazon como una rana
Se sale de sus cienagas,
Y se va bajo el claro de la luna
En vuelo slderal por las estrellas!
EUEGI. A DJBJL miQUE BJE JLA
j OH mi fino, mi melado Duque de la Mermelada !
I Donde estan tus caimanes en el lejano aduar del Pongo,
Y la sombra azul y redonda de tus baobabs africanos,
Y tus quince mujeres olorosas a selva y a f ango ?
Ya no comeras el suculento asado de nino,
Ni el mono familiar, a la siesta, te matara los piojos,
Ni tu ojo dulce rastreara el paso de la jirafa af eminada
A traves del silencio piano y caliente de las sabanas.
Se acabaron tus noches con su suelta cabellera de fogatas
Y su gotear sonoliento y perenne de tamboriles,
En cuyo f ondo te ibas hundiendo como en un lodo tibio
Hasta llegar a las margenes ultimas de tu gran
bisabuelo.
LUIS PALES MATOS
High up, among the trees.
The soft birds dream,
And higher still, above the clouds,
The stars gleam newly washed.
Ah let morning never come !
Lengthen out this slow
And blessed hour when things
Take on a supreme unreality,
And when my heart like a frog
Emerges from its swamps
And sets out in the brightness of the moon
Upon its sidereal flight among the stars!
D. D. w.
ELEGY OF TME &UKE OF W AMMALADE
O MY fine, my honeycoloured Duke of Marmalade!
Where are your alligators in the far-off camp on the Pongo,
And the round blue shadow of your African baobabs,
And your fifteen wives smelling of the forest and the mud ?
No longer will you eat the succulent roast child,
Nor will the tame monkey at siesta time kill your lice,
Nor your gentle eye follow the tracks of the effeminate giraffe.
Across the fiat hot silence of the plain.
Gone are your nights with their flowing bonfire hair
And their somnolent everlasting dripping of drums,
Into whose depths you would sink slowly as into warm mud
Till you reached the ultimate shores of your great
greatgrandfather.
207
LUIS PALES MATOS
Aliora, en el molde vistoso de tu casaca francesa,
Pasas azucarado de saludos como un cortesano cualquiera,
A despecho de tus pies que desde sus botas ducales
Te gritan: Babilongo, subete por las cornisas del palacio,
j Que gentil va mi Duque con la Madama de Cafole,
Todo afelpado y pulcro en la onda azul de los violines,
Conteniendo las manos que desde sus guantes de aristocrata
Le gritan: Babilongo, derribala sobre ese canape de rosa!
Desde las margenes ultimas de tu gran bisabuelo,
A traves del silencio piano y caliente de las sabanas,
Por que lloran tus caimanes en el lejano aduar del Pongo,
Oh mi fino, mi melado Duque de la Mermelada ?
VEM&E
EL Condesito de la Limonada,
Jugueton, pequenin . . . Una monada
Rodando, pequenin y jugueton.,
Por los salones de Cristobalon.
Su alegre rostro de titi.
Atodos dice: Si
Si, Madame Cafole, Monsieur Haiti,
Por alii, por aqui.
Mientras los aristocratas macacos
Pasan armados de cocomacacos,
Solemnemente negros de nobleza,
El Conde, pequenin y jugueton,
Es un fluido de delicadeza
Que llena de iSnuras el salon ...
Si, Madame Cafole, Monsieur Haiti,
Por alii, por aqui.
208
LUIS PALES MATOS
Now, in the showy frame of your French dress-coat,
You pass sugared with greetings like any courtier,
In spite of your feet, which from their ducal boots
Cry out to you : Babilongo, climb up by the palace cornices.
How elegantly goes my Duke with Madame Coffeewith,
All velvety and dainty in the violins' blue wave,
Restraining the hands that from their patrician gloves
Cry out to him: Babilongo, fyioc\ her down on that rose sofa!
From the ultimate shores of your great greatgrandfather,
Across the flat hot silence of the plain,
Why do your crocodiles weep in the far-off camp on the Pongo,
O my fine, my honeycoloured Duke of Marmalade ?
D. D. W.
JLOOK OUT FOR THE SNAKE!
THE little Count of Lemonade,
Playful, tiny ... A monkeyshine
Wandering, tiny and playful,
Through the salons of Christophe the Great.
His gay little monkey face
To everyone says; "Yes.
Yes, Madame Coffeewith, Monsieur Haiti,
That way, this way/
While the macaque patricians
Pass by, armed with squat cocoanuts,
Solemnly black with nobility,
The Count, tiny and playful,
Is a flowing delicacy
That fills the salon with niceties . . .
Tes, Madame Coflfeewith, Monsieur Haiti,
That way, this way.*
209
LUIS PALES MATOS
Vedle en el rigodon,
Miradle en el minue . , *
Nadie en la Corte de Cristobalon
Lleva con tanta gracia el casac6n
Ni con tanto donaire mueve el pie,
Su formula social es : oh, pardon !
Su palabra elegante : volupte !
Ah, pero ante su Alteza,
Jamas oseis decir lagarto verde,
Pues perdiendo al instante la cabeza
Todo el fine aristocrata se pierde !
Y alia va el Conde de la Limonada,
Con la roja casaca alborotada
Y la fiera quijada
Rigida en epileptica tension , . .
Alia va entre grotescos ademanes^
Multiplicando los orangutanes
En los espejos de Cristobalon.
ML
Er. nanigo sube al cielo,
El cielo se ha decorado
De melon y calabaza
Para la entrada del nanigo.
Los arcangeles, vestidos
Con verdes hojas de platano,
Lucen coronas de anana
Y espadones de malango.
La gloria del Padre Eterno
Rompe en triunf al taponazo,
* Indreiduo de una socledad secreta de los
negros cubanos.
aio
LUIS PALES MATOS
See him in the rigadoon.
Watch him in the minuet . . .
No one in the Court of Christophe the Great
Wears the brocade coat with so much grace
Or moves on such a genteel foot.
His social formula is: oh> pardon!
His word of elegance : voluptel
Ah, but in the presence of His Highness
You must never dare say : Loof^ out for the snafye!
Because, losing his head in an instant.
All the fine aristocrat vanishes !
And there goes the Count of Lemonade
With his red brocade coat in a whirl
And his proud jaw
Rigid in epileptic tension . . .
There he goes with grotesque gestures
Multiplying orang-utans
In the mirrors of Christophe the Great.
, D. w.
2VA2VI fO* TO
THE ndnigo mounts up to Heaven*
Heaven is decked out
With melons and calabash
For the entrance of the ndnigo,
The archangels, robed
In green banana leaves,
Are sporting pineapple crowns
And broadswords of malango.
The glory of the Eternal Father
Bursts in a triumphant cork-pop,
* Member of a secret society of Cuban Negroes.
LUIS PALES MATOS
Y espuma de serafines
Se riega por los espaclos*
El nafiigo va rompiendo
Tiernas oleadas de bianco.
En su ascension rnilagrosa
Al dulce mundo serafico.
Sobre el cerdo y el caiman
Jehova^ el potente, ha triunf ado
J Gloria a Dios en las alturas
Que nos trae por fin el nanigo !
Fiesta del cielo. Dulzura
De merengues y caratos.
Mermelada de oraciones.
Honesta horchata de salmos.
Con dedos de bronce y oro 5
Las trompas de los heraldos
Por los balcones del cielo
Cuelgan racimos de cantos.
Para aclararse la voz,
Los querubes sonrosados
Del egregio coro apuran
Huevos de Espiritu Santo.
El buen humor celestial
Hace alegre despilf arro
De chistes de ramselina,
En palabras que ha lavado
De todo tizne terreno
El celo azul de los santos.
El nafiigo asciende por
La escalinata de marmot^
Con meneo contagloso
De caderas y omoplatos.
Las ordenes celestiales
LUIS PALES MATOS
And the foam of seraphim
Sprays over space.
The ndnzgo is breasting
Soft combers of white
In his wondrous ascension
To the sweet seraphic world.
Over hog and alligator
Triumphs Jehovah the mighty
Glory to God in the highest
For bringing us the ndnigo at last !
A fiesta in Heaven. Sweetness
of meringues and caratos?
Marmalade of prayer.
Genuine milkshake of psalmody.
With bronze and golden fingers
The trumpets of heralds
On the balconies of Heaven
Hang festoons of song.
To clear their throats.,
The rosy cherubim
Of the Heavenly Choir
Gulp down Holy Ghost eggs.
The celestial good humour
Is a joyous scattering
Of muslin jokes
In words washed clean
Of all earthly stain
By the Saints' azure zeal.
The ndnigo goes up
The marble staircase
To a contagious slapping
Of backs and thighs.
The celestial Orders
* A soft drink made of sugar, water, and the
juice of tke genip tree.
213
LUIS PALES MATOS
Le acogen culipandeando
Hete aqui las blancas ordenes
Del ceremonial hleratico ;
La Orden del Golpe de Pecho,
La Orden del Ojo Extasiado >
La que preside San
La Real Orden de San
Las parsimoniosas ordenes
Del Arrojo Sacrosanto
Que con matraca y rabel
Barren el cielo de diablos.
En loa del alma nueva
Que el Empireo lia conquistado,
Ondula el cielo en escuadras
De doctores y de santos.
Con arrobos maternales,
A que contemplen el naJnigo
Las castas once mil virgenes
Traen a los ninos nonatos.
Las Altas Cancillerias
Despliegan sus diplomaticos >
Y se ven, en el desfile,
Con eximio goce extatico
Y clueca sananeria
De capones gallipavos.
De pronto Jehova conmueve
De una patada el espacio.
Rueda el txueno y quedan solos
Frente a frente, Dios y el nafiigo.
En la diestra del Senor,
Agrio foete, fulge el rayo,
(Palabra de Dios, no es musica
Transportable a ritmo hutnano.
LUIS PALES MATOS
Receive him., tails a- waggle :
Lo the white Orders
Of hieratic ceremony :
Order of The Beaten Breast,,
Order of The Ecstatic Eye^
Saint Memo's Order,,
The Royal Order of Saint Mamo,
The frugal Orders
Of The Sacrosanct Valour,
^Vith rattles and rebecs
Sweeping Heaven clean of devils.
Praising the new soul
That has conquered the Empyrean.,
Heaven surges with squadrons
Of Doctors and Saints.
With maternal quiverings,
To lay eyes on the fzdnigo *
The chaste Eleven Thousand Virgins
Bring their unborn children.
The High Chancelleries
Pour out their diplomats^
And they strut in the procession
"With the proud ecstatic delight
And brooding silliness
Of turkey capons.
Suddenly Jehovah shakes
The void with a kick.
Thunder peals ; and there, alone,.
Face to face stand God and ndnigo.
In the Lord's right hand
Burns the sour whip of the lightning.
(Word of God ! this is no music
To be transposed to human rhythms,
215
LUIS PALES MATOS
Lo que Jehova preguntara,
Lo que respondiera el namgo,
Pide un mas noble Instxumento
Y exige un atril mas alto.
Ataquen, pues ? los exegetas
El tronco de tal milagro,
Y quedese mi romance
Por las ramas plcoteando.
Pero donde el pico es corto^
Vista y olfato van largos.,
Y mientras aquella mira
A Dios y al negro abrazados,
Este percibe un mareante
Tuf o de ron antillano
Que envuelve las dos figuras
Protagonistas del cuadro,
Y da tonos de cumbancha
Al festival del espackx)
I Por que va aprisa San Memo ?
I Por que esta alegre San Mamo ?
^Por que las once mil virgenes
Sobre los varones castos
Echan, con grave descoco,
La carga de los nonatos ?
I Quien enciende en las alturas
Xal borococo antillano,
Que en oleadas de boctiinche
Estremece los cspacios ?
I Cuya es esa gran figura
Que va dando barquinazos.
Con su rezongo de truenos
Y su orla azul de relampagos ?
Ha entrado un alma en el cielo
J Y esa alma es el alma del nanigo!
210
LUIS PALES MATOS
What Jehovah may have asked
And the ndnigo replied
Calls for a nobler instrument.,
A taller music-stand.
Then let exegetes attack
The trunk of this miracle^
And my ballad remain
Pecking on the boughs.
But where the beak is short,
Sight and smell go far;
And while the eyes behold
God and the negro embracing.,
The nose perceives a drifting
Steam of Antillean rum
Surrounding the two chief
Figures in the scene
And lending a jamboree tone
To the festival of space.)
Why is Saint Memo rushing ?
Why is Saint Mamo so gay ?
Why do the Eleven Thousand Virgins
Thrust upon the chaste males^
With heavy shamelessness.
The charge of their unborn children ?
^Who kindles in the heights
This Antillean hubbub
That with waves hurlyburly
Sets all space a-tremble ?
Whose is that great figure
That goes thumping along
With its snarling thunder
And its blue hem of lightning ?
A soul has entered Heaven,
And that soul is the ndnigo!
r>.F.
LUIS CARLOS LOPEZ
CAM. PJBSI 2VA, WO I&EJES
CAMPESINA, no dejes de acudir al mercado
con tus rubios cabellos coliflor en mostaza
y tus ojos > tus ojos donde anida el pecado. . .
j Quien no acude por verte cuando cruzas la plaza! . . .
I SI hasta el cura del pueblo, de alma ingenua y sencilla,
cuando asomas sacude su indolente cachaza ! . . .
j Si eres egloga ! . . . Y cantas, sin cantar, la
semilla
y el surco, los molinos, el arroyo parlero,
donde viajan las hojas su tristeza amarilla . . ,
j Que te importa que un zafio, que un panzudo banquero,
y que aquella nauchacha^ solterona y muy f ea 3
no te compren esclavos de su inutil dinero
tus claveles y lirios, flor gentil de tu aldea ! . . .
j Que se vayan al cuerno ! . . . | Que se vayan al ajo
y al tomate! j Y que coman arroz con jicotea! . . .
Porque tu 5 campesina de sombrero y ref ajo,
cuando pasas en burro, sandunguera y sabrosa,
pones alas y trinos de jilguero en el grajo . . .
I Pones alas y trinos! . . . | Y te llevas la rosa
de tu faz ! * , . j Y te llevas tu maligna mirada,
y tu duke sonrisa que me ha dicho esa cosa
que a un gloton le sugiere la entreabierta granada! . . .
LUIS CARLOS LOPEZ
COI/IVTHY GIRL, DON'T STAY AWAY . . .
COUNTRY girl, don't stay away from the market,
you with the blond hair cauliflower in mustard
and those eyes, those eyes where wickedness makes its nest! . . ,
Who wouldn't run to watch you crossing the square!
Even the village priest, that frank and simple soul,
when you appear shakes off his lazy languor! . . .
You are an eclogue! . . . and you sing, without singing, the
seeds,
the furrows, the mills, the bubbling streams
where leaves float their yellow sadness . . .
What do you care if that crass, that potbellied banker,
and that spinster there old and very ugly
do not buy from you (slaves to their useless wealth!)
your pinks and lilies lovely flower of your village . . .
To the devil with them ! To the garlic and
tomato with them! Let them eat rice and turtle-meat!
For you, country girl with your hat and skirt,
you, debonaire and sweet, riding by on your donkey,
give the wings and trills of a goldfinch to a crow!
The wings and trills L . . And you take away the rose
of your face! . . . And you take away your malicious glance,
and your sweet smile which has said to me the thing
that to a glutton suggests the half-open pomegranate! . , .
D.D.W.
219
LUIS CARLOS LOPEZ
1J9FE
NOCHE de pueblo tropical: las horas
lentas y graves. Viene la oracion,
y despues, cuando llegan las senoras,
la musical cerrada del porton . . .
Se oyen de pronto, cual un disparate,
los chanclos de un gafian. Y en el sopor
de las cosas, { que olor a chocolate
y queso, a pan'de yuca y alfajor ! . .
De lejos y a la sombra clandestina
de la rustica cuadra, un garanon
le ofrece una retreta a una pollina,
tocando amablemente su acordeon . . .
Tan solo el boticario, mi vecino,
vela impasible tras del mostrador,
para vender con gesto sibilino
dos centavos de aceite de castor . . .
Mientras la luna, desde el hondo arcano s
calca la iglesia. En el azul plafon,
la luna tumefacta es como un grano . . .
Y la iglesia un enorme biberon.
SIESTA HJEJL TMOF1CO
DOIVEINGO de bochorno 3 mediodia
de reverberacion
solar. Un policia
como empotrado en un guardacanton,
S2O
LUIS CARLOS LOPEZ
NIGMT
TROPIC village night: the hours
slow and grave. The vesper bell,
and then, as the ladies return,
the musical closing of the gate . . ,
Suddenly, the incongruous sound
of peasant clogs. And in the drowsiness
of things, what a smell of chocolate
and cheese, of yucca bread and honey-cake!
Far off in clandestine shadow,
in the rustic stable, a jackass
brays taps for his donkey love
with a friendly squeeze on his accordion . . .
Only the druggist, my neighbour,
keeps stolid watch behind his counter,
to sell with a sibylline gesture
two cents' worth of castor oil
While the moon, from its arcane depth,
outlines the church. In its blue vault
the tumid moon is like a pimple . . .
And the church an enormous nursing-bottle,
D. D. w.
Tmo&zc SIESTA.
SULTRY Sunday, noon
of shimmering
sun, A policeman
as if embedded in the curb,
LUIS CARLOS LOPEZ
durmiendo gravemente. Porqueria
de un perro en un pretil. Indigestion
de abad, cacofoma
sorda de on cigarron. . . .
Soledad de necropolis^ severe
y hosco mutismo. Pero
de pronto en el poblacho
se rompe la quietud dominical.,
porque grita un borracho
feroz: \ Viva el partido liberal! . . , .
mm
UN" pedazo de luna que no brilla
sino con timidez. Canta un marino
y su triste cancion^ tosca y sencilla^
tartamudea con sabor de vino.
El mar, que el biceps de la playa humilla,
tiene sinuosidades de felino,
y se deja caer sobre la orilla
con la cadencia de un alejandrino.
Pienso en ti, pienso que te quiero mucho,
porque me encuentro triste, porque escucho
la esquila del pequeno campanario^
que se queja con un sollozo tierno,
raientras los sapos cantan el invierno
con una letra del abecedario . . .
LUIS CARLOS LOPEZ
profoundly asleep. A dog's
filth smeared on a fence. An abbot's
indigestion, the muffled
cacophony of a locust
Solitude of the grave, complete
and sullen silence* But
suddenly in the ugly town
the dominical hush is broken,
for a raving drunkard screams :
Hooray -for the Liberal Party!
n. J9. w.
A FRAGMENT of moon that shines
but timidly. A sailor sings,
and his sad song, rough and plain,
stammers with the tang of wine.
The sea, baffled by the shore's biceps,
has a feline sinuosity,
and it drops itself upon the beach
with the cadence of an alexandrine.
I am thinking of you, thinking that I love you,
because I am sad, because I am listening
to the small bell in the little tower
which mourns with a tender sobbing
while the toads sing about winter
with a letter from the spelling book
D. D. W.
223
LUIS MUNOZ MARIN
UN burro
escalando una montana,
lentamente>
vibrando bajo el peso de las banastas.
(Sus orejas optimistas
se inclinan hacia la cumbre.)
Un albafiil
colocando ladrillo sobre ladrillo.
(Su tararear es monotone,
interminable.)
Dios,
bregando con las estrellas.
(Su silenclo es profundo.)
&ANWUETO
HE roto el arcoiris
contra mi corazon ?
como se rompe una espada intitil contra una rodilla,
He soplado las nubes de rosa y sangre
mas alia de los ultimos horizontes.
He ahogado mis suenos
para saciar los suenos que me duermen en las venas
de los hombres que sudaron y lloraron y rabiaron
para sazonar mi cafe . .
224
LUIS MU&OZ MARIN
A DONKEY
ascending a mountain,
slowly,
vibrating under the weight of the saddlebags.
(His optimist ears
slant toward the summit.)
A bricklayer
setting brick upon brick.
(His humming is monotonous,
interminable.)
God,
hard at work with the stars.
(His silence is profound.)
M.L.
FAMFMJLJBT
I HAVE broken the rainbow
against my heart
as one breaks a useless sword against a knee.
I have blown the clouds o rose colour and blood colour
beyond the farthest horizons.
I have drowned my dreams
in order to glut the dreams that sleep for me in the veins
of men who sweated and wept and raged
to season my coffee . .
225
LUISMUNOZMARIN
El sueno que duerme en los pechos estrujados por la tisis
( i Un poco de aire, un poco de sol ! ) ;
el sueno que suenan los estomagos estrangulados por el hambre
( jUn pedazo de pan, un pedazo de pan bianco !) ;
el sueno de los pies descalzos
(jMenos piedras en el camino, Senor, menos botellas
rotas!);
el sueno de las manos callosas
(jMusgo . . . olan limpio . . . cosas suaves, blandas,
carinosas!)
El sueno de los corazones pisoteados
(j Amor . , . Vida , . , Vida! . . .)
Yo soy el panfletlsta de Dios,
el agitador de Dios,
y voy con la turba de estrellas y hombres hambrientos
hacia la gran aurora
226
LUIS MU5JOZ MARIN
The dream that sleeps in breasts stifled by tuberculosis
(A little air, a little sunshine!) ;
the dream that dreams in stomachs strangled by hunger
(A bit of bread, a bit of white bread!) ;
the dream of bare feet
(Fewer stones on the road. Lord, fewer broken
bottles!);
the dream of calloused hands
(Moss . . . clean cambric . . . things smooth, soft,
soothing!)
The dream of trampled hearts
(Love . . . Life . . . Life! )
I am the pamphleteer of God,
God's agitator,
and I go with the mob of stars and hungry men
toward the great dawn . , .
M.L.
227
JOSE LEZAMA LIMA
RAPSODMA PARA, EE,
CON que seguro paso el mulo en el abismo.
Lento es el rnulo, Su mision no siente.
Su destine frente a la piedra, piedra que sangra
creando la abierta risa en las granadas.
Su piel rajada, pequemsimo triunfo ya en lo oscuro,
pequemsimo f ango de alas ciegas.
La ceguera, el vidrio y el agua de tus ojos
tienen la fuerza de un tendon oculto,
y asi los inmutables ojos recorriendo
lo oscuro progreslvo y fugitive.
El espacio de agua comprendido
entre sus ojos y el abierto tunel,
fija su centre que la faja
como la carga de plomo necesaria
que viene a caer como el sonido
del mulo cayendo en el abismo.
Las salvadas alas en el rnulo inexistentes,
mas apuntala su cuerpo en el abismo
la faja que le impide la dispersion
de la carga de plomo que en la entrana
del mulo pesa cayendo en la tierra humeda
de piedras pisadas con un nombre.
Seguro, fajado por Dios,
entra el poderoso mulo en el abismo.
Las sucesivas coronas del desfiladero
van creciendo corona tras corona
y alii en lo alto la carrona
228
JOSE LEZAMA LIMA
FOR TMJE MUJLJE?
How certain the mule's step in the abyss.
Slow is the mule. He does not sense his mission.
His fate facing the stone, stone that bleeds
creating the open laughter of pomegranates.
His cracked skin, tiniest triumph now in the dark,
tiniest blind-winged clod.
The blindness, the glassiness, the water of your eyes
have the strength of a hidden tendon :
just so his motionless eyes scanning
the increasing fugitive dark.
The space of water between
Ms eyes and the open tunnel
fixes the centre that cinches him
like the necessary load of lead
to fall like the sound of the mule
falling in the abyss.
No saving wings existing for the mule,
his body is more sustained in the abyss
by the swath belting-in the dispersion
of the leaden charge heavy in the bowels
of the mule as he falls to the moist earth
of stones trampled with a name.
Steadily, cinched by God,
the strong mule enters the abyss.
The successive crests of tBe ravine
crest crescent beyond crest
and there on high the carrion
229
JOSE LEZAMA LIMA
de las ancianas aves que en el cuello
muestran corona tras corona.
Seguir con su paso en el abismo.
El no puede, no crea ni persigue,
ni brincan sus ojos
ni sus ojos buscan el secuestrado asilo
al borde prenado de la tierra.
No crea, eso es tal vez decir :
I No siente, no ama ni pregunta ?
El arnor traido a la traicion de alas sonrosadas,
infantil en su oscura caracola.
Su amor a los cuatro signos
del desfiladero, a las sucesivas coronas
en que asciende vidrioso, cegatp,
como un oscuro cuerpo hinchado
por el agua de los origenes,
no la de la redencion y los perfumes.
Paso es el paso del mulo en el abismo.
Su don ya no es esteril : su creacion
la segura marcha en el abismo,
Amigo del desfiladero, la profunda
hinchazon del plomo dilata sus carillos.
Sus ojos soportan cajas de agua
y el jugo de sus ojos
sus sucias lagrimas
son en la redencion ofrenda altiva.
Entontado el ojo del mulo en el abismo
y sigue en lo oscuro con sus cuatro signos.
Peldanos de agua soportan sus ojos,
pero ya firente al mar
la ola retrocede como el cuerpo volteado
en el instante de la muerte subita*
Hinchado esta el mulo, valerosa hinchazon
que le lleva a caer hinchado en el abismo.
230
JOSE LEZAMA LIMA
of ancient birds, their necks
displaying crest upon crest.
The step onward in the abyss.
He has no power of creation or pursuit,
his eyes neither leap
nor seek the sanctuary sequestered
at earth's teeming border.
No creation; and is that perhaps
no f eeling, no loving, no questioning ?
Love brought by betrayal of rosy wings,
childlike in the dark conch.
His love for the four hoof-signs
in the ravine, the successive crests
of his glassy blind ascent,
the dark body swollen
by the water of origins,
not the water of redemption and perfume.
Each step is a step of the mule in the abyss.
His gift is no longer sterile: his creation
the steady march in the abyss.
Familiar of the ravine, the deep
lead swelling puffs out his cheeks.
His eyes hold boxes of water,
and the juice of his eyes
his grimy tears
are proud oblation for redemption.
Bewildered the eye of the mule in the abyss,
and he marches on in the dark with his four hoof-signs.
Steps of water are shored up in his eyes,
but now confronting the sea
the wave retreats like a wrestler thrown
at the moment of sudden death.
Swollen is the mule, a mighty swelling
that bears him swollen to fall into the abyss.
23*
JOSE LEZAMA LIMA
Sentado en el ojo del mulo,
vidrioso, cegato,, el ablsmo
ientamente repasa su invisible.
En el sentado abismo,
paso a paso, solo se oyen
las preguntas que el mulo
va dejando caer sobre la piedra al fuego.
Son ya los cuatro signos
conque se asienta su f ajado cuerpo
sobre el serpentin de calcinadas piedras.
Coando se adentra mas en el abismo
la piel le tiembla cual si fuesen clavos
las rapidas preguntas que rebotan.
En el abismo solo el paso del mulo.
Sus cuatro ojos de humeda yesca
sobre la piedra envuelven rapidas miradas,
Los cuatro pies, los cuatro signos
maniatados revierten en las piedras,
El remolino de chtispas solo impide
seguir la misma aventura en la costumbre,
Ya se acostumbra, colcha del rnulo,
a estar clavado en lo oscuro sucesivo;
a caer sobre la tierra hincliado
de aguas nocturnas y pacientes lunas.
En los ojos del mulo., cajas de agua.
Aprieta Dios la aja del mulo
y lo Mncha de plomo como premio,
Cuando el gamo bailarin pellizca el fuego
en el desfiladero prosigue el mulo
avanzando como las aguas impulsadas
por los ojos de los maniatados.
Paso es el paso del mulo en el abismo.
El sudor manando sobre el casco
ablanda la piedra entresacada
232
JOSE LEZAMA LIMA
Settled in the mule's eye,
glassy, myopic, the abyss
slowly reviews its invisible.
In the settled abyss,
step by step, are heard only
the questions which the mule
treads into the burning stone,
Now there are four hoof -signs,
and so his cinched body settles
upon the serpentine calcined stones.
Entering deeper into the abyss
his skin trembles as if the swift
bouncing questions were nails.
In the abyss only the mule's step.
His four eyes of humid tinder
weave quick glances on the rock.
The four feet, the four manacled
signs, overflow' on the stones.
Only the flurry of sparks impedes
the repetition of the familiar story.
Now the mule is used to his quilt:
to being nailed to successive darkness;
to falling, swollen with nocturnal
waters and suffering moons, upon the earth.
In the mule's eyes, boxes of water.
God tightens the mule's cinch
and swells him with lead for a prize.
When the dancing buck plucks at the fire
in the ravine, the mule continues
advancing like waters raised
by the stares of manacled men.
Each step is a step of the mule in the abyss.
Sweat oozing over the hoof
softens stones sifted
233
JOSE LEZAMA LIMA
del fuego no en las vasijas educadq,
sino al centre del tragaluz, oscuro miente.
Su paso en la piedra nueva carne
formada de un despertar brillante
en la cerrada sierra que oscurece.
Ya despertado, magica soga
cierra el desfiladero comenzado
por hundir sus rodillas vaporosas.
Ese segnro paso del mulo en el abismo
suele conf undirse con los pintados guantes de lo esteril.
Suele confundirse con los comienzos
de la oscura cabeza negadora.
Por ti suele confundirse, descastado vidrioso.
Por ti, cadera con lazos charolados
que parece decirnos yo no soy y yo no soy,
pero que penetra tamblen en las casonas
donde la araSa hogarena ya no alumbra
y la portatil lampara traslada
de un horror a otro horror,
Por ti suele confundirse, tu, vidrio descastado,
que paso es el paso del mulo en el abismo.
La faja de Dios sigue sirviendo.
Asi cuando solo no es chispas la caida
sino una piedra que volteando
arroja el sentido como pelado fuego
que en la piedra deja sus mordidas intocables.
Asi contraida la faja, Dios lo quiere,
la entrafia no revierte sobre el cuerpo,
aprieta el gesto posterior a toda muert.
Cuerpo pesado, tu plomada entrafia
inencontrada ha sido en el abismo,
ya que cayendo, terrible vertical
trenzada de luminosos puntos ciegos,
aspa volteando incesante oscuro,
has puesto en cruz los dos abismos.
234
JOSE LEZAMA LIMA
from fire formed not in vessels,
but in the skylight-centre, giving the lie to darkness,
His step on the stone new flesh
fashioned of a bright awakening
in the dense darkening mountains.
Alert now, the ravine completes
the magic cord begun
with the bending of its vapoury knees.
That steady step of the mule in the abyss
is often confused with sterility's painted gloves,
confused of teA with the first probings
of the dark denying head.
Confused through you, glassy outcast;
through you, haunch with glossy looping braids
that seem to tell us / am not and / am not,
but pierce also those mansions
no longer lit by ancestral candelabra,
where the lamp is carried
from one horror to another horror.
Through you confused, you, outcast glass,
for each step is a step of the mule in the abyss.
The buckle of God still serves.
Thus when the fall is not merely sparks,
but a bounding stone
hurling the sense like a blazing fire
that leaves its intangible bite upon the stone.
The buckle thus tightened (God wills it) ,
the bowels do not burst out in bodily rupture ;
the look that follows every death grows strong.
Heavy body, your lead-like bowels
were unencountered in the abyss,
for in falling, a horrible vertical braided
with shining blind points,
wheel spinning incessant dark,
of two abysses you have formed a cross.
335
JOSE LEZAMA LIMA
Tu final no slempre es la vertical de dos abismos.
Los ojos del mulo parecen entregar
a la entraiia del abismo, liumedo arboL
Arbol que no se extiende en acanalados verdes
sino cerrado como la tinica voz de los comienzos.
Entontado, Dios lo quiere,,
el mulo sigue transportando en sus ojos
arboles visibles y en sus musculos
los arboles que la musica han rehusado.
Arbol de sombra y arbol de figura
han llegado tambien a la ultima corona desfilada.
La soga hinchada transporta la marea
y en el cuello del mulo nadan voces
necesarias al pasar del vacfo al haz del abismo.
Paso es el paso, cajas de agua, fajado por Dios
el poderoso mulo duerme temblando.
Con sus ojos sentados y acuosos,
al fin el mulo arboles encaja en todo abismo.
JOSE LEZAMA LIMA
Your terminus is not always the vertical of two abysses.
The mule's eyes seem to yield
a humid tree to the heart of the abyss.
A tree that does not spread out in channelled greens,
but thick like the single voice of the beginnings.
Bewildered, God wills it,
the mule carries in his eyes
trees visible, and in his muscles
the trees that have rejected music.
Tree of shade and tree of shape,
they too have won the last crest of the ravine.
The swollen rope carries the tides over
and in the mule's neck voices are swimming
as he passes from the void to the face of the deep.
Each step is a step, boxes of water. God-cinched,
trembling sleeps the powerful mule.
With his set and watery eyes
in each abyss the mule plants trees at last
237
CONSTANTINO SUASNAVAR
XXVT
perdido los zapatos
en el gran Valle de Sula.
Pasando sobre los rios
por los puentes adormidos
bajo el manton de la luna.
Al son de los bananales
y los rugidos del puma,
caramba! ya voy llegando.
Llegando yo, sin zapatos^
llegando a San Pedro Sula.
IX
Que flaca vive la nina
vendedora de pescado
Anda sucla y mal oliente
semivestida de ttarapos,
dando tumbos y retumbos
en un proximo desmayo.
Que nina tan enf ermiza,
Ay! que semblante tan palido.
Tiene los ojos tan tristes
y son sus ojos tan garzos
como las garzas morenas*
Ay! la nlfia, nina, nina ?
vendedora de pescado.
238
CONSTANTINO SUASNAVAR
XXVT
I HAVE lost my shoes
in the great Valley of Sula,
Crossing over rivers
by slumbering bridges
under the cloak o the moon.
To the rustling of banana groves
and the roars of the puma
here I come, carambal^
here I come, shoeless,,
to San Pedro Sula.
M.L.
TS.
"What a thin life the girl
fish-vendor leads ...
She goes about dirty and smelly,
half-clothed in rags,
tumbling around noisily
in a near faint.
a sickly girl !
Ah, what a pale face !
She has such sad eyes,
and her eyes are as blue
as the dark herons.
Ah, the girl, girl, girl
fish-vendor!
CONSTANTINO SUASNAVAR
XXX
Paso revlsta de hoteles
para barrer por comer,
y nada,
Paso por esos mercados
y tampoco 5
nada.
Paso por todas las calles
y no puedo recoger
ni palabras.
nada.
XXI
Los plantios.
Los ganados.
Las montanas.
El sol, el viento, y el agua.
(Van los rios
vagabundos
nuirmiiraiido
sus canclones a las flores del camino).
Rie on niiio.
Canta un vlejo.
Bajo el clelo
dos campesinos jovenes se besan.
Yyo
escrlbo estos versos
por toda la vida nueva.
24,0
CONSTANTINO SUASNAVAR
XXX
I look up hotels
to sweep so I can eat
nothing,
I go through those markets,
and it*s just the same :
nothing.
I go through all the streets
and I can't pick up
even words.
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
XXI
Sown fields.
Herds.
Mountains.
Sun, wind, and water,
(The rivers go
wandering,
murmuring
their songs to the roadside flowers.)
A child laughs.
An old man sings,
Beneath the sky
two young rustics kiss.
And I
set down this poem
for the whole of the new life.
zx F.
CONSTANTINO SUASNAVAR
xvn
La hija del amo me gusta
como la leche y el pan;
me gusta verla en la tarde
de tiempo primaveraL
For eso en noch.es de lima
hasta le voy a cantar;
le canto con la guitarra
como en era medioeval.
Le canto aqtiella cancion
de *sirenita del mar*;
pero me dijo hace poco:
Vos no sos mas que jayan.
Ya no le vuelvo a cantar.
XLIII
Son tres princlpios, amigo,
en el arte y en la vida:
el primer principio es
el de la Mbnotonia.
Son tres principios, amigo,
en la ciencia y en la vida:
el segundo principio es
el de la Polifonia . . .
Son tres principles, amigo,
en la historia y en la vida:
el tercer principio es
d de la Armonia,
242
CONSTANTINO SUASNAVAR
XVII
I like the boss' daughter
as I like milk and bread;
it makes me feel good to see her
on a spring afternoon.
And so on moonlight nights
I even go to sing to her ;
I sing to her with a guitar^
as in mediaeval times.
I sing her that song
called The Little Sea-Siren;
but a while back she told me,
"You're just a big dope/
No more songs for her !
3CLIII
These are the three principles, friend,
in art and in life :
the first principle is
Monotonic.
These are the three principles, friend,
in science and in life:
the second principle is
Polyphonic.
These are the three principles, friend,
in history and in life:
the third principle is
Harmonic.
REG1NO PEDROSO
MANANA
COMO forjamos el hierro forjaremos dias nuevos.
Sudorosos y fuertes,
descenderemos a lo profundo
y arrancaremos a sus entraiias las nuevas conquistas.
Ascenderemos a las montanas,
y el sol nos llenara de su vlda:
seremos pedazos de sol.
Forjaremos otra vlda grandiosa y humana;
la eternizarernos con un potente esfuerzo unanime.
Y bajo el ojo virgen de los amaneceres
cantaremos a la fuerza creadora del musculo
y a la armonia fraterna de las almas.
Muchos 5
y seremos solo uno*
Para el gran canto solo tendremos una voz.
Cantaremos al hierro,
a la belleza fuerte y nueva de la maquina.
Los yunques, los tractores
que violan a la tlerra en copula mecanica;
la turbina 7 la dmamo ;
la fuga infinlta de los rieles
sistema venoso de acero por donde circula la vida,
Los canales de luz de los cables electricos,
celulas cerebrales del mundo,
donde vibra la fuerza.
244
REGINO PEDROSO
As WE hammer out iron we shall hammer out new days.
Sweaty and strong,
we shall go down into the depths
and wrest new conquests from the bowels of the earth.
We shall climb the mountains,
and the sun will fill us with its life:
we shall be pieces of sun.
We shall forge another life, magnificent and human;
make it eternal with a concerted mighty effort.
And beneath the virgin eye of dawn
we shall sing to the creator-force of muscles
and the brotherly concord of hearts.
Many,
we shall be a single one.
For that great song we shall have but one voice*
We shall sing to iron,
to the fierce new beauty of the machine.
Anvils, tractors
that ravish the earth with their mechanized coupling;
the turbine, the dynamo;
the endless fugue of the rails
vein-system of steel through which life flows.
Light-ducts of electric cables,
brain-cells of the world,
where vigour throbs.
245
REGINO PEDROSO
Cantaremos al liierro, porque el mundo es de hierro,
y somos hijos de tderro;
pero estaremos sobre la rnaquina.
Un sentimlento nuevo brotara en nuestros pechos,
y sera tan inmenso,
que para amarlo seremos solo un corazon.
<iD6nde estara entonces nuestra amargura?
I Donde estos dias miserables e invalidos ? . . .
Como forjamos el hierro forjaremos otros siglos.
Enjoyados de jubilo
los nuevos dias nos veran,
musculosos y fuertes desfilar frente al sol.
Vendretnos de los campos, de las ciudades, de los talleres:
cada instrumento de trabajo sera como un arma;
una sierra, una Have, un martillo, una hoz
y ocuparemos la tierra como un ejercito en marcha,
saludando a la vida con nuestro canto unanime.
CO2VCEFTOS DJBJL IVUEVO ESTXJDIANTE
Yo FUI hasta ayer ceremonioso y pacifico . . ,
Antano bebf el te de hojas maduras del Yunnan
en fina taza de porcelana;
descifraba los textos sagrados de Lao-Tseu,
de Meng-seu,
y del mas sabio de los sabios, Kung-fu-Tseu.
En el misterio de las pagodas
mi vida transcurria armoniosa y serena;
blanca como los lotos de los estanques,
246
REGINO PEDROSO
We shall sing to iron., for the world is of iron,
and we are are sons of iron;
but we shall stand above the machine.
A new feeling will blossom in our breasts,
so huge
that to love it we shall be a single heart.
And then where will our bitterness be ?
Where these wretched and futile days ?
As we hammer out iron we shall hammer out new ages.
Bejewelled with joy
the new days will behold us
muscular and strong as we march before the sun.
We shall come from the fields, the cities, the shops:
every work-tool will be like a weapon
saw, wrench, hammer, sickle
we shall occupy the earth like a marching army,
hailing life with our unanimous song.
D.F.
OPINIONS OF TEOB NEW STUDENT
UNTIL yesterday I was polite and peaceful . . .
Last year I drank the yellow-leaved Yunnan tea
in fine cups of porcelain,
and deciphered the sacred texts of Lao-Tze,
of Mang-tze,
and of the wisest of the wise, Kung-fu-Tseu.
Deep in the shade of the pagodas
my life ran on, harmonious and serene,
white as the lilies in the pools,
247
REGINO PEDROSO
dulce como un poema de Li-tai-Pe,
siguiendo en los crepusculos
el looping the loop 5 de un vuelo de cigiienas
perfilarse en el biombo de un cielo de alabastro.
Me ha despertado un eco de voces extranjeras
surgido de las bocas de instrumentos mecanicos;
dragones que incendian con gritos de metrallas
ante el horror de mis hermanos,
asesinados en la noche
mis casas de bambu
y mis pagodas milenarias.
Y ahora., desde el avion de mi nueva conciencia,
atalayo las verdes llanuras de Europa,
sus ciudades magnficas y
florecidas de piedra y de hierro.
Se ha desnudado en mis ojos el alba de Occidente.
Entre mis manos palidas ?
la larga pipa de los siglos,
ya no me brinda el opio de la barbaric;
y hoy marcho hacia la cultura de los pueblos
ejercitando mis dedos en el gatillo del mauser.
En la llama de ahora
cocciono impaciente la droga de manana;
quiero profundamente aspirar la nueva epoca
en mi ancha pipa de jade.
Una inquietud curiosa ha insomnizado mis ojos
oblicuos.
Y para otear mas hondo el horizonte,
salto sobre la vieja muralla del pasado . , .
Yo fui hasta ayer ceremonioso y pacifico . . .
248
REGINO PEDROSO
gentle as a poem by Li Tai Po,
watching the loop-the-loop
of white storks at eve
against the screen of an alabaster sky.
But I have been awakened by the echo of foreign voices
booming from the mouths of mechanical instruments :
dragons setting ablaze with howls of grapeshot
to the horror of my brothers
murdered in the night
my bamboo houses
and my ancient pagodas.
And now, from the airplane of my new conscience,
I watch over the green plains of Europe,
and her magnificent cities
blossoming in stone and iron.
Before my eyes the western world is naked.
With the long pipe of the centuries
in my pale hands,
I am no longer enticed by the opium of barbarism;
and today I march toward the progress of the people,
training my fingers on the trigger of a Mauser,
Over the flame of today
impatiently I cook the drug of tomorrow;
I would breathe deep of the new era
in my great pipe of jade*
A strange restlessness has taken all sleep from my slanting
eyes.
To gain a deeper view of the horizon
I leap up on the old wall of the past . . .
Until yesterday I was polite and peaceful . . .
L.H.
249
CESAR TIEMPO
MSMAEJLSTA.
A national home for the Jewish people.
LORD BALFOIIH
SORDAS al hervidero de la calle, felices
en su modorra y libres de todo desvario,
reposan cara al mundo con sus corvas narices
estas almas cesantes del realengo judio.
Fondeadas ya las naves definitivamente
tras de la travesia por caminos sin vuelta,
se hicieron estos lechos y esta ciudad yacente
para dormir el sueno postrer a pierna suelta.
Los ayes de las viejas con su dolor ruidoso
no turban este mundo supino satisfecho
donde arden los compases del moles quejumbrpso
cantado a precio fijo con sus golpes al pecho.
Danzan aqui los dias su oclo pausadamente,
da la palingenesia de las flores su gracia,
y convertido el schnorrer en un terrateniente
tambien esta en el suelo junto a la arist-ocracia.
Mientras las noches lucen sus condecoraciones
sobre la calma espesa de la ciudad enana,
la grey semita duerme sin vanas ambiciones>
confiando que la vida no empezara manana . . .
250
CESAR TIEMPO
ISMAEUiT
A national home for the Jewish people.
LORD BALFOUB.
DEAF to the hurly-burly of the street,
drowsy-content, free from delirium,
face upward, with the down-curved noses, rest
these souls discharged from Jewry and its cares.
After a crossing by paths without return
their boats have come to mooring here at last;
they have made themselves these beds, this sprawling city,
in the sure repose of everlasting sleep.
The moans of old women with their noisy grief
can not disturb this smug and supine world
where throb the rhythms of the whining dirge
sung for a set price, with beatings of the breast.
Here the days dance their slowly-measured ease,
the flowers* resurrection confers its grace;
the schnorrer has taken title to the land,
the aristocrat his neighbour in the ground.
And while the nights display their decorations
above this dwarfed city's heavy calm,
the Semite flock sleeps without vain ambition,
assured that life will not begin tomorrow. . *
25*
CESAJRTIEMPO
EN JLA mm
J AIM N AIM AM Bf AJLIK
&Que otra preocupacion que la del dia pre-
sente puede tener un pueblo que se arrastra
en sus tinieblas y en su$ abismos?
BlAJLIK
EL 5 de julio la Associated Press dlo la noticia al mundo:
fallecio en Viena Jaim Najman Bialik.
Pasaron veinte dias y en la misma ciudad
ultlmaron a Dollfuss, el 'Mllemetterniciu
jCuidado con los poetas
cuyos punos golpean sobre las mesas de los verdugos !
Los dlarios de la colectividad
pudieron publicar la noticia en 'Sotiales*,
junto a la cronica de la fiesta
con que la f amilia BarabancMk
celebraba la circuncision de su vastago.
Tengo un corazon violento
y una voz aspera.
Cruzo las calles de la juderia
con mi rencor y mi dolor a cuestas.
Hermanos de Buenos Aires:
nuestro mas alto poeta ha muerto.
Como en los Salmos
Dios le cino de fuerzas e hizo perf ecto su camino.
Minkowski fue la lagrima,
Bialik la imprecacion.
Y ambos se pudriran bajo la tierra,
frente a los ojos ciegos de la noche tremenda.
* * *
Un cielo en mangas de carnisa corre sobre los tejados,
252
CESAR TIEMPO
m OF
CHAYIM
What other interest than that of the present
moment can a people have which must drag
itself through its shadows and abysses?
BlALIK
ON July 5 the Associated Press gave the news to the world:
Chayim Nachman Bialik had died in Vienna.
Twenty days later, and in the same city,
they put an end to Dollfuss, the *Millimetternich'.
Look out for poets
whose fists pound on the desks of hangmen!
The world's dailies
were "able to publish the item on the Society Page
next to the account of the party
with which the Barabanchik family
celebrated the circumcision of their offspring.
I have a violent heart
and a harsh voice.
I walk the streets of the Jewish Quarter
weighed down by my anger and my grief.
Brothers of Buenos Aires:
our proudest poet is dead.
As in the Psalms,
God girded him with strength and made straight his way.
Minkowski was plaintive,
Bialik an imprecation.
And both will rot under the earth,
facing the blind eyes of tremendous night.
* * *
A shirtsleeve sky runs over the roofs.
253
CESAR f IEMPO
Los buhoneros juegan en el Pilsen su diuturna partida 3e
domino.
Las muchachas que quieren casarse no pasan bajo los
andamios.
Senores burgueses que infrinjis todos los Mandamientos
y estais los sabados sobre vuestros libros de tapas negras
pasandoles la mano por el lomo a las cifras
para que se alarguen como gatos,
os he visto en los templos resplandecientes
apartados como los c purs sangs' en los bretes suntuosos ,
con los ojillos redondos y desvaidos
y las altas galeras y los 'thaleisem' de seda pura,
queriendo sobornar a Dios
que os conoce mejor que vuestros empleados.
Jaim Najman Bialik ha muerto.
Hoy en 'El InternacionaT hay pescado relleno
y un buen stock de doctores para vuestras pobres hijas
languidas.
I Qulen se acuerda de las masacres de Ukrania,
de la tempestad delirante de los pogroms,
cuando los juliganes violaban a vuestras madres
y estabais en los sotanos temblorosos e inutiles
como la luz que lame los espejos ?
Bialik clamo, trono sobre las negras aguas
y su risa iracunda corrio como un viento loco sobre las aldeas,
*Ei pueblo es una hierba marchita 3
se ha puesto seco como una madera*.
Y hubo jovenes que supieron sacudirse como lobeznos
y sus dientes agudos despedazaron nuestra humiliation.
Jaim Najman Bialik ha muerto.
Los chamarileros sonrien en las puertas de su pandemonio.
254
CESAR TIEMPO
The pedlars in the Pilsen are at their endless game of
dominoes.
Girls who want to get married don't walk under
scaffolding.
You bourgeois who break all the Commandments
and spend your Sabbaths over your books bound in black,
stroking the spines of the figures
in order to make them stretch out like cats,
I have seen you in your glittering temples
ranged like thoroughbreds in sumptuous stalls
with your round lifeless little eyes,
with your formal tall hats and your pure silk prayer-shawls,
trying to bribe God
who knows you better than your employees.
Chayim Nachman Bialik is dead.
There's gefiillte fisch today in The International',
and a good stock of doctors for your poor drooping daughters.
Who remembers the massacres in the Ukraine,
the raving storm of the pogroms,
when hooligans raped your mothers
and you were trembling in your cellars, useless
as a ray of light striking a mirror ?
Bialik shouted, he thundered across the black waters,
and his angry laughter ran through the villages Like a wild
wind*
'The people are withered grass,
they have gone dry as timber/
And there were youths who shook themselves like wolf cubs
and their sharp teeth tore our shame to shreds.
Chayiin Nachman Bialik is dead.
The old-clothes dealers smile in the doorways of their
pandemoniums.
255
CESAR TIEMPO
Los Lacrozes estan mas verdes que nnnca.
Echa tn pan sobre las aguas, dice Eclesiastes.
Da gusto oir a Mischa Elman desde una muelle butaca del
Colon.
Gorki dijo que con Bialik el pueblo judio habia dado un nuevo
Homero al mundo.
; El Banco Israelita le daria un credito a su sola firma ?
Voces:
Esta noche cuando cierre el negocio, mientas mojo la
tostada en el vaso de te, k voy a decir a mi senora que
me lea El Pdjaro j El Jar din, y despues de comer
vamos a ir al Teatro Ombu: para ser de la 'Comision'
hay que estar 'preparado'.
Jaim Najman Bialik ha muerto.
^Mama ^me lavo la cabeza con querosen y me pongo el
vestido de raso celeste para ir a la Biblioteca ? Bueno,
querida, y a ver si consigues un novio como la gente,
que ya es tiempo.
Jaim Najman Bialik ha muerto.
En la puerta de la Cocina Popular nuestros hermanos, los que
no se atreven a morirse de hambre, esperan su racion.
Jaim Najman Bialik ha muerto.
Nuestras piernas se arrastran en las mas profundas cienagas
de la noche y sobre nuestras cabezas brilla una luz pura.
En Tel Aviv hubo un poeta.
^"Yahora?
256
CESAR TIEMPO
The Lacroze trolleys are greener than ever*
Cast thy bread upon the waters, says Ecclesiastes.
How nice to hear Mischa Elman from a soft orchestra seat at
the Colon.
Gorki said that with Bialik the Jewish race gave a new
Homer to the world.
Would the Bank of Israel give him credit on just one
signature ?
Voices:
'Tonight when the store's closed and I'm dunking my toast in
a glass of tea, I am going to ask my Missus to read me
The Bird and The Garden, and after supper we're go-
ing to the Ornbu Theatre: if you want to get on the
"Committee," you've got to be on your toes/
Chayim Nachman Bialik is dead.
c Ma, will I wash my hair with kerosene and put on my
sky-blue satin dress to go to the Library ?' * All
right, darling, and mind you get yourself a young man,
like the rest of the girls : it's about time. 5
Chayim Nachman Bialik is dead.
At the door of the People's Kitchen our brothers, the ones who
haven't the courage to starve to death, are waiting for
their ration,
Chayim Nachman Bialik is dead.
Our legs drag through the deepest marshes of the night and
above our heads shines a pure light
In Tel-Aviv there was a poet.
And now?
D. D. w.
257
CESAR TIEMPO
LUNA, madre del Sabado, transf unde tu amorosa
serenidad, tu polen de paz, tu alma viaiera
en la esposa que espera
la llegada del hijo como una melodiosa
consagracion pascual de fruto en primavera.
Domingo, Mjo del sol, que tu luz no la hiera,
tu alabandina luz que no descansa;
que el clamor de la calle se haga musica mansa
para el hljo que avanza
con un temblor de agua que busca su ribera.
Sabadomingo, el nino nuevo como la danza
que muere y renace sobre la tlerra herida,
llega con su esperanza a buscar tu esperanza,
una madre judia con su amor te lo alcanza,
dale tu claridad para toda la vida.
JL01tAJlH
"Las que siernbran Ilorando 9
cantando CQsecharan"
SAJLMOS, cxxvi, 5
DE un pals de leche y miel,
de colinas y rios claros
salio el pueblo de Israel
llorando.
Columnas de f uego y nubes
sus pasos fueron guiando
e Israel cruzo el desierto
llorando.
CESAR TIEMPO
MOON, mother of the Sabbath, transfuse your loving
calm, your pollen of peace, your wandering soul
Into the wife that awaits
the son's coming like a melodious
paschal consecration of spring fruits.
Sunday, son of the sun, let your light not strike her.,
your light alabandine that knows no rest;
let the roar of the street become gentle music
for the son advancing
with the tremor of water seeking its shore.
Sabbath-Sunday, the child new as the dance,
that dies and is reborn upon the stricken earth,
comes with its hope to seek your hope;
a Jewish mother brings it you with her love :
give her your brightness all the days of her life.
D. D. W.
WEEPING ANW SINGING
"They that spiv in tears
shall reap in joy"
PSALMS, cxxvi, 5,
FROM a land of milk and honey,
from hills and rivers clear,
the people of Israel went forth,
weeping,
Pillars of fire and cloud
went on before their steps
and Israel crossed the desert,
weeping.
259
CESAR TIEMPO
Los cautivos levantaron
ciudades de inuros altos
y dieron gracias a DIos
llorando.
Las lanzas se hicieron rastras
y las espadas arados
trabajaron noche y dia
llorando.
El mar de aguas encendidas
pasaron con sus caballos,
los encontro la borrasca
llorando.
Estuvieron en los ghettos
sombrios emparedados
pero encontraron la luz
llorando.
El sabado fue su escudo,
su isla ? su candelabro
y bendijeron el sabado
llorando.
Vejados y escamecidos,
sobre la tierra encorvados,
siembran sin odio y sin tregua
llorando.
Mariana el sol sonreira
sobre los campos sembrados
y entonces cosecharemos
cantando, btermanos, cantando.
CESAR TIEMPO
The captives lifted up their
cities of mighty walls
and they gave thanks to God,
weeping.
Their lances became harrows,
their swords were turned to ploughs,
night and day they laboured,
weeping.
The sea of fiery waters
they crossed over with their horses,
the tempest fell upon them,
weeping.
They were walled about
in the shadow of the ghettos
but they found out the light,
weeping.
The Sabbath was their buckler*
their isle, their candelabrum,
and they called the Sabbath holy,
-weeping.
Taunted and spat upon,
bent low above the earth,
they sow without hate or rest,
weeping.
Tomorrow the sun will smile
upon the seed-rich fields
and then, then we shall reap,
singing, brothers, singing.
Z>. IX
261
NICOLAS GUILLEN
*WO SE JPOR VJm PJTJEHV&4US TIP
No SE por que piensas tu,
soldado, que te odio yo,
si somos la misma cosa,
yo,
tfi.
Tu eres pobre, lo soy yo;
soy de aba jo, lo eres tu:
I de donde has sacado tu,
soldado, que te odio yo ?
Me duele que aVeces tu
te olvides de qulen soy yo;
I caramba !, si yo soy tu,
lo mismo que tu eres yo*
Pero no por eso.yo
he de malquererte^ tu :
^i somos la misma cosa
yo,
tfi,
no se por que piensas tu,
soldado, que te odio yo*
I Ya nos veremos yo y tu,
juntos en la misma calle,
hombro con hombro ? tu y yo !
Sin odios, ni yo ni tu,
pero sabiendo tu y yo
adonde vamos yo y tu . . ,
| No se por que piensas tu,
soldado, que te odio yo !
NICOLAS GUILLEN
* S CAI*^ FMGWJKE WHY*
SOLDIER, I can't figure why
you should think I hate you,
why, we are the same, we two,
me,
you.
You are poor, and so am I ;
I'm from down under, so are you ;
where in the world did you get the idea,
soldier, that I hate you ?
I'm sorry that you sometimes
can forget who I am ; why,
hell, man ! but I am you,
just the same as you are me.
But that's no reason "why I should
Have a grudge against you:
if we are the same, we two,
me,
you,
soldier, I can't figure why
you should think I hate you.
We'll see each other, you and me,
out in the same street together,
shoulder to shoulder, you and me !
With no hatreds, me or you,
but knowing well, you and me,
where weVe going, me and you . . .
Soldier, I can't figure why
you should think I hate you !
H. R. H.
2*63
NICOLAS GUILLEN
SOOMUDO
a. Miguel N. Lira
I QUE bala lo malaria ?
Nadie lo sabe.
En que pueblo naceria ?
En Jovellanos, dijeron,
j Como fue que lo trajeron ?
Estaba muerto en la via,
y otros soldados lo vieron.
j Que bala lo mataria !
La no via viene, y lo besa;
llorandoj la madre viene*
Cuando llega el capltan,
solo dice:
j Que lo entierren !
i Chin ! 1 Chin ! j Chin!
AQUI VA EL SOLDADO MUERTO.
J Chin! i Chin !j Chin!
DE LA CALLE LO TRAJERON.
jChm! jChin! jChin!
EL SOLDADO ES LO DE MENOS*
iChin!|Chin!iChin!
QUE lsA$ SOLPADOS TENEMOS.
IMS NINOS
Dos ninos, ramas de un mismo arbol de miseria,
juntos en un portal, bajo la noche calurosa,
dos niiios pordioseros llenos de pustulas,
comen en una misma lata, como perros hambrientos^
la comida lanzada por el pleamar de los manteles.
Dos ninos: uno negro > otro bianco.
264
NICOLAS GUILLEN
To Miguel N. Lira
WHAT bullet could have killed him ?
'Nobody knows.
Where do you suppose he was born ?
In Jovellanos, they say.
How come they picked him up ?
He was dead in the road
and some other soldiers saw him.
What bullet could have killed him!
His girl comes and kisses him;
his mother comes and cries.
When the Captain comes,
all he says is:
Bury him!
Rat-ta-tat-tat!
THERE GOES THE DEAD SOLDIER.
Rat-ta-tat-tat!
THEY PICKED HIM UP FROM THE STREET.
Rat-ta-tat-tat!
A SOLDIER AIN'T NOTHING.
Rat-ta-tat-tat!
WE GOT PLENTY OF SOLDIERS.
LM.
TWO CBiuMMBZV
Two children, branches of the same tree of wretchedness,
together in a doorway, beneath the torrid night,
two beggar children, covered with sores,
are eating from the same tin, like hungry dogs,
the food cast up by the tide of the tablecloths.
Two children : one black, the other white.
265
NICOLAS GUILLEN
Bus cabezas imidas estan sembradas de piojos;
sus pies, muy juntos y descalzos;
las bocas incansables en un mismo frenesi de mandibulas,
y sobre la comida grasienta y agria,
dos manos: una negra, otra blanca.
j Que union sincera y fuerte !
Estan sujetos por los estornagos, y por las noches foscas,
y por las tardes melancolicas en los paseos brillantes,
y por las mananas explosivas,
cuando despierta el dia con sus ojos alcoholicos.
Estan unldos como dos buenos perros . . .
Juntos asi, como dos buenos perros,
uno negro, otro bianco,
cuando Ilegue la hora de la marcha,
fj querran marchar tambien, como dos buenos hombres,
uno negro, otro bianco?
Dos ninos., ramas de un mismo arbol de miseria ?
estan en un portal, bajo la noche calurosa.
CAMTAJLiS EN UN MAM
(Los turistas en el bar;
Cantaliso, sit guitarra,
y un son que comienza a andar).
No ME paguen porque cante
lo que no les cantare:
ahora tendran que escucharme
todo lo que antes calle.
NICOLAS GUILLEN
Their heads, pressed together, are sown with lice;
their bare feet, closely joined;
their mouths, tireless in an identical frenzy of jaws;
and above the sour and greasy food,
two hands: one black, the other white.
What a powerful and sincere union!
They are bound by their hunger and by sullen nights,
and by melancholy afternoons in the gleaming avenues,
and by explosive mornings
when the day awakens with its alcoholic eyes.
They are side by side like two good dogs . . .
Together thus, like two good dogs,
one black, the other white,
when the hour of marching comes
will they march as well, like two good men,
one black, the other white ?
Two children, branches of the same tree of wretchedness,
are in a doorway, beneath the torrid night.
H.R.H.
CAZVTAJLISO I IV A If AH
(Tourists in a bar;
Cantaliso, his guitar,
and a son that shapes itself).
DON'T pay me for singing
what Fm not going to sing:
you're going to hear now
all I shut up about before.
267
NICOLAS GUILLEN
I Quien los llamo ?
Gasten su plata 5
beban su alcol,
comprense un giiiro,
pero a mi no.,
pero a mi no,
pero a mi no !
Todos estos yanquls rojos
son hdjos de un camaron,
y los pario una botella,
una botella de ron*
I Quien los llamo ?
Ustedes viven,,
me muero yo 5
comen y beben 5
pero yo no.,
pero yo no.,
pero yo no !
Aunque soy un pobre negro,
se que el mundo no anda bien;
ay, yo conozco un mecanico^
que lo puede componer.
^ Quien los llamo ?
Cuando regresen
a Nueva York,
mandenme pobres
como soy yo,
como soy yo,
como soy yo !
A ellos les dare ml mano,
y con ellos cantare,
porque el canto que ellos saben
es el mlsmo que yo se!
268
NICOLAS GUILLEN
Who sent for you ?
Spend your money,
drink your licker,
buy yourself a maraca
but you can't buy me,
not me,
not me!
All these red Yankees
are sons of a shrimp,
born from a bottle,
a bottle of rum.
Who told you to come ?
You live,
and I die,
you eat and you drink,
but not me,
but not me,
but not me !
Though Fm just a poor Negro,
I know the world's going wrong;
ah, and I know a mechanic
who can fix it up right.
Who sent for you ?
When you get back
to New York,
send me some poor folks,
poor like me,
poor like me,
poor like me!
I'll give them my hand,
and Fll sing with them,
because the song they know
is the same that I know.
Z..H.
269
NICOLAS GUILLEN
WMSITA A IHV
(Twristtis &ri un solar. Canta Cdntaliso
un son qri&e no s& puede bailar}*
MEJOR que en hotel de lujo ?
quedense en este solar;
aqui encontraran de sobra
lo que alia no han de encontrar,
Voy a presenter, seJSores^
a Juan Cocinero :
tiene una mesa ? tiene una silla,,
tiene una silla., tiene una mesa^
y un reverbero !
El reverbero esta sin candela,
muy disgustado con la ca^uela,
I Veran que alegre, que placentero,
que alimerttado., que complacido^
pasa su vida Juan Cocinero!
INTERHUMPE JUAN COGHNTERO
Con lo que un yanqui se tome
de una visita a la barra,
to* un ano cualquiera come !
SIGUE EL SON
. . . Y este es Luis ? el caramelero;
y este es Carlos^ el isleno ?
y aquel negro .
se llama Pedro Martinez,
y aquel otro,
Norberto Soto,
y aquella negra de mas alia,
Petra Sarda.
Todos viven en un cuarto,
seguramente
270
NICOLAS GUILLEN
WMSMI* X A
(Tourists in a tenement* Cantaiiso sings
CL son that can't b& danced, to.}
RATHER than a first class hotel*
stop here in this tenement;
here you'll find more than enough
of what you won't find there.
Gents, I want to introduce
Juan Cocinero :
he owns one table, he owns one chair,
he owns one chair, he owns one table,
and a cooking-lamp !
The cooking-lamp is minus a wick,
plenty disturbed about the stew.
Youll see how happily, how agreeably,
how well fed, how contentedly,
Juan Cocinero passes his daysl
JUAN COCHSDERO INTERKUPTS
On what a Yankee drinks
in one visit to the bar,
anyone else could eat for a whole year !
THE SON GOES OISF
And this is Luis the candymaker;
and this is Carlos, from the Canaries ;
and that Negro
is called Pedro Martinez,
and that other one
Norberto Soto,
and that Negress over yonder
is Petra Sarda.
They all live in one room,
you bet,
NICOLAS GUILLEN
porque sale mas barato.
iQuegcnte,
qu gente tan consecuente!
TODOS A CORO
Con lo que un turista traga
nada mas que en aguardiente,
cualquiera un cuarto se paga !
SIGUE EL SON
... Y la que tose, senores,
sobre esa cama,
se llama Juana:
tuberculosis en tercer grado,
de un constipado
muy mal cuidado.
La muy idiota pasaba el dia
sin un bocado.
{Quebobena!
}Tanta comida que se ha botado !
TODOS A CORO
Con lo que un yanqui ha gastado
no mas que en comprar botellas,
se hubiera Juana curado !
TERMINA EL SON
TuristaSj quedense aquf,
que voy a hacerlos gozar ;
turistas, quedense aqui ?
que voy a hacerlos gozar;
cantandoles sones^ sones
que no se pueden bailar,
272
NICOLAS GUILLEN
because it comes out cheaper that way !
What folks,
what important folks !
FULL CHORUS
With what a tourist swallows
in brandy alone
anyone else could pay for a room!
THE SON GOES ON
. . . And that one who's coughing, gents,
over there on that bed
her name is Juana:
tuberculosis, third degree,
coming from a cold
that didn't get cured.
The poor sap used to go all day
without a mouthful to eat.
What a dope !
When there's so much food being thrown away!
FULL CHORUS
With what a Yankee spends
just buying bottles,
Juana could have been cured!
ENO OF THE SON
Tourists, just you stay here,
I'm going to make you feel happy ;
tourists, just you stay here,
I'm going to make you feel happy,
singing you sons, sons
that can't be danced to.
D.F.
273
NICOLAS GUILLEN
IMS PAPA
a Vicente Martinez
I QUEMASTE la madrugada
con fuego de in guitarra,
zumo de cafia en la jicara
de tu carne prieta y viva
bajo luna muerta y blanca!
El son te salio redondo
y mulato, como un nispero.
Bebedor de trago largo,
garguero dc hoja de lata,
en mar de ron barco suelto,
jinete de la cumbancha:
I que vas a hacer con la noche
si ya no podras tomartela;
ni que vena te dara
la sangre que te hace f alta,
si se te fue por el cano
negro de la punalada ?
{ Ahora si que te rompieron^
PapaMontero!
En el solar te esperaban,
pero te trajeron muerto;
fue bronca de jaladera,
pero te trajeron muerto;
dicen que el era tu ecobio^
pero te trajeron muerto;
el hierro no aparecio,
pero te trajeron muerto * . .
NICOLAS GUILLEN
To Vicente Martinez
You burned the dawn
with the flame of your guitar,
juice o the sweet cane in the gourd
of your dusky quick flesh
beneath a dead, white moon !
Music poured from you
as round and mulatto as a plum*
Drinker of tall drinks.,
gullet of tin,
boat cut loose in a sea of rum,
horseman of the wild party :
what will you do -with the night
now that you can no longer drink it,
and what vein -will give you back
the blood you've lost,
gone down the black
drain of a knif e-wound ?
They certainly got you this time,
Papa Montero!
They were waiting for you in the tenement,
but they brought you home dead;
it was a drunken brawl,
but they brought you home dead ;
they say he was your pal,
but they brought you home dead ;
nobody could find the knife,
but they brought you home dead . . *
NICOLAS GUILLEN
I Ya se acabo Baldornero.,
zumba^ canalla y rumbero !
Solo dos velas estan
quemando un poco de sombra;
para tu pequefia muerte
con esas dos velas sobra,
j Y aun te alumbran ? mas que velas,
la camisa colorada
que ilumino tus canciones,
la prleta sal de tus sones
y tu melena planchada !
j Ahora si que te rompieron^
Papa Montero !
Hoy amaneclo la luna
en el patio de mi casa ;
de filo cayo en la tierra
y alii se quedo clavada.
{Los muchachos la cogieron
para lavarle la cara^
y yo la traje esta noche
y te la puse de almohada!
276
NICOLAS GUILLEN
Baldomero's done for
Attaboy, you old dancing de&ill
Only two candles are
burning a little of the shadow ;
for your humble death
two candles are too many.
But brighter than the candles
is the red shirt
that lighted your songs,
the dark salt of your music,
your glossy straightened hair !
They certainly got you this time,
Papa Montero !
Today the moon dawned
in the courtyard of my house;
it fell blade-wise to earth,
and there it stuck.
Tl^p kids picked it up
and washed its face,
so I bring it tonight
to be your pillow !
2*77
ANGEL MIGUEL QUEREMEL
mm AMOM Y mm
COMO guitarra morena
pulse tu cuerpo desnudo;
cintas eran tus caf ello?
cintas negras y sin into.
Con dientes de luna clara
mordl la copla madura;
se nos mojaron las sombras
de leche f resca de iuna.
Cruzo tu grito la noche
fiecha de oro ensangrentada:
j Ay 5 ay, ay, era la copla
que a mi tanto me gustaba !
Cintas negras tus cabellos,
cintas negras y sin luto;
en mis manos los jazmines
de tu llanto y tu gusto,
I Ay mi niiia morenita
en los flecos de la sombra
tejidos de copla y llanto
de blanca luna y de aroma!
I Cintas eran tus cabellos,
cintas negras y sin luto!
278
ANGEL MIGUEL QUEREMEL
BALLAD OF imm /mm
As ON a dark guitar,
I played your naked body;
your tresses were ribbons,
black ribbons, but not of mourning.
With teeth of clear moonlight
I bit the song's ripe fruit;
we lay drenched in the milky
shadows of the moon.
Your cry winged the night-
arrow of blood wet gold:
Ai, ai, ai, it was the song
that pleased me so!
Black ribbons were your tresses,
black ribbons, but not of mourning;
in my hand the jasmines
of your complaint and pleasure.
Ah little dusky girl
in the shadowy fringes
of woven song and sorrow,
white moon and scented sweetness !
Your tresses were ribbons,
black ribbons, but not of mourning!
R.H.
279
JACINTO FOMBONA-PACHANO
UN AUEKTA PARA MMMAMAM UT1VCOUV
Mi capitan, yo he visto
como salen del hueco de tu herida
las abejas contentas,
a posarse en los ojos de Walt Whitman
y a mecerle la barba rumorosa.
Mi capitan, te busco
porque oi que te quieren asesinar de nuevo.
Y esta vez lo sabemos.
Oye las pisadas
de quien tras de la puerta conspira entre langostas,
suelta la nube y goza ya con el hartazgo de los verdes.
Alerta^ capitan, alerta.
Que tiemblan las espigas y esta sombrio el cielo.
Elitros y tenazas y oiandibulas
te estan diciendo: alerta.
Alii, en tu palco.
Lo se yo y te lo digo,
porque el eclipse anda rondando los campos mas hermosos.
Y no quedara piedra sobre piedra^
porque ya tu ciudad esta llorando por sus grietas.
Si te matan de nuevo,
quien sacara la miel de tus colmenas,
ni encauzara los trenes
de tu leche de paz a tus hormigas.
280
JACINTO FOMBQNA-PACHANQ
A WARNING FOR ABRAHAM UNCOLN
CAPTAIN, I have seen
how from the hollow of your wound
the bees emerge contented
to settle upon the eyes of Walt Whitman
and rock his rustling beard.
Captain, I am seeking you,
for I have heard that they are trying to murder you again.
And this time we know it
Listen to his footsteps
who conspires behind the door among the locusts,
loosing the swarm and gloating at the thought of their feast
of green.
Beware, Captain, beware!
For the ears of grain are trembling and the sky is sombre.
Elytrons and pincers and mandibles
are telling you: Beware!
There, in your theatre box.
I know it, and I tell you:
for over die most beautiful fields hovers the eclipse,
and no stone will remain on stone,
for already your city is crying through its crevices*
If they kill you again,
who will gather the honey from your beehives,
or guide the trains
of your milk of peace toward your ants ?
281
JACINTO FOMBONA-PACHANO
Si te matan de nuevo,
quien vera por tus hormigas negras.
Si te matan de nuevo,
ya nunca mas sera posible,
ni tan siquiera en el laurel del sueno,
la ronda de tus hormigueros
entre el sol y la noche.
Mi capitan, te busco
para decirte que te buscan
con la boca de la pistola
que ya quisiera abrirte la nueva herida sin abejas,
ay, porque en ese hueco de tu muerte sin sangre
perecerian todas tus colmenas.
Y en donde
pudieramos entonces enterrarte
los que nos vamos por tu voz de abeja
y bebemos de tus ojos tristes.
En d6nde,
que no fueras un vivo sino un muerto.
EM M> AJOBUE
QUIERO un poerna 3 quiero
una cancion polaca,
un valse de Paris, pero las bombas,
las tenemos en casa.
Si,
las tenemos en casa*
Apagad ese radio
para que pueda ser f eliz America,
cortad el ala a esos aviones,
282
JACINTO FOMBQNA-PACHANO
If they kill you again,
who will look after your black ants ?
If they kill you again,
never more will it be possible,
not even in the laurel of dream,
for your ant-hills to swarm
from dawn to dusk.
Captain, I am seeking you
to tell you they are after you
with the muzzle of the gun
which already would open the new wound without bees:
all, for in that hollow of your bloodless death
all the beehives would perish.
And where then
could we bury you,
those of us who follow after your bee's voice
and drink of your sad eyes ?
Where,
if you were not living, but dead ?
A.W.
SZEATM OVEJt TME AIM
I WANT a poem, I want
a Polish song,
a Paris waltz; but the bombs .
we have them at home.
Yes,
we have them at home.
Shut off that radio
so that America can be happy;
clip the wmgs from those planes;
283
JACINTO FOMBONA-PACHANO
que ya hasta el rascacielo se siente roto y livido,
que el miedo ya les amputo los ojos
a los pobres negros del Sur.
Ay, la Marina y el Ejercito.
Que haria la langosta con estos verdes campos,
con tanto pensamiento
como nos vino por el mar . . .
Ay, la Marina y el Ejercito.
La mandibuia y la tenaza.
Silenciad ese aire
de los vientres hendidos,
de las piernas cortadas,
de los rostros sin piei.
Quemad esa pelicula
donde se mata a un mismo nino
mas de un millon de veces.
Me esta doliendo el mundo en el bolsillo,
en el limon para la cena^
en el dije del brazalete.
No hay salvacion, no hay pnesto para todos.
Busco un tango argentine^
uri joropo de Venezuela.,
un jazz de Noiteamerica,
pero las bombas,
Un poniente de siglos se ajboo las venas.
Y el aire esta, senores,
en toda latitud lloviendo sangre.
Apagad ese radio
donde agonizan las colmenas
porque ha llegado el reino de las plagas,
donde se oyen caer heridas,
cazadas en su fuga, las campanas.
284
JACINTO FQMBONA-PACHANO
for even the skyscraper akeady feels broken and livid,
and fear has amputated the eyes
of the poor southern negroes.
Ah, the Navy and the Army.
What would- the locust do with these green fields,,
with so much thought
that has come to us by sea ?
Ah, the Navy and the Army.
Jaw and pincers.
Clear that air
of gaping bellies,
of severed legs,
of skinless faces.
Burn that film
where the same child is killed
a million times over.
The world is aching in my pocket,
in the lemon for supper,
in the bracelet trinkets.
There is no salvation, there is no room for us all.
I am dialing for an Argentine tango,
a Venezuelan joropo,
North American jazz ;
but the bombs
The age-old sunset has severed its veins,,
and the air, gentlemen,
is raining blood in every latitude.
Shut off that radio
where the beehives are dying,
for the reign of plagues has come,
where one hears the bells, wounded, fall
captured in their flight.
285. .: ' . '. . ' . .' .
JACINTO FOMBONA-PACHANO
No quiero respirar brazos de nadie,
ojos saltados de palomas,
corazones aullantes de mujeres,
dedos, nnaSj cabellos de los ninos.
Quiero puro este aire,
aire libre de America,
para escribir la nueva ley.
Pero,
me despiertan las bombas.
YO D MCE A MI CANT
Yo soy el que no sabe donde asentar los pies.
Soy el de 1940.
Soy el atado. Soy
esa pared de aire que divide
la conjuncion de dos expresos.
Y ya he perdido el tacto de mis manos,
pero guardo los ojos.
Y canto.
Me gustaba salir con las ttormigas,
volver con las abejas, dormir cofi los castores,
marchar con las espigas hacia todas las bocas.
Hijos mfoSj la brisa de los pajaros,
la brisa de los retonos y las aguas,
jugaba en mis cabellos
al color de Fray Luis y de Virgilio.
Y yo era duke y era verde y era de oro
como los bosques y las albas.
286
JACINTO FOMBONA-PACHANO
I do not want to breathe the arms of anyone,
gouged eyes of doves,
howling hearts of women,
fingers, nails, children's hair.
I want this air pure,
free air of America,
to write the new law.
Only,
the bombs awake me.
A.F.
WMHJE I SANG MW SONG
I AM he who knows not where to set his feet.
I am of 1940.
I am the fettered one. I am
that wall of air which divides
the meeting of two express trains.
And already I have lost my sense of touch,
but I keep my eyes.
And I sing.
I used to like to go out with the ants,
to return with the bees, to sleep with the beavers,
and to go with ears of grain to every mouth.
My children, the breeze of the birds,
the breeze of the green shoots and the waters,
played on my hair
the colour of Fray Luis and Vergil.
And I was sweet and I was green and I was golden
like forests and dawns.
287
JACINTO FOMBONA-PACHANO
Si.
Mis pies no encuentran tierra firme.
Y no se lo que digo.
Lo que digo es mi lamina temblando,
son mis nubes entre versiculos.
Y ahora
llega San Juan y liega Atila.
Y quien esta sentado entre los angeles,
el leon> el cordero^ la paloma y el buey,
tiene en sus labios, ya caidas,
las ciudades que se estan doblando,
Abrid esas ventanas.
Mirad esos espejos
donde la imagen del extrano es nuestra imagen.
Y ofd mi voz que os ama a todos :
no piseis las hormigas,
no mateis las abejas,
no derribeis la casa a los castores^
id con la espiga a cada estomago.
Jerusalem : America :
ve que tus torres^ entre nubes ? tiemblan.
I Que viene por el aire ? . . .
La angustia ? la langosta,
la profecia.
He oido
quebrarse el arbol en ausencia del viento
con la aldea en cenizas que volo de una antena.
He visto y lo que he visto sale
de la trompeta y de los sellos.
Hay que volverse dulces, hijos mfos.
Quiero asentar los pies.
288
JACINTO FOMBONA-PACHANO
Yes.
Now my feet can find no solid ground,
and I know not what I say.
What I say is my tremulous image,
my clouds among versicles.
And now
comes St. John, and Attila comes,
And he who sits among the angels,
the lion, the lamb, the dove, and the ox,
has upon his lips the cities
which, now fallen^ are folding op.
Open those windows.
Look into those mirrors
where the image of the stranger is our image.
And listen to my voice that loves you all:
do not tread on the ants,
do not kill the bees,
do not tear down the beavers* house,
go with the ear of grain to every stomach.
Jerusalem: America:
see how your towers in the clouds are trembling.
What comes through the air ?
Anguish, locusts,
prophecy.
I have heard
the tree breaking 'when there was no wind
with the village in ashes that flew from aji antenna,
I have seen, and what I have seen issues
from trumpets and from postage stamps.
One must be sweet again, my children.
I want to set my feet on solid ground.
A.F.
289
JACQUES ROUMAIN
MAT JLm T AM -T AM . . *
TON coeur tremble dans Fombre, comme le reflet
d'un visage dans Fonde troublee
L'ancien mirage se leve an creux de la nuit
Tu connais le doux sortilege du souvenir :
Un fleuve t'emporte loin des berges,
T'emporte vers Fancestral paysage.
Entends-tu ces voix: elles chantent Famoureuse douleur
Et dans le morne, ecoute ce tam-tam haleter telle
la gorge d'une noire jeune fille
Ton ame ? c'est ce reflet dans Feau murmurante ou
tes peres ont penche leurs obscurs visages
Ses secrets mouvements te melent a la vague
Et le blanc qui te fit mulatre, c'est ce peu
d'ecume rejet4 comme un crachat, sur le rivage*
C'EST le lent chemin de Guinee
La mort t*y conduira
Voici les branchages 5 les arbres, la foret
Ecoute le bruit du vent dans ses longs cheveux
d'eternelle nuit
C'est le lent chemin de Guinee
Tes peres t'attendent sans impatience
Sur la route, ils palabrent
Us attendent
Voici Fheure ou les ruisseaux grelottent comme
des chapelets d'os
JACQUES ROUMAIN
WHEN THE TOM-TOM MEATS . * .
YOUR heart trembles in the shadows, like a face
reflected in troubled water
The old mirage rises from the pit of the night
You sense the sweet sorcery of the past:
A river carries you far away from the banks,
Carries you toward the ancestral landscape.
Listen to those voices singing the sadness of love
And in the mountain, hear that tom-tom
panting like the breast of a young black girl
Your soul is this image in the whispering water where
your fathers bent their dark faces
Its hidden movements blend you with the waves
And the white that made you a mulatto is this bit
of foam cast up, like spit, upon the shore.
L.H.
GUJiVJBA
IT'S the long road to Guinea
Death takes you down
Here are the boughs, the trees, the forest
Listen to the sound of the wind in its long hair
of eternal night
It's the long road to Guinea
Where your fathers await you without impatience
Along the way, they talk
They wait
This is the hour when the streams rattle
like beads of bone
291
JACQUES ROUMAIN
Cest It lent chemin de Guinee
II ne te sera pas fait de lumineux accueil
An nolr pays des homines noirs:
Sous un ciel fiimeux perce de cris d'oiseaux
Autour de Foei! du marigot
les cils des arbres s'ecartent sur la clarte pourrissante
La, t'attend an bord de Feau un paisible village,
Et la cas de tes peres, et la dure pierre familiale
ou reposer enfin ton front.
292
JACQUES ROUMA1N
It's the long road to Guinea
No bright welcome will be made for you
In the dark land of dark men :
Under a smoky sky pierced by the cry of birds
Around the eye of the river
the eyelashes of the trees open on decaying light
There, there awaits you beside the water a quiet village,
And the hut of your fathers, and the hard ancestral stone
where your head will rest at last.
L.H.
293
MIGUEL OTERO SILVA
SIJEMBIfA
CUANDO de mi no quede sino un arbol 3
cuando mis huesos se hayan esparcido
bajo la tierra madre;
coando de ti no quede sino una rosa blanca
qxie se nutrio de aquello que tu fuiste.
Y haya zarpado ya con mil brisas distintas
el aliento del beso que hoy bebemos;
cuando ya nuestros nombres
scan sonidos sin eco
dormidos en la sombra de un sonido insondable;
tu seguiras viviendo en la belleza de la rosa,
como yo en el follaje del arbol
y nuestro amor en el murmullo de la brisa.
jEscuchame!
Yo aspiro a que vivamos
en la palabra de los hombres.
Yo quiero perdurar junto contigo
en la savia profunda de la humanidad:
en la risa del nino,
en la paz de los hombres,
en el amor sin lagrimas.
Por eso,
como habremos de darnos a la rosa y al arbol,
a la tierra y al viento,
te pido que nos demos al futuro del mundo . .
294
MIGUEL OTERO SILVA
WHEN nothing remains of me but a tree,
when my bones have been scattered
beneath our mother earth :
when nothing remains of you but a white rose
nourished by that which once you were:
when the breath of the kiss that we exchange today
has embarked upon a thousand different breezes:
when even our names have become
mere sounds without echo
asleep In the shade of a fathomless sound :
then you will live on in the beauty of the rose,,
and I in the rustling of the tree,
and our love in the murmur of the breeze.
Listen to me!
My wish for us is ? to live
in the spoken words of men.
I would survive with you
in the deep lif estream of humanity :
in the laughter of children,
in the peace of mankind,
in love without weeping.
Therefore,
as we must give ourselves to the rose and the tree^
to the earth and the wind,
let us give ourselves, I beg you, to the future of the world.
D, D. W.
295
ALEJANDRO CARRION
BI7J5M A2VO
LES nacia la cancion en los labios
como en la primavera
les nace la alegria a las plantas.
En los ojos ponian suavidad de caricia
para mirar los campos:
es qne liacia buen ano.
El trigo, como nunca, lleno de oro la tierra.
Se temia que f altase en la mesa un higar para el pan
y que en los corazones no pudiese caber tanta alegria.
En todas las miradas habian brotado flores
y en todas las bocas fiorecian sonrisas.
El amor nnnca tuvo mas parejas que unir
que aliora, en el buen ano, dorado como el pan.
Pero no fee asi.
Broto de la tierra una imindacion de trigales y flores*
Pero entre los campesinos no desaparecio el hambre.
De la ciiadad llegaron los senores
a Ilevarse, entre risas, los frutos de la tierra
y con ellos se llevaron, a su vez, las canciones.
En todos los labios murieron las sonrisas.
En las mesas vacias se oia suspirar por el pan.
Todas las miradas descubrieron espinas en las flores
y el amor se olvido como una leccion.
Un gran dolor brotaba de los campos
e impedia el regreso a los senores.
Se oia a los arboles protestar doloridos:
jNunca hace buen ano para los labradores !
296
ALEJANDRO CARRION
TEAM
A SONG sprang to their lips,
just as in spring
joy is born to the new plants.
Their eyes, with a caressing softness,
looked out upon the fields:
for it was a good year.
The wheat, as never before, covered the earth with gold.
There was fear that tables would not have room for the bread,
and that hearts would prove too small for so much happiness.
Flowers had burst into bloom in every glance,
and on every lip a smile was blossoming.
Never had love so many couples to join
as now, in the good year, golden as the bread.
But that was not how it turned out.
A flood of wheatfields and flowers burst from the earth.
But hunger did not disappear from among the farmers.
The landlord gentry came from the city
to carry off, laughing, the fruits of the earth:
and with these they took the singing as well.
On every lip the smiles died.
At the empty tables there was sighing for bread.
Every glance disclosed the thorn among the flowers,
and love was forgotten like a school lesson.
A great sorrow sprouted from the fields
to hinder the gentlemen on their way back home.
The trees were heard in doleful protestation:
The year is never good for those who till the soil!
D,F.
297
MANUEL MORENO JIMENO
EMS MAUttTOS
COMO llagas arrastradas
como sangrientas condenas^
a flor de los cadaveres,, en las cimas del panico,
sobre los extensos territories florecidos del hambre
sobre la honda alegria levantada del hambre
como siniestras cavernas
de la voracidad
i del fango.
j Los dias del furor han llegado !
j Los tiempos se han cumplido !
Como llagas arrastradas
como sangrientas condenas.
Solos, enlodados
i negros
sobre el ojo que espantosamente los mira
sobre el dedo que implacablemente los senala.
Como llagas arrastradas
como sangrientas condenas !
n
La rebelion fue para ellos sola
sin su mancha
sin su horror
sin su sangre.
298
MANUEL MORENO JIMENO
LIKE wretched sores
like bloody scourges,
.on the surface o corpses,, at the peak of panic,
across the broad territories flourishing with hunger
above the profound joy which rises from hunger
like dreadful caverns
of voraciousness
and of mud.
The days of wrath have come!
The times are fulfilled !
Like wretched sores
like bloody scourges.
Neglected., mudstained
and black
above the eye that fearfully observes them
above the finger that implacably points to them,
Like wretched sores
like bloody scourges!
ii
Only for them was the rebellion
without stain
without horror
without blood.
299
MANUEL MORENO JIMENO
Que desnuda venia el alba
desdeel espanto!
HI
Que dinan los vientres a esa altura
decldlo
que dirian
Nadie grite para que ellos hablen
nadie grite
nadle liable.
Si no fuera por que gimen
nunca jamas volverian,
si no fuera por que lloran
j este es su destino I
Si no fuera . . *
el ser que los apela i los clama
...si no fuera!
No los habeis visto solos ?
pues, vedlos!
Quien diria que no
quien los negaria
vedlos! ...
quien ? . . .
300
MANUEL MORENO JIMENO
How naked dawn came
out of the terror !
m
What would bellies say at that height
tell us
what would they say
Let no one cry out so that they may speak
let no one cry out
let no one speak.
IV
If there were no reason to groan
they would never return,
if there were no reason to weep*
this is their destiny !
If it -were not for this
An existence that calls them and shouts them
if it were not for this !
You have not seen them alone ?
then, look at them!
would say No
who would deny them
look at them!
who?
30*
MANUEL MORENO JIMENO
VT
Eran los dientes las unicas luces de su sombra
las unicas luces
las solas.
I desde aqui al panico
que callaban, que no creian
todo era furor
toda era sangre.
302
MANUEL MORENO JIMENO
VI
Teeth were the only light in their darkness
the only light
none other.
And from here to the panic
which they kept secret, in which they did not believe.,
all was fury
all was blood.
H. JR. H.
303
OTTO D'SOLA
FJLJBMITUB
PUBIMOS hacer desde la hormiga a la estrella mas alta una
larga historia que no acabara nunca;
desde la roca a los pinares,
desde los paramos a la cuna de un delgado viento reclennacido,
pudimos dar al duro suelo sin riego la alegria de verse un astro
y una flor abierta.
Traspasada de musicas, besos y mariposas, nuestra historia es
la historia mas vieja del mundo,
sin borrarse del tiempo como lo hacen los ecos, los f antasmas
y las columnas que combaten en la niebla.
Una historia a manera de agua ronca y subterranea nos hubiese
hecho sollozar infinitamente
hasta hacernos los ojos navegables.
Nuestra historia se alza de la tierra a la estrella mas alta.
J Que pequeiios miramos los paramos y los pinares!
Vendran a lamentarse sobre nuestra historia todos los angeles
que no podran nacer,
la rosa que solo nace y muere en la noche sin conocer el dia,
los azahares que emigran de las coronas nupciales.
Pudimos hacer desde la hormiga a la estrella mas alta la
historia mas vieja del mundo.
<iNo oyes ? <? No sientes ?
Adan esta cantando
y Eva suspira despertando los aires!
304
OTTO D'SOLA
PLE2VITVOE
WE were able to weave from the ant to the loftiest star a long
story that never will end;
from rock to pine-groves,
from wilderness to the cradle of a thin newborn wind,
we were able to give the hard unwatered earth the happiness
of seeing itself a star and an open flower.
Transfixed with music, kisses and butterflies, our story is the
oldest story in the world,
unobliterated by time, like echoes, phantoms,
and columns which struggle in mist.
A story in the'manner of raucous and subterranean water
would have made us weep infinitely,
till our eyes became navigable.
Our story rises from the earth to the loftiest star.
How tiny we see the wildernesses and the pine-groves!
Over our story will come to lament all the angels that can
not be born,
the rose that is only born and dies in the night without
knowing day,
the orange-blossoms that emigrate from nuptial crowns.
We were able to weave from the ant to the loftiest star the
oldest story in the world.
Don't you hear ? Don't you feel it ?
Adam is singing,
and Eve sighs, awakening the air!
A.F.
305
OTTO D'SOLA
ANTES HJE JLLEGAR JLOS AVIO1VES
ENCENBIAH LAS CttJDADES
Si mueren esos nifios dormidos bajo la madrugada de lirios
abiertos,
si mueren esos muros bajo la luna de xnusgos,
para no herirnos cruelmente debes enterrarlo todo,
callado sepulturero.
El clavel y la reja florida preguntan por el olvido,
mientras las mariposas esperan besar cadaveres
sobre las hutnedas yerbas.
Sepultnrero que vas a sentir la caida de los muros
y el grito de los ninos aplastados,
<j enterraras la madrugada
en la tumba de la nlebla ?
SI todo muere bajo esa lejana luna de musgos,
para no herirnos cruelmente debes enterrarlo todo,
callado sepulturero.
j Cuidado con olvidar los ninos que saben a trigo!
| Cuidado con olvidar los muros que saben a tdstoria !
j Cuidado con olvidar la madrugada que sabe a herida flaut
CANT FIIVAL A WNA MUCHAOLt BE FI7EHTO
LLEGARAS por el sendero de las nubes mutiladas en inviernc
a la otra parte del mundo que te aguarda.
El brillo de tus ojos dira su despedida a todos los marinos
borrachos que creen tener mares en la luna;
y la brisa ira contigo vigilando tu silencio
sobre los montes de olivos.
306
OTTO D'SOLA
COMilTO OF
BUMN CITIES
IF yonder children asleep beneath the dawn of opened lilies
should die,
if yonder walls beneath the moon of moss should die,
then not to wound us cruelly you must bury everything,
silent gravedigger.
Carnation and blossoming window-grate beg forgetfulness^
while butterflies wait to kiss corpses
on the damp grass.
Gravedigger who are going to hear walls falling
and the screams of children being crashed,
will you bury the dawn
in the tomb of the mist ?
If everything under that distant moon of moss should die,
then not to wound us cruelly you must bury everything,
silent gravedigger.
Be careful not to forget the children who taste of wheat!
Be careful not to forget the walls that taste of history!
Be careful not to forget the dawn that tastes of wounded flutes!
A.F.
JLAST SONG TO A GIRL OF TM WATFJtFJROJVT
BY the path of winter-mutilated clouds you shall reach
the other side of the world that waits for you.
The lustre of your eyes will say goodbye to all the drunken
sailors who think they own seas in the moon ;
and the breeze will go with you, guarding your silence
over the mounts of olives.
307
OTTO D'SOLA
Bebe de ese vino que tiene el color de los cerrojos antiguos :
en Venus la pena inmensa es llevar la garganta como un
pajaro muertOj
seca como HE pajaro muerto de cantar.
Moriran los calendarios como siempre y las otras muchachas
como tu pensaran en la muerte,
Lamento no acompaiiarte duke muchaclia de doloroso
azucar.
Qoemaran tu recuerdo f rente al mar, mar indolente de
consentirte desgarrada:
sin un marioero que colme tu soledad,
sin panes de corazones descubiertos,
sin un balandro que te lleve a Fillplnas
y a tus playas de verdes cocos que se beben los angeles.
Se de tu cabellera que tiene el peso de una marlposa nocturna,
de tu olor y de to torso caido en las madrugadas,
de aquel abanico de palomas que movias amanera
de un ensuefio
i rostro asombrado.
Llegaras por el sendero de crueles vlentos invernales
a la otra parte del mundo que te aguarda.
Te aguarda, con la corona de un Rey caido,
con el oro fundldo en agua cristalina^
con trajes de finas sedas hechos azules aires^
con cl ruldo de este mundo que hondamente te Mere
transformado en la minima presencia de un grillo sin canto.
Te aguarda, la Nada.
Entonces veras que estas limpia de todo
entre las virgenes que no han amanecido aun.
OTTO D'SOLA
Drink of that wine which has the colour of ancient latches:
in Venus the great sorrow is having a throat like a dead
bird,
parched like a bird dead from singing.
Calendars will die as always and other girls like you will
think of death,
I am sorry not to accompany you sweet girl of dolorous
sugar.
They will burn your remembrance before the sea, an
indolent sea to tolerate your wantonness:
without a sailor to fill your solitude,
without the bread of open hearts,
without a sloop to take you to the Philippines
and to your shores of green coconuts drunk by the angels.
I know your hair, which has weight of a nocturnal butterfly,
your scent and your torso fallen in the dawns,
your fan of doves 5 feathers that once you waved as if in
a dream
above my astonished face.
By the path of cruel winter winds you shall reach
the other side of the world that waits for you.
It waits for you, with the crown of a fallen King,
with gold melted in crystalline water,
with gowns of fine silk turned into blue air,
with the noise of this world that wounds you so deeply
softened to the tiny presence of a cricket without song.
There awaits you Nothingness.
Then you will see that you are washed clean of everything
there among the virgins who have not yet awakened.
AF.
309
PABLO NERUDA
WAJLKI1YG AROUND
SUCEBE que me canso de ser hombre.
Sucede que entro en las sastrerias y en los cines
marchito* Impenetrable, como un cisne de fieltro
navegando en un agua de orlgen y ceniza.
E! olor de las peluquerias me hace llorar a gritos.
Solo quiero un descanso de pledras o de lana,
solo quiero no ver establecimientos ni jardines^
ni inercaderiasj ni anteojos, ni ascensores.
Sucede que me canso de mis pies y mis unas
y mi pelo y mi sombra*
Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.
Sin embargo seria delicioso
asnstar a un notario con un lirio cortado
o dar muerte a una monja con un golpe de oreja.
Seria bello
ir por las calles con un cuchillo verde
y dando gritos hasta morir de rio.
No quiero seguir siendo raiz en las tinieblas ?
vacilante, extendido, tiritando de suefio,
hacia abajo, en las tripas mojadas de la tierra,
absorbiendo y pensando, corniendo cada dia.
No quiero para mi tantas desgracias.
No quiero continuar de raiz y de tumba,
de subterraneo solo, de bodega con muertos,
atcrido^ muriendoine de pena.
PABLO NERUDA
WAIXING
IT so happens I am tired of being a man.
It so happens, going into tailorshops and movies,
I am withered, impervious, like a swan of felt
navigating a water of beginnings and ashes.
The smell of barbershops makes me weep aloud.
All I want is a rest from stones or wool,
all I want is to see no establishments or gardens,
no merchandise or goggles or elevators.
It so happens I am tired of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens 1 am tired of being a man,
Yet it would be delicious
to frighten a notary with a cut lily
or do a nun to death with a box on the ear.
It would be fine
to go through the streets with a green knife,
letting out yells until I died of cold.
I do not want to go on being a root in the darkness,
vacillating, spread out, shivering with sleep,
downwards, in the drenched guts of the earth,
absorbing and thinking,, eating every day.
I do not want so many afflictions,
I do not want to go on being root and tomb,
being alone underground, being a vault for dead men,
numb with cold, dying of anguish.
PABLO NERUDA
Por eso el dia lunes arde como ei petroleo
cuando me ve llegar con mi cara de carce! 5
y aulla en su transcurso como una nieda herida,
y da pasos de sangre caliente hacia la noche.
Y me empuja a ciertos rincones, a ciertas casas humedas,
a hospitales donde los huesos salen por la ventana,
a ciertas zapaterias con olor a vinagre,
a calles espantosas como grletas.
Hay pajaros de colorde azufre y horribles intestinos
colgando de las puertas de las casas que odio,
hay dentaduras olvidadas en una cafetera,
hay espejos
que debieran haber llorado de vergiienza y espanto,
hay paraguas en todas partes, y venenos, y ombligos.
Yo paseo con calma ? con ojos,, con zapatos,
con furia, con olvido,
paso, cruzo oiScinas y tiendas de ortopedia,
y patios donde hay ropas colgadas de un alambre:
calzoncilloSj toallas y camisas que lloran
lentas lagrimas sucias.
RITI7AJL MS mm
LARGAMENTE he permanecido mirando mis largas piernas 3
con ternura infinita y 'Oiriosaj con mi acostumbrada
pasion,
como si hubieran sido las piernas de una mujer divina,
profundamente sumida en el abismo de mi torax:
y ts quc y la verdad, cuando el tiempo, el tiempo pasa 3
bre la tierra y sobre el techo, sobre mi impura cabeza,
y pas% el tiempo pasa> y en mi lecho no siento de
noche que
PABLO NERUDA
That is why Monday blazes like petroleum
when it sees me coming with my jailbird face,
and it howls like a wounded wheel as it passes,
and takes hot-blooded steps towards night.
And it shoves me into certain corners, certain damp houses,
into hospitals where bones fly out of the window,
into certain shoeshops with a stench of vinegar,
into streets as frightful as chasms.
There are sulphur-coloured birds and horrible intestines
hanging from the doors of the houses that I hate,
there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept for shame and fear,
there are umbrellas all over, and poisons, and navels*
I walk with composure, with eyes, with shoes on,
with fury, with f orgetfulness,
I pass, I cross by offices and orthopedic shoeshops
and patios with the washing hanging from wires:
underdrawers, towels and shirts that weep
slow filthy tears.
H.ILH.
FOR a long time I have been staring at my long legs,
with infinite and curious tenderness, with my customary
passion,
as though they were the legs of a divine woman
sunk deep into the abyss of my thorax :
and the fact is, when time, when time passes*
over the earth, over the roof, above my impure head,
and passes, time passes, and in my bed at night I can not
sense
3*5
PABLO NERUDA
una mujer esta respirando, durmiendo desnuda a mi Iado 5
entonceSy extranas, obscuras cosas toman el lugar de la ausente,
viciosoSj melancolicos pensamientos
slembran pesadas posibllidades en ml dormitorio,
y, as! pues, miro mis piernas como si pertenecieran a otro
ctierpo,
y fuerte y dulcemente estuvieran pegadas a mis entranas.
Como tallos o femeninas, adorables cosas,
desde las rodillas suben 3 cilindricas y espesas,
con turbado y compacto material de existencia,
como bratales ? gruesos brazos de diosa,
como arboles monstruosamente vestidos de seres humanos,
como fatales, inmensos lablos sedientos y tranquilos,
son alii la mejor parte de mi cuerpo :
lo cnteramcate substancial, sin complicado contenido
de sentidos o traqueas o intestinos o ganglios:
nada, sino lo puro, lo duke y espeso de mi propia vida 5
nada ? sino la forma y el volumen existiendo,
guardando la vida, sin embargo, de una manera completa.
Las gentes cruzan el mundo en la actualidad
sin apenas recordar que poseen un cuerpo y en el la vida,
y hay miedo, hay miedo en el mundo de las palabras que
designan el cuerpo,
y se habla favorablemente de la ropa,
de pantalones es posible hablar. de trajes
y de ropa interior de mujer (de medias y ligas
de *senora')
como si por las calles fueran las prendas y los trajes vacios
por completo,
y un obscuro y obsceno guardarropas ocupara el mundo.
Tienen existencia los trajes, color, forma, dcsignio,
y profundo lugar en nuestros initos, dernasiado lugar:
dcmasiados mtiebles y demasiadas habitaciones hay en el
mufido,
314
PABLO NERUDA
die woman breathing, sleeping naked at my side,
then strange obscure tilings take her place,,
vicious, melancholy thoughts
sow nagging possibilities in my bedroom.,
and then, well, I look at my legs as though they belonged
to another body
and had strongly and gently been attached to my own flesh.
Like stalks or female adorable things.,
they go up from the knees, cylindrical and thick,
a restless and compact matter of existence,
like the brutal thick arms of a goddess,
like trees monstrously dressed as human beings,
like fatal, huge lips, thirsty and composed;
they are the best part of my body :
the entirely substantial part, with no complex content
of senses or tracheas or intestines or ganglia:
nothing but the pure, sweet, dense quality of my own life,
nothing but form and volume existing,
guarding life, nevertheless, in a thorough fashion.
People go through the world, as things are now,
scarcely remembering that they own bodies and life in them,
and there is fear in the world, there is fear of the words that
designate the body,
and clothing is discussed favourably,
it is possible to speak of trousers, of si&s,
and of women's underclothes (of stockings and garters for
'Madame'),
as though garments and suits walked through the streets
completely empty
and a dark obscene clothes-closet had taken over the world.
Clothes have their existence, colour, form, design^
and a profound place in our myths, too much of a place:
there is too much furniture, too many rooms in
the world,
3*5
PABLO NERUDA
y mi cuerpo vlve entre y bajo tantas cosas abatido,
con un pensamiento fijo de esclavitud y de cadenas.
Bueno 5 mis rodiilas, como nudes,
particulares, funcionarios, evidentes,
scparan las mitades de mis piernas en forma seca :
y en reaildad dos mundos diferentes, dos sexos diferentes
no son tan diferentes como las dos mitades de mis piernas.
Desde la rodilia hasta el pie una forma dura,
mineral, friamente litil aparece,
una criatura de hueso y persistences,
y los tobillos no son sino el proposito desnudo,
la exactimd y lo necesario dispuesto en definitiva.
Sin sensualidad, cortas y duras, y masoilinas,
son alii mis piernas, y dotadas
de grupos musculares como animales complementarios,
y alii tambien una vida, una solida, sutil, aguda vida
sin templar permanece, aguardando y actuando,
En mis pies cosquillosos,
y duros como el sol, y abiertos como flores,
y perpetnos, magnificos soldados^
en la guerra gris del espacio,
todo terniinay la vida termina definitivamente en mis pies,
lo extranjero y lo hostil allf comienza,
los nombres del mundo, lo fronterizo y lo remoto,
lo sustantivo y lo adjeti^l que no caben en mi
corazon,
con densa y fria constancia alii se originan.
Siempre,
productos manufacturados, medias, zapatos,
o simplemente ake infinite,
habra entre mis pies y la tierra,
extremando lo aislado y lo solitario de mi set,
algo tenazmente supuesto entre mi vida y la tierra,
algo abiertamente invencible y enemigo.
516
PABLO NERUDA
and my body lives crushed amid and beneath so many things^
with a fixed impression of slavery and of chains.
Well, then,, my knees, like knots,
particular, functional, evident,
effect a strict separation of the halves of my legs :
and actually two different worlds, two different sexes,
are not so different as the two halves of my legs.
From the knee to the foot they are solid orm,
mineral, coldly useful,
creatures of bone and endurance,
and the ankle-bones are nothing but naked intention^
the exact and the essential disposed once and for all.
My legs are without sensuality, short and hard
and masculine, furnished
with groups of muscles like complementary animals,
and there too a life, a solid, subtle, keen life,
exists untempered, waiting and acting.
In my ticklish feet,
hard as the sun, and open as flowers,
perpetual, magnificent soldiers
in the grey war of space,
everything ends, life ends once and for all in my feet:
there begins what is hostile and alien ;
the names of the world, the near and the remote,
the substantival and adjectival that are too great for my
heart
have their origin there, with a dense, cold, constancy.
Always,
manufactured articles, hose, shoes,
or simply infinite air,
will come between my feet and the earth,
intensifying what is isolated and solitary in my being,
something doggedly thrust between my life and the earth,
something clearly unconquerable and hostile.
D.F.
3*7
PABLO NERUDA
CABALiJERO ,
Los jovenes homosexualcs y las muchachas amorosas,
y las largas viudas que sufren el delirante insomnio,
y las jovenes senoras prenadas hace treinta horas,
y los roncos gatos que crazan mi jardfn en timeblas,
como tin collar de palpitantes ostros sexuales
rodean mi residcncia solitaria,
como enemigos establecidos contra mi alma,
como conspiradores en traje de dormitorio
qoe cambiaran largos besos espesos por consigna.
El radiaote verano conduce a los enamorados
en uniformes regimientos melancolicos 5
hechos de gordas y flacas y alegres y tristes pare] as :
bajo los elegantes cocoteros, junto al oceano y la lima
hay una continua vida de pantalones y polleras,
un rumor de medias de seda acariciadas.,
y senos femeninos que brillan como ojos.
El pequeno empleadoj despues de mucho,
despues del tedio semanal, y las novelas leidas de noche, en
cama,
ha definitivamente seducido a su vecina,
y la lleva a los miserables cinematografos
donde los heroes son potros o principes apasionados,
y el acaricia sus piernas llenas de dulce vello
con sus ardientes y humedas manos que huelen a cigarillo.
Los atardeceres del seductor y las noches de los esposos
se unen como dos sabanas sepultandome,
y las horas despues del almuerzo en que los jovenes estudiantes,
y las jovenes estudiantes, y los sacerdotes se masturban 3
y los animates foriakan directamente,
y las abejas huelen a sangre ? y las moscas zuinban colericas,
318
PABLO NERUDA
JLOJVJE
THE homosexual young men and the amorous girls,
and the long widows suffering from delirious sleeplessness,
and the young wives thirty hours pregnant,
and the raucous cats that cross my garden in the dark:
these like a collar of throbbing sexual oysters
circle my lonely dwelling,
like enemies set up against my soul,
like conspirators in bedroom costume
exchanging long thick kisses for countersign.
Radiant summer leads the enamoured ones
in identical melancholy regiments
composed of fat and thin and gay and sorry pairs:
under the genteel coconut palms> near the sea and the moon,
there's a continual life of breeches and petticoats,
a murmur of caressed silk stockings,
and feminine breasts sparkling like eyes.
The petty employee, after much fussing,
after the weekly boredom, the novels read in bed at night,
has once and for all seduced his neighbour,
and he escorts her to the wretched movie palaces
where the heroes are either colts or impassioned princes,
and with his hot damp cigaret-smelling hands
he strokes her legs ensheathed in their sweet down.
The seducer's evenings and the nights of the married couples
join like twin sheets to bury me ;
and the hours after luncheon when the young students
and the young co-eds and the priests pollute themselves^
and the animals couple frankly,
and bees smell of blood t and flies buzz angrily,,
319
PABLO NERUDA
y los primes juegan extrafiamente COB sus primas,
y los medicos miran con furia al marido de la joven paciente,
y las lioras de la maiiana en que el prof esor, como por descuido,
aimple con su deber conyugal, y desayuna,
y mas atin, los adiilteros, que se aman con verdadero amor
sobre lechos altos y largos como embarcaciones:
seguramente, eternamente me rodea
este gran bosque respiratorio y enredado
con grandes flores como bocas y dentaduras
y negras raices en forma de ufias y zapatos.
0ESTJH7CCI OWES
DESPUES de muclio, despues de vagas leguas,
conf uso de domlnios^ incierto de territorios,
acoinpanado de pobres esperanzas,
y companias infieles, y descoafiados siienos,
amo lo teaaz que aon sobrevlve en mis ojos,
oigo con mi corazon mis pasos de jinete,
muerdo el f uego dormido y la sal arminada,
y de noche, de atmdsf era obscura y luto profugo,
aquel que vela a la orilla de los campamentos,
el viajero armado de esteriles resistencias,
detenido entre sombras que crecen y alas que tiemblan,
me siento ser, y mi brazo de piedra me defiende.
Hay entre ciencias de llanto un altar confuso,
y en mi sesion de atardeceres sin perfume,
en mis abandonados donnitorios donde habita la luna,
f arafias de mi propiedad, y destracciones que me son
queridas,
actor mi propo ser pordido, mi substancia im{^rf ecta,
mi gplpc de plata y mi p^dida ctorna.
PABLO NERUDA
and cousins play strangely with their girl cousins,
and doctors glare furiously at die husband of the young
patient,
and the morning hours when the professor, absent-mindedly,
fulfils his conjugal duty, and sits down to breakfast,
and, even more, the adulterers who love each other truly
on beds as lofty and long as ocean liners :
this great breathing and entangled wood
securely and eternally hems me in
with its flowers huge as mouths and dentures
and its black roots shaped like fingernails and shoes,
D.F.
S&NATA AND DESTRUCTIONS
AFTER long, after vague leagues,
confused of dominions, uncertain of territories,
accompanied by poor hopes,
and faithless companions, and diffident dreams,
I love the tenacity which still survives in my eyes,
I hear with my heart my equestrian steps,
I bite the sleeping fire and the ruined salt,
and in nights of dark atmosphere and fugitive mourning,
he who keeps watch by the shore of the camps
the traveler armed with sterile resistances,
detained among shadows that grow and wings that tremble
I feel myself to be, and my stone arm defends me.
There is among the sciences of tears a confused altar,
and in my perfumeless afternoon sessions^
in my abandoned bedrooms inhabited by the moon,
and the spiders of my property, and destructions which are
dear to me,
I adore my lost self, my imperfect substance,
my blow of silver and my eternal loss.
PABLO NERUDA
Ardio la uva humeda, y su agua funeral
arm vacila, auifreside,
y el patrimonio esteril, y el domicllio traidor.
I Quien hizo ceremonia de cenlzas ?
I Quien amo lo perdido, quien protegio lo ultimo ?
I El hueso del padre, la madera del buque muerto,
y su propio final, su misma huida,
su fuerza tristc, su dios miserable ?
Acecho, pueSj lo inanimado y lo doliente,
y el testiraonio extraiio que sostengo
con eficiencia cruel y escrito en cenizas,
es la forma de olvido que prefiero,
el nombre que doy a la tierra ? el valor de mis suefios,
la cantidad Interminable que divido
con mis ojos de invierno, durante cada dia de este mundo.
JLA
HAY cementerios solos,
tumbas llenas de huesos sin sonido,
el corazon pasando un tunel
oscuro, oscuro, oscuro,
como un naufragio hacia adentro nos morimos ?
como ahogarnos en el corazon,
como irnos cayendo desde la piel al alma.
Hay cadaveres,
hay pies de pegajosa losa frfa,
hay la muerte en los huesos,
coino un sonidcipuro,
como un iadrido sin perro,
saliendo de ciertas conipanas, de ciertas tumbas,
creciendo en la humedad como el llanto o la lluvia,
Yo veo % solo, a veces '
ataudes a vela,
322
PABLO NERUDA
The humid grape burned, and Its funeral w^ter
still vacillates, still lingers,
and the sterile patrimony, and the treacherous domicile.
Who made ceremony of ashes ?
Who loved the lost, who protected the ultimate ?
The bone of the father, the timber of the dead ship,
and his own end, his very flight,
his sad strength, his wretched god ?
I lie in ambush, then, for the inanimate and the sorrowful,
and the strange testimony which I bring
with cruel efficiency and written in ashes
is the form of oblivion which I prefer,
the name which I give the earth, the worth of my dreams,
the interminable quantity which I divide
with my wintry eyes, each day of this world.
A.F.
WEAYW AJLONE
THERE are lonely cemeteries.
graves full of bones without sound,
the heart passing through a tunnel,
dark, dark, dark,
as in a shipwreck we die from within
as we drown in the heart,
as we fall out of the skin into the soul.
There are corpses,
there are feet of cold, sticky clay,
there is death within bones,
like pure sound,
like barking without dogs,
emanating from several bells, from several graves,
swelling in the humidity like tears or rain.
I see, alone, at times
coffins with sails,
323
PABLO NERUDA
zarpar con difuntos palidos, coo inujeres de trenzas muertas,
con panaderos blancos como angeles,
con niiias pensativas casadas con notarios,
ataudes subiendo el rio vertical de los muertos,
el rio morado,
hacia arriba, con las velas hinchadas por el sonido de la muerte >
Mnchadas por el sonido silencioso de la muerte.
A lo sonoro llega la muerte
como tin zapato sin pie ? con on traje sin hombre,
llega a golpear con un anillo sin piedra y sin dedo,
llega a gritar sin boca ? sin lengua, sin garganta.
Sin embargo sus pasos siienan
y su vestido suena> callado, como on arbol.
Yo no se, yo conozco poco, yo apenas veo,
pero creo quc su canto tiene color de violetas'Mmedas >
de violetas acostombradas a la tierra,
porque la cara de la muerte es verde,
y la mirada de la muerte es verde,
con la agoda homedad de ona hoja de violeta
y so grave color de invierno exasperado.
Pero la moerte va tambien por el mondo vestida de escoba,
lame el soelo buscando diuntos ?
la muerte esta en la escoba,
es la lengoa de la muerte boscando muertos,
es la aguja de la muerte buscando hilo.
La muerte esta en los catres ;
en los colchones lentos, en las f razadas negras
vi vc tendida, y de repente sopla:
sopla un sonido oscuro que hincEa sabanas ;
y hay camas oavegando a un poerto
en doade esta esporando* vestida de almirante.
324
PABLO NERUDA
bearing away pallid dead, women with dead tresses,
bakers white as angels,
pensive girls married to public notaries,
coffins ascending the vertical river of the dead,
the purple river,
upstream, with sails filled by the sound of death,
filled by the silent sound of death.
On the sonor^s shore death arrives
like a shoe without a foot, like a suit with a man,
arrives to knock with a stoneless, fingerless ring,
arrives to shout without a mouth, without a tongue, without a
throat.
Still its steps echo,
and its clothing echoes, hushed, like a tree.
I do not know, I understand but little, I hardly see,
but I think that its song has the colour of humid violets,
of violets accustomed to the soil,
for the face of death is green,
and the glance of death is green,
with the penetrating moisture of a violet leaf
and its sombre colour of exasperated winter.
But death also goes through the world disguised as a broom
lapping the floor, in search of the dead,
death is in the broom,
is the tongue of death seeking the dead,
is the needle of death seeking the thread,
Death is in the folding cots ;
in the slow mattresses, in the black blankets
it lives supine, and suddenly it blows:
it blows a dismal sound that swells up the sheets;
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.
A.F.
PABLO NERUDA
HE vencido al angel del sueno, el funesto alegorico:
su gcstion insistia, su dense paso llega
envuelto en caracoles y cigarras,
y perfumado de frutos agudos.
Es el vlento que agita los meses, el silbido de un tren,
ei paso de la temperatura sobre el lecho,
on opaco sonldo de sombra
que cae como trapo en lo interminable,
una repeticion de dlstancias 5 un vino de color confundido,
un paso polvorknto de vacas bramando.
A veces su canasto negro cae en mi pecho,
sus sacos de dominio hieren mi hombro,
su multitud de sal, su ejercito entreabierto
recorren y revueiven las cosas del cielo:
ei galopa en la respiraclon y su paso es de beso:
so salitre seguro planta en los parpados
con vigor esencial y solemne proposito:
entra en lo preparado como un dtteiio:
su substancia sin niido equipa de pronto,
su alimento profetico propaga tenazmente.
Reconozco a menudo sus guerreros,
sus piezas corroidas por el aire, sus dimensiones,
y su necesidad de espacio es tan violenta
que baja hasta mi corazon a buscarlo:
el es el propietario de las mesetas inaccesibles,
el baila con personajes tragicos y ootidianos ;
dc noche rompe mi piel su acido aeteo
y escucho en mi interior temblar su instnunento.
326
PABLO NERUDA
I VANQUISHED the angel of sleep, he of mournful allegory:
Ms effort persisted, his dense step came
wrapped in seashelis and cicadas,
maritime, perfumed with sharp fruits.
It is the wind that shakes the months, the whistle of a train,
the passage of temperature over the bed,
an opaque sound of shade
that drops like a rag into the interminable,
a repetition of distances, a wine of confused colour,
a dusty step of cows bellowing.
At times his black basket falls upon my chest,
his bags of authority hurt my shoulders,
his multitude of salt, his half-opened army
disperse and upset the things of the heavens ;
his breathing gallops and his step is made of kisses :
his sure brine implants the eyelids
with essential vigour and solemn purpose:
like a lord he enters places prepared for him:
his noiseless substance furnishes suddenly,
Ms prophetic nourishment propagates tenaciously,
Often I recognize his warriors,
Ms weapons corroded by the air, his dimensions,
and so violent is his need for space
that he sinks to my heart in search of it:
he is the proprietor of inaccessible tablelands,
he dances with tragic and everyday personages:
at night his aerial acid pierces my skin
and inwardly I listen for the trembling of Ms instrument.
327
PABLO NERUDA
Yo oigo el sueno de viejos compaiieros y mujeres amadas,
suefios cuyos latldos me quebrantan :
su material de alf ombra piso en siiencio,
su Inz de amapola muerdo con delirio.
Cadaveres dormidos que a meniido
danzan asidos al peso de mi corazon 3
que ciudades opacas recorremos!
Mi pardo corcel de sombra seagiganta,
y sobre envejecidos tahores, sobre lencxinios de escaleras
gastadas,
sobre lechos de nifias desnudas, entre jugadores de foot-ball,
del viento cenidos pasamos:
y entonces caen a nuestra boca esos fmtos biandos del cielo,
los pajaros, las campanadas conventuales, los cometas;
aqoel que se autrio de geograf fa pura y estremecimiento
ese tal vez nos vio pasar centelleando.
Camaradas cuyas cabezas reposan sobre barriles,
en en desmantelado buqne prof ugo, lejos,
amigos mios sin lagrimas> mujeres de rostro cruel :
la medianoclie ha llegado, y un gong de muerte
golpea en torno mio coino el mar.
Hay en la boca el sabor, la sal del dormido,
ficl como una condena a cada cuerpo.
La palldez del distrito letargico acude:
una sonrisa f rfa sumergida ?
unos ojos cubiertos como f atigados boxeadores,
una respiracion que sordamente devora f antasmas.
En esa humedad de nacimiento, con esa proportion tenebrosa,
cerrada como una bodega, el aire es criminal:
las paredes tienen un triste color de cocodrilo,
una contextura de arana siniestra:
328
PABLO NERUDA
I hear the sleep of old comrades and beloved women,
sleep whose palpitations crush me;
silently I tread his carpet-like material,
with delirium I bite his poppy light.
Corpses asleep which often
dance clinging to the weight of my heart,
what opaque cities we tour !
My dark shadowy steed grows tall as a giant,
and over ancient gambling houses, over pimping trafficking on
wornout stairs,
over the beds of naked girls, among football players^
we pass girding the wind :
and then into our mouths fall those soft fruits of the $ky ?
birds, the tolling of convent bells, kites ;
he who nourished himself on pure geometry and quivering
probably saw us flash by.
Comrades whose heads repose on barrels
in a dismantled fugitive ship, far away,
tearless friends of mine, women of cruel countenance:
midnight arrives, and death's gong
strikes around me like the sea.
There is in my mouth the taste, the salt of the sleeping one,
faithful as a sentence condemning each body.
The pallor of the lethargic realm appears:
a submerged cold smile,
eyes covered like weary boxers,
a breathing which deafly devours ghosts.
* *
In this humidity of birth 3 with this tenebrous proportion,
shut like a winecellar, the air is criminal :
the walls have a sad crocodile colour,
a sinister spidery texture:
329
PABLO NERUDA
se pisa en lo blando como sobre un monstruo muerto;
las uvas negras inmensas, repletas,
cuelgan de entxe las rainas como odres,
oh Capitaii,, en nuestra hora de reparto
abre los mudos cerrojos y esperame:
alii debemos cenar vestldos de luto :
el enf ermo de malaria goardara las puertas.
MI cor azon, es tarde y sin orillas,
el dia como un pobre mantel puesto a secar
oscila rodeado de seres y extension:
de cada ser viviente hay algo en la atmosfera:
mirando mucho el aire aparecerian mendigos,
abogados 3 bandidos ? carteros, costureras,
y un poco de cada oficiOj un resto humillado
quiere trabajar su parte en nuestro interior.
Yo busco desde antaiio, yo examino sin arrogancia,
conquistado, sin duda ? por lo vespertine.
7 mm NwimmmmE
UN mi A
Conmsmorando el qidnto anzversario de la
Defensa de Mtzdrid, y el uigesimo cuarto de
la Creation de la U. R. S. S.
ESTE doble aniversario^ este dia, esta noche,
hallaran un mundo vacio., encontraran un torpe
htiieco de corazones desolados ?
No, mas que un dia con horas,
330
PABLO NERUDA
one treads upon softness as on a dead monster :
immense black grapes, replete,
hang from among the ruins like wineskins^
O Captain, in our hour of allotment
open the mute bolts and wait for me :
there we must dine dressed in mourning:
the malaria patient will stand guard at the gates.
My heart, it is late and there are no shores,
the day like a wretched tablecloth hung out to dry
oscillates surrounded by beings and extension:
there is something of every living being in the atmosphere :
watching the air carefully beggars would appear,
lawyers, bandits, postmen, seamstresses,
and a little of every profession, a humiliated remainder
wants to do its part within us.
In years I have been seeking, without arrogance I have been
examining,
vanquished, no doubt, by the vespers.
A.F.
7
OWE TH A DAY >F
Commemorating the fifth anniversary of
the defense of Madrid^ and the tw&nty-
fourth of the Foundation of the UJSJR.
THIS double anniversary, this day, this night
will they find an empty world y discover a heavy
hollow of forlorn hearts ?
No: rather than a day with hours,
33*
PABLO NERUDA
es un paso de espejos y de espadas,
es una doble flor que golpea la noche
hasta arrancar el alba de su cepa nocturna !
Dia de Espana que del Sur
vienes, vaiiente dia
de plumaje ferreo,
llegas de alii, del ultimo que cae con la frente
quebrada
con tu cifra de fuego todavia en la boca !
Y vas alii con nuestro
recuerdo insumergido :
td fulste el dia, td eres
la lucha, tu sostienes
la columna invisible^ el ala
de donde va a nacer, con tu nximero, el vuelo!
Siete 3 Noviembre, en donde vlves ?
En donde arden los petalos ? en donde tu silbido
dice al hermano: sube! y al cafdo: levantate! ?
En donde tu laurel crece desde la sangre
y atravlesa la pobre carne del liombre y sube
a construir el heroe ?
En tf, otra vez, Union,
en ti s otra vez, liermana de los pueblos del mundo,
Patria pura y sovietica, vuelve a ti tu semilla
grande como un f ollaje derramado en la tierra !
No hay llanto para ti, Pueblo, en tu lucha!
Todo ha de ser de hierro, todo ha de andar y herir,
todo ? hasta el impalpable silencio, hasta la duda,
liasta la misma duda que con mano de invierno
nos busque el corazon para helarlo y hundirlo,
todo, hasta la alegria, todo sea de hierro
para ayudarte, hermana y madre, en la victoria!
PABLO NERUDA
it Is a procession of mirrors and swords,
a double flower that beats against the night
until it wrenches dawn from its nocturnal roots!
Day of Spain proceeding
from the South, brave day
of iron plumage:
you coine from yonder, from the last man to fall with Ms
temples split,
with your fiery numeral yet upon his lips!
And you go there with our
memory unsubmerged:
you were the day, you are
the struggle, you shore up
the invisible column, the wing
whence flight, with your numeral, will be born !
Seven : November: where is your dwelling ?
Where are the burning petals ? Where your whispered
'Go upF to the brother, and, to the fallen, 'Arise ! J ?
Where is your laurel growing out of blood,
pushing up through man*s frail flesh and rising
to fashion the hero ?
In you, once more, O Union,
in you, once more, sister to the peoples of the world,
pure and soviet Homeland! To you returns your seed,
in a leafy flood that spills across the earth !
No mourning for you, O People, in your fight!
All must be iron, all must march and strike,
all, even impalpable silence, even doubt,
even that very doubt with wintry hand
groping for our hearts to freeze them and crush them:
all, even joy, let all be of iron
to aid you, sister and mother, in victory!
333
PABLO NERUDA
Que el que reniega hoy sea escupido !
Que el miserable hoy tenga su castigo en la hora
de las horas, en la sangre total,
que el cobarde retorne
a las tinieblas, que los laureles pasen al valiente,
al vallente camino, a la valiente nave
de nieve y sangre que defiende el mundo!
Yo te saiudo, Union Sovietica, en este dia,
con humildad: soy escrltor y poeta.
MI padre era f erroviario : siempre fulmos pobres.
Estuve ayer contlgo, lejos, en ml pequeno
pafs de grandes lluvias. Alii credo tu nombre
caliente, ardiendo en el pecho del pueblo,
hasta tocar el alto clelo de mi republics!
Hoy pienso en ellos> todos estan contigo !
De taller a taller, de casa a casa,
vuela tu nombre como un ave roja!
Alabados scan tus heroes, y cada gota
cle tu sangre, alabada
sea la desbordante marejada de pechos
que cjpfienden tu pura y orgullosa morada!
Alabado sea el heroico y amargo
pan que te nutre, mientras las puertas del tiempo
se abren
para que tu Ejercito de Pueblo y de hierro marche cantando
entre ceniza y paramo, sobre los asesinos,
a plantar una rosa grande como la luna
en la fina y divlna tlerra de la victoria!
[1941]
334
PABLO NERUDA
Let today's denier be spat upon!
Today let the wretch meet his punishment In the hour
of hours ? in total blood.,
let the coward go back
to his murk, let the laurels pass to the brave,
the brave highway, the brave ship
of snow and blood that defends the world !
I greet you. Soviet Union, on this day,
rnbly: I am a writer., a poet.
r father was a railroad worker: we were always poor,
p as with you yesterday, far away in my small
intry of the big rains. There grew your name,
hot 3 burning in the people's breast*
until it touched my republic's lofty skies!
I am thinking of them today 3 they are all with you I
From workshop to workshop^ from house to house,
your name flies like a red bird !
Praised be your heroes, and every drop
of your blood; praised
be the overflowing tide of hearts
that defend your pure proud land I
Praised be the heroic bitter
bread of your nourishment, while the doors of time swing
wide
for youjr People's Army of iron to march singing
among ashes and cold wastes against the murderers,
to plant a rose immense as the moon
in the fine divine earth of victory!
335
PABLO NERUDA
JEOTIJEffltRO Em EJL ESTE
Yo trabajo de noetic, rodeado de cludad,
de pescadores, de alfareros, de difuntos quemados
con azafran y frutas, envueltos en muselina escarlata:
bajo mi balcon esos muertos terribles
pasan sonando cadenas y flautas de cobre,
estrldentes y finas y liigubres silban
entre el color de las pesadas flores envenenadas
y el grito de los ceniclentos danzarines
y el creciente monotone de los tam-tam
y el humo de las maderas que arden y huelen.
Porque Una vez doblado el camino, junto al turbio rio,
sus corazones detenidos o iniciando un mayor movimiento,
rodaran quemados^ con la pierna y el pie hectios fuego,
y la treinula ceniza caera sobre el agna,
flotara como ramo de flores calcinadas
o como extinto fuego dejado por tan poderosos viajeros
que hicieron arder algo sobre las negras agiias, y devoraron
un alimento desaparecido y un licor extreme.
336
PABLO NERUDA
BI7KI4JL IN TMM EAST
I WORK at night, surrounded by city,
by fishermen,, by potters, by corpses burned
with saffron and fruit, wrapped in scarlet muslin :
underneath my balcony those terrible dead
go by, sounding their chains and copper flutes,
strident and clear and lugubrious they pipe
amid the colour of heavy poisoned flowers
and the cry of the ash-coloured dancers
and the mounting monotony of the drums
and smoke from logs that burn and smell.
For, once they reach the turn In the road, near the turbid
river,
their hearts unmoving, or in greater movement,
they will roll burning, leg and foot made flame,
and the tremulous ashes will fall upon the water,
will float like a cluster of calcined flowers
or a quenched fire left by travelers so powerful
that they burned something over the black waters^ and
devoured
a vanished food, an utter liquor.
A.F.
337
EFRAIN HUERTA
A1MA
T rcpito que descubri el silenclo
aquella lenta tarde de tu nombre mordido,
carbonizado y vivo
en la gran llama de oro de tus diecinueve anos.
Ml amor se desllgo de las auroras
para entregarse todo a tu murmullo,
a tu cristal murmullo de madera blanca incendiada.
Es una herida de alfiler sobre los lablos tu recuerdo,
y hoy escribi leyendas de tu vida
sobre la superficie tierna de una manzana,
Y mientras todo eso,
mis impulsos permanecen inquietos,
csperando que se abra una ventana para segulrte
o estrellarse en el cemento doloroso de las banquetas.
Pero de las montanas viene un ruido tan frio
que recordar es muerte y es agonfa el sueno.
Y el silencio se aparta, temeroso
del cielo sin estreilas,
de la prisa de nuestras bocas
y de las camellas y claveles desf allecldos.
ii
Expliquemos al vlento nuestros besos,
Piensa que cl alba nos entiende:
ella sabe lo bien que saboreamos
el rumor a llmones de sus ojos,
el agua blanca de sus brazes.
338
EFRAIN HUERTA
I TELL you again that I discovered silence
that slow afternoon when your name was etched ?
carbonized alive
in the great gold flame of your nineteen years*
My love shook off the ties of dawn
to give itself wholly to- your murmur,
to your crystal murmur of white wood flame,
Your memory is a pinprick on my Iips 5
and today I composed myths of your life
upon the delicate surface of an apple.
And all the while
my impulses are restless*
waiting for the opening of a window to follow you
or to dash to pieces on the sad sidewalk cement.
But from the mountains comes so cold a sound
that remembering is death, and sleep a torment.
And the silence withdraws timidly
from the starless sky,
from the urgency of our mouths,
and from the withered camelias and carnations,
ii
Let us explain our kisses to the wind*
Think: dawn understands us:
she knows how much we relish
the lemon murmur of her eyes,
the white water of her arms.
339
EFRAIN HUERTA
(Parece que los dientes rasgan trozos de nleve.
El frio es grande y siempre adolescente.
Ei frio, el frio: ausencla sin olvido).
Cantemos a las flares cerradas,
a las mojeres sin scnos
y a los nifios que no miran la luna.
Cantemos sin miraraos.
MIenten aquellos pajaros y esas cornlsas.
Nosotros no nos amamos ya.
Realmente nunca nos amamos.
Llegamos con el deseo y seguimos con el.
Estamos en el ruido del alba,
en el umbral de la sabiduria,
en el seno de la locora.
Dos columnas en el atrio
donde mendlgan las pasiones.
PerduramoSj gozamos simplemente.
Expliquemc^ al vlento nuestros besos
y el amargo sentido de lo qoe cantamos>
No es el amor de uego ni de marmoL
El amor es la pledad que nos tenemos.
EN el oscuro oelo mi recuerdo.
Hombre desnudo y luz;
sabldurfa y letargo;
tardanza y prisa rnuerta*
340
EFRAIN HUERTA
(You would say that teeth are crunching chunks o snow.
Cold is big and ever adolescent.
Cold, cold : absence without forgetting.)
Let us sing to shut flowers,
to breastless women,
and to children who do not watch the moon.
Sing without looking at each other.
They are liars, those birds and cornices.
We are in love no longer.
We were never really in love.
We came with desire and we go along with it.
We are in the dawn's sound,
on the threshold of wisdom,
at the heard of madness.
Two columns in the courtyard
where passions beg for alms.
We endure* we enjoy simply.
Let us explain our kisses to the wind
and the bitter burden of our singing.
Love is neither fire nor marble.
Love is the pity that we feel for one another.
IX F.
MY memory in the dark sky.
Naked man and light;
wisdom and lethgrgy;
delaying and dead haste.
341
EFRAIN HUERTA
Recuerdo inagotable como f atiga sorda
dolor del crepusculo*
Recuerdo: imagen larga y cruel.
Llanura virgen.
Miitilada sonrisa y seiva desprovista de pajaros.
Blanco y verde el recuerdo;
nunca negro ni oro,
sino lento de sueno como sangre reciente.
Tiblo como penumbra marchlta
en la que hubiesen muerto cientos de luces tristes.
(Habia llegado a mi presencia.
Era senclllamente un hombre f atlgado,
con la- yoz apagada y las manos dormidas.
Recuerdo. Recuerdo ese murmullo del sudor en su cuerpo.
El sol caia a pedazos en el mundo agitado.
Yo solo yo con el recuerdo,)
Primero fue la Muerte.
Era en el mes de junio y nuestras vidas parecian
inquietos rfos con fiebre ?
soledades nacldas al calor de un helecho,
Sobre la TIerra tibia Grecian hombres y arboles,
negras nubes, y rosas, y canciones.
Clarisima ternura como dia arnanecido.
Asi llego el abismo, portentoso y solemne,
del Amor necesario: sueno fragante y tknido.
Era en el mes de junto.
Y las f rutas maduras los duraznos, las uvas
parecian imprevistos murmullos sofocados y ciegos.
No veimos. No vimos. La niebla la inventamos^
pero nos apretaba como corteza seca.
1 El Amor domlnaba ! Recia y blanda dolencia,
en el pecho, en las manos; cuando el alba
y la lluvia ; cuando el calor y el frio,
EFRAIN HUERTA
Memory exhaustless as deaf weariness
or twilight grief.
Memory : long creel image.
Virgin plain.
Mutilated smile and woodland stripped of birds.
Memory white and green;
black and gold never,
but slow with sleep as fresh-spilt blood.
Tepid as a withered penumbra
in which have perished hundreds of dismal lights.
(He had come before me.
He was simply a tired man
with extinguished voice and sleeping hands.
I remember. I remember that murmur of sweat on his body.
The sun fell piecemeal upon the shaken world.
And I alone with the memory.)
Death was first,
It was in the month of June and our lives were like
uneasy feverish rivers,
loneliness born in the heat of some fern.
On the lukewarm earth men and trees were growing,
black clouds, and roses, and songs,
Clearest tenderness like risen day.
And so came the abyss, fatal, solemn,
of necessitous love: fragrant and furtive dream.
It was the month of June.
And the ripe fruit the peaches, grapes
were like unexpected murmurs, stifled and blind.
We did not see. We could not. We invented mist,
but it clung to us like a dry rind.
O mastery of love! Violent gentle ache,
in the breast, the hands : at the time of dawn
and rain ; of heat and cold.
343
EFRAIN HUERTA
Literalmente perdemos contacto con el suelo;
vamos al infinlto apoyados en nuestra propla sangre.
Olvidamos los rios y el silencio.
Gritamos por la noche y las voces del viento se recogen
en un puro rencor de ojos desorbltados.
I Que destine, que lucha y cuanta colera reprimida!
Anslas desinenuzadas; dolor de brazos muertos.
Imperioso dominio desconocido para los corazones y los labios,
Manos que se alargaron oprlmidas por ei alba de falelo.
Miisculos negros como signo de misterio en la vida.
Se derrama en el mundo el sentido amoroso
y la pledad parece agonizante pajaro con las alas cortadas.
Sentimos on Insomnio gozosamente prolongado
en una noche desconocida para los ninos y los ancianos.
Poderosa tlbleza en el amor.
Y poderosa tamblen esa apacible castidad sangrienta y horrible
en que naufragan los futuros suicidas.
Agotador murmullo de pantano y de nleve,
seca desesperanza en los raldos del alba.
S44
EFRAIN HUERTA
We literally lose contact with the ground;
we pass to the infinite buoyed up by our own blood.
We forget the rivers and silence.
We scream in the night and the voices of wind gather
in a pure hatred of wild staring eyes.
What destiny ! what struggle ! what controlled rage !
Crumbling worries; pain of dead arms.
Imperious dominion foreign to hearts and lips.
Stretched-out hands heavy with the dawn of ice.
Black muscles, symbols of wretchedness in life.
The amorous sense floods through the world
and mercy is an agonized wing-cropped bird.
We are aware of a sleeplessness luxuriously prolonged
in a night unknown to children and to the old.
Powerful indifference in love.
And powerful too that mild and bloody and horrible chastity
in which are wrecked the suicides to come.
Exhausting murmur of marsh and snow ?
dry despair in the sounds of dawn.
D.F.
345
CARLOS PELLICER
te conozco y ya me dlgo :
I IMunca sabra que su persona exalta
todo lo que hay en mi de sangre y fuego ?
J Como si fuese mncho
esperar linos dias I muchos^ pocos ?
porque toda esperanza
parece mar del Sur, profunda, larga!
Y porque siempre somos
frutos de la impaciencia bosque todos.
Apenas te conozco y ya arrase
cludades nubes y paisajes viajes
y atonito, descubro de repente,
que dentro estoy de la piedra presente
y que en cielo aun no hay un celaje.
Como seran estas palabras ? nuevas,
cnando ya junto a ti, salgan volando
y en el acento de tus manos vea
el limite Inefable del espacio.
LA mesa es irnponente
COHQO un monumento a los heroes
de cualquler naclonalidad.
Reverenclo al pescado,
brillante caballero medloevaL
34.6
CARLOS PELLICER
know you, and already I say to myself:
Will she never understand how her person exalts
all that there is in me of blood and fire ?
As though it were much
to wait a few days many ? few ?
since all hope
seems a southern sea, deep^ long!
And since we are always
fruits o impatience all forest.
I hardly know you and I have already demolished
cities clouds and landscapes journeys
and amazed, I discover suddenly
that I ana within the actual stone
and that in the sky there are still no clouds.
How will these words be, new*
that now 5 when I am close to you, go flying forth
and show me in the accent of your hands
the ineffable limit of space.
H. R. H.
THE table is imposing
like a monument to the heroes
of any land.
I revere the fish*
gleaming mediaeval knight.
347
CARLOS PELLICER
Amo ai cervatillo, tan fino
que ha muerto solamente de estar.
Sonrio a la naranja casi mondada.
Me entristece la torta acabada de violar.
Y frutas deslumbrantes dignas de corbatas
propias a un garden-party tropical,
Granadas delirantes. Manzanas virgenes,
holandesas naturalmente , y van
las miradas como rayos X 3
penetrantcs ? inexorables, en paladeo augural
que hace brillar los lablos, y acidular los dientes
con un cierto apogee magnf fico y animal.
Y la divina poesia,
como en las bodas de Cana 5
hechiza el agua y el vino vibra
en una larga copa de cristal.
el avion,
la orquesta panoramica de Rio de Janeiro
se escucha en mi corazon.
Desde la cumbre del Corcovado
hasta las olas de Copacabana ?
la dicha es una simple distancia que ha pasado
borrando fechas proximas con sus nianos plateadas.
Atare mi existencia sideral
a la divina roca del Pao de Assucar
que ve nacer la aurora antes que el agua mar.
El mar de Rio Janeiro
es una antigua barcarola
que esta aprendiendo la ola
levc de mi pensamiento.
Guanabara su nombre* Guanabara^
34B
CARLOS PELLICER
I adore the small roast deer 5 so delicate
that It died simply from existing.
I smile at the orange, nearly peeled.
I am saddened by the freshly ravished cake.
And the dazzling fruits, fit for badges
to be worn at tropical garden-parties.
Raving pomegranates. Virgin apples
Dutch, naturally
and my eyes like X-rays,
piercing, relentless. In an auspicious relishing
that makes the lips glisten and the teeth acid
with a sure magnificent animal culmination.
And divine Poetry,
as at the marriage feast of Cana,
casts a spell on the water: and wine shimmers
in a tall crystal goblet.
D.F.
TIME
FROM the plane,
the panoramic orchestra of Rio de Janeiro
sounds in my heart.
From the crest of Corcovado
to the waves of Copacabana
happiness is a simple distance that has passed
blurring the nearest dates with its silvery hands*
111 bind my starry existence
to the divine rock of Pao de A^ucar
which sees the bursting dawn sooner than the ocean waters.
The sea of Rio Janeiro
is an old-time barcarolle
being learnt by the gentle
wave of my thought
Guanabara Its name. Guanabara ?
349
CARLOS PELLICER
como una estrella que se alargara
sobre el ritmo de un momento.
Ciudad naval, tus avenidas
de orohidrograficos prodigies
anclan mis ojos en un aire
de eternidad sin abismos.
To mar y tu montafia
un pufiadito de Andes y mil litres de Atlantico
pasan bajo las alas
del avion, como sintesis del Continente amado.
Las grandes rocas estan de oro 5
las montanas en verde y morado.
El agua se mueve en semitono.
La ciudad es un libro deshojado.
El aire esta en soprano ligero.
La escuadra va a salir a pescar.
Un looping the loop* hace pedazos el regreso
y hace estallar la ciudad.
350
CARLOS PELLICER
like a star stretching out
above the rhythm of a moment.
Naval city, your avenues
of orohydrographic marvels
anchor my eyes in an air
of depthless eternity.
Your sea and your mountain
a tiny handful of Andes and a thousand litres of Atlantic -
pass beneath the wings
of my plane like a synthesis of the beloved Continent.
The mighty rocks are golden,
the mountains green and purple.
The water stirs in a semitone.
The town is a leaf-stripped book.
The air, a soprano trilling .
The fleet is putting out to fish,
A loop-the-loop shatters our return
and sends the city exploding,
D.F.
35 *
CARLOS OQUENDO DE AMAT
POEM. A DEL
TUTE miedo
y me regrese de la locum
Tuve miedo de ser
una raeda
un color
unpaso
PORQUE MIS OJOS ERAN N1NOS
y mi corazon
un boton
mas
de
mi camisa de fuerza
Pero hoy que mis ojos visten pantalones largos
vco a la calk que esta mendiga de pasos
POEM. A SUtOKBALiSTA EL ELEGANTE Y DEL CAJVT
Los ELEFANTES ortopedicos al comienzo se volveran manzanas
constantemente
Porque los aviadores aman las ciudades encendidas como flores
Musica entretejida en los abrigos de mvierno
Tu boca surtidor de adcmanes ascendentes
Palmeras calidas alrededor de tu palabra itinerarlos de viajes
faciles
Tomame como las vioietas abiertas al sol.
352
CARLOS OQUENDO DE AMAT
POEM
1 WAS afraid
and I came back from madness
I was afraid of being
a wheel
a colour
a footstep
BECAUSE MY EYES WERE CHILDREN
and my heart
one button
more
on
my straitjacket
But today since my eyes wear long trousers
I look out at the street which goes begging for footsteps
H.R.H.
SiJIOtKAUST PUJEff 0F TME EHJEPHANT AM SQ2VG
THE orthopedic elephants at the beginning will constantly
turn into apples
Because aviators love cities aflame like flowers
Music woven into winter overcoats
Your mouth purveyor of ascending gestures
Hot palmtrees around your word itineraries of easy
voyages
Take me like violets opened to the sun.
H.R.H.
353
CARLOS OQUENDO DE AMAT
1 Y IA
a Jose Maria Eguren claro y senclllo
Voz DE angel rosa recien cortada
piel de rosa un angel mirando el mar
crece el brazo de una rosa por eso una estrella nlna llora
ya encontre to flor aycr mlrabas denaaslado el
parque
el nlno cree que la cebra es un animal
la cebra es un jabon vegetal
y la rosa es un boton de nacar
o una golondrina pintada en el mar el angel solo
Tu noinbre viene lento como las muslcas kumlldes
y de tus manos vuelan palomas blancas
Mi recuerdo te viste siempre de bianco
como un recreo de niiios que los hombres mkan desde aqui
distante
Un cielo muere en tus brazos y otro nace en tu ternura
A tu lado el cariiio se abre como una flor cuando pienso
Entre ti y el horlzonte
mi palabra esta primitiva como la lluvia o como los himnos
Porque ante ti callan las rosas y la cancion
CARLOS OQUENDO DE AMAT
AZVGEJL
To Jose Maria Eguren clear and simple
ANGEL'S voice rose recently cut
rosy skin an angel looking at the sea
the arm of a rose grows therefore a little girl star weeps
I found your blossom yesterday you were looking too
much at the park
the child thinks the zebra is an animal
the zebra is a vegetable soap
and the rose is a pearl button
or a swallow painted on the sea the angel alone
H, K ff.
MOTMJ3K
YOUR name comes slowly like modest music
and from your hands fly white doves
My memory always dresses you in white
like a children's game which the men here watch from a
distance
A heaven dies in your arms and another is born in your
tenderness
At your side affection opens like a lower when I am thinking
Between you and the horizon
my word is primitive like rain or like hymns
Since in your presence roses and song are silent
H. R. H.
355
BERNARDO ORTIZ DE MONTELLANO
Una mascara de cloroformo,, verde y olorosa a cier y cae so&re
mi cuerpo angustiado,, horizontal, sabre la mesa de opera-
ciones erizada de signos . . . Grito. Veo mis gritos que no se
oven, que no los oigo f que se alejan y se pierden. Ultima
imagen mi boca . . . Angustia y soledad. El cuerpo vive.
^Alrna? ^Cuerpo? . . . Lo ultimo que se pierde es el oido. Una
uoz nos lleva y una uoz la misma nos trae desde muy
le/QSy desd& otro tunel maternal, en ascenso del fantasma a la
carne y del silcncio al rumor.
(Apuntes despues de la anestesla"*
Au fond de l y inconnu pour trouper du nouueau.
CH. BAUDELAIRE
DEL sonido a la piedra y de la voz al sueno
en la postura eterna del dormido
sobre marmol de clrlos y cuchilios
ofensa a la raiz
del arbol de la sangre concentrado
ml cuerpo vivo, mio,
mi concha de armadillo
trlangulo de color sentido y movimiento
contorno de mi mundo que me adhiere y me forma
y me conduce
del sonido a la voz y de la voz al suefio.
Batas blancas y manos como encias
Pasos leves de goma de ratones
Luz hendida, amarilla, luz cjue hiere
bisturf del mas hondo hueco de sombra oculta
Luz de paredes blancas, anemica ? de marmol
Nidos del algodon para lo verde y negro
de la vida y la nmerte
356
BERNARDO ORTIZ DE MONTELLANO
DREAM
A chloroform, mask, green and redolent of ether t falls over
my anguished body, horizontal upon the operating-table
bristling with signs . . . / cry out. I see my cries that cannot
be heard, my cries that I do not hear, that fade away and
are lost. Last image my mouth . . . Anguish and solitude.
The body Hues on. Soul? Body? . . . The last thing to go is
hearing. A voice takes us with it 9 and a voice the same one
carries us back from very far away, from some other ma-
ternal tunnel y in an ascent from phantom to flesh and from
silence to sound. (Notes after anaesthesia)
Au fond de Vinconnu pour trouuer du nouveau.
CH. BAUBELAIKE
FROM sound to stone and from the voice to the dream
in the eternal posture of the sleeper
upon marble laden with tapers and knives
those offenders to the root
of the tree of the blood concentrated
my living body, mine,
my armadillo shell
my triangle of sentient colour and movement
contours of my world that cling to me, and form me
and lead me
from the sound to the voice and from the voice to the dream.
White smocks and hands like gums
Mouse-patterings of rubber soles
Piercing yellow ligh^ sharp wounding light
scalpel from the deepest hollow of hidden shadow
Light from white walls, anemic light, marble walls
Cotton nests for the green and the black
of life and of death
357
BERNARDO ORTIZ DE MONTELLANO
Marmoles y aluminios
que no empafia ei reflejo ni el aliento ni el alba
de linos 030$ de nifio
Luz de alia de la llama amarillenta
para el aire del eter mas fino de los clelos
Nicies del algodon
para las alas de los peces del alcanfor y el yodo
liquldos mensajeros de la muertc.
j Oh 5 Saturno.,
escafandra de slglos en mi siglo,
descenderas conmigo entre los brazos
a un mundo de sigilos
Y detras de la muerte centinelas
ojos de dos en dos vivos, cautivos.
Soy el ultimo testlgo de mi cuerpo
Veo los rostros^ la sabana 5 los cucfalllos^ las voces
y el calor de mi sangre que enrojece los bordes
y el olor de mi aliento tan alegre y tan mio !
Soy el ultimo testigo de mi cuerpo
Slento que siento
lo frio del marmol
y lo verde
y lo negro
de mi pensamiento.
Soy el ultimo testigo de mi cuerpo
Postigo de sangre y llamas
Que bajo la piel respira
Equilibrio de las palmas
358
BERNARDO ORTIZ DE MONTELLANO
Marbles and aluminums
whose reflection neither breath nor the dawn
in a child's eyes can blur
Light from beyond the yellow flame
for the ether air, finest of all heaven's,
Cotton nests
for the fish-wings of camphor and iodine
liquid messengers of death.
O Saturn
diver of centuries in my century
you will descend with me in your arms
into a sealed world
And behind death standing sentinel
pair upon pair of living eyes 5 held captive.
I am the last witness to my body
I see the faces, the sheet, the knives, the voices
and the warmth of my blood reddening the edges
and the odour of my breath so joyous and so much mine !
I am the last witness to my body
I feel that I feel
the cold marble
and the green
and the black
of my thought*
I am the last witness to my body
Tiny door of blood and flame
Beneath the flesh breathing
Palms* balance
359
BERNARDO ORTIZ DE MONTELLANO
Que los vlentos equilibra
Onda de otra mar salina
Con la tlerra horlzontada
Para paloma perdida
Y entre latidos hallada
Vida que por mi vigila
Ocuita detras del alma
La que mi cuerpo equliibra
Postlgo de sangre y llamas
Mi nombre ml edad mi cuerpo
Ese que fui le he olvidado
Soy el alma que me tiice
Y el cuerpo que me han quitado.
(minero de mis ojos y mi oido
minero de mi cuerpo oscurecido
buzo perdido entre sus proplas redes
Jhoradando prislones y montaiias
por el silencio a flor de mis entranas
en donde se evapora lo sentido
entre Iunas 7 calor, sangre y paredes
desciendo verdinegro y aturdido)
Ni vivo ni muerto solo solo
El alma que me hice no la encuentro
Sin sentidos, despierto
Con mi sangre ? dormido
Vivo y muerto
Perdido para mi
pero para los otros
hallado, junto, cerca., convivido,
con pulso, sangre, coraz6n, ardiendo. . . .
Esqueleto de nieve y de silencio
de sombra recogida en su vislumbre
BERNARDO ORTIZ DE MONTELLANO
That balances the winds
Wave from another saline sea
Brought down to earth's level
Lost to the dove
And found among pulsations
Life that for me keeps vigil
Hidden behind the soul
Which my body balances
Tiny door to the blood and flame
My name my age my body
The one that I was I have forgotten
I am the soul that I made
And the body they have taken from me.
(miner into my eyes and ears
miner into my darkened body
diver lost among his own snares
piercing prisons and mountains
through the silence on the surface of my entrails
where what is felt evaporates
among the moons^ warmth, blood, and waits
bewildered and dark-green I burrow)
Neither alive nor dead only alone
I can not find the soul I made
Bereft of senses^ awake,
And with my blood ? asleep
Alive and dead
Lost to myself
but for others
found, united, near, lived with,
having pulse,, blood, heart* burning *
Skeleton of snow and silence
of shadow retreating into its half light
BERNARDO ORTIZ DE MONTELLANO
desnudo en el dintel de los desiertos,
forma distinta de belleza rara
que la voz de mi estatua
no pudo asir desde su estrecha plaza,
esparce su corona de equilibrios
en mi silencio enjuto y envidiable
mas alia de la boca de los pinos
que al Tiempo alternan su minuto de aire.
Para un Dios sin latidos Dios de sueno
abrcvia mi silencio en su silencio
donde crece la luna
donde agoniza el pajaro
donde el Espacio ignora su pie leve.
Para que el arbol goce de su verde
La raiz nace oculta y amarilla
Y de savia la sangre se acuchilla
Y de aroma la fruta su piel muerde
Para que el arbol goce de su verde.
Para que el Jiombre nutra su ceniza
Guarda calor en la invalida mano
Sollozo mutilado en la sonrisa
Y la caricia verde del gusano
Para que el hombre nutra su ceniza,
Para que el alma su cordaje mida
Deslstida del cuerpo y de la f eclia
Impersonal como la muerte acecEa
La memoria dispersa de su vida
Para que el alma su cordaje mida.
BERNARDO ORTIZ DE MONTELLANO
naked on the threshold o the deserts
a distinct form of rare beauty
which the voice of my statue
could not seize from its constricted square^
it scatters its crown of balances *~*
over my stripped and enviable silence
on yonder side of the mouth of the pine trees
which alternate in Time their moment of air.
For a God without throbbings God of dreams
it shortens nay silence in its silence
where the moon grows
where the bird agonizes
where Space knows nothing of its light footfall.
That the tree may enjoy its green
The root is born hidden and yellow
The blood is slashed from the sap
And the fruit bites its fragrant skin
That the tree may enjoy its green.
That man may give food to his ashes
He keeps his helpless hand warm
His sob mutilated by smiling
And the green caress of the worm
That man may give food to his ashes.
That the soul may measure its rigging
Severed from the flesh and from time
Selfless as death it awaits
The dispersed memory of its life
That the soul may measure its rigging.
3%
BERNARDO ORTIZ DE MONTELLANO
Para que el sueno con sus pies descubra
La moracla precisa de la muerte
TIene el ojo conciencla de lo Inerte
Y la voz : el silencio y la penumbra
Para que el suefio con sus pies descubra
La morada precisa de la muerte.
El que goza su cuerpo y su sonrisa
El que pesa la rosa
El que se bafia en purpuras de sangre
Espesa como marmol sin caricia
El que vive a la sombra deshojada
Del aire poco que respira y mancha
El verde por la orina verdenado
El plateado en ceniza
Que horada
Olvida
Hiere
Mientras goza el rescoldo de la muerte
El que de la mujer nada recibe
Y al hombre no da nada
El que asoma a los ojos sin cruzarlos
El partido por dos y en dos mitades
Iguales repartido
El sin olor
El Hombre
Solo por la palabra rediuiido.
alucida veloz clara cenuda
desnuda sofocada misteriosa
xnenuda pura impura deseada
libre precisa fragil despojada
sola solemne solitaria y alma
364.
BERNARDO ORTIZ DE MONTELLANO
That die feet of the dream may discover
The precise dwelling of death
Its eye Is aware of the lifeless.
And its voice: of silence and shade
That the feet of the dream may discover
The precise dwelling of death.
He who delights in his body and his smile
Who weighs the rose
Who bathes himself in purpling blood
Dense as caressless marble
Who, shorn of his leaves,, lives in the shadow
Breathing and staining an ak grown small
The green one greened by urine
The silver one in ashes
Who pierces
Forgets
Wounds
While he delights in the embers of death
Who receives nothing from woman
And gives nothing to man
Who looks from his eyes without crossing their portal
Sundered in half and in equal parts
Divided
The odourless one
The Man
Redeemed by the word alone.
a-lucid swift clear frowning
naked smothered mysterious
minute pure impure desired
free precise fragile despoiled
alone solemn solitary and soul
BERNARDO ORTIZ DE MONTELLANO
aiucida veloz calida oscura
orgoliosa dollda apasionada
a vida timida arrojada sobria
sensible fina libra leve dueiia
multiforma constante sangre sangra
Debe ser debil rama la que a tu voz responde,
imprecise el dominlo del fantasma
y la mucrte,
llano el cesped de lirios y delirios
por donde corra libra lamento el de la mente
Debe ser fango el frfo de las horas despnes
cuando se apagtie el fuego de la sangre
y el postigo y la llama,
liorrendo el cataclismo de la separation de lo que unido
fue vida y fuc veneno,
para que desde el marmot olvido de mi cuerpo
tu YQZ de viento y sombra
de medida medida
de calores delgados
me atralga y me deslice y me conduzca
otra vez al torrente de la vida
Debe ser debil rama mi voluntad,
fa-iimo la sensitiva de mi mano
y mi preseiicia aislada y amarilla
cuando tu voz ariadiia, voz de viento y de sombra
caracol de palabras,
es mi ultimo recuerdo y mi primer llamada
apenas balbuceo
en forma de palabra
que de nuevo me arranca a las entranas
y me nace del sueno.
Luz que del sueno torna forma clara,
luz, presencia, color y moviiaiento,
366
BERNARDO ORTIZ DE MONTELLAKC
a-lucid swift warm obscure
proud aching passionate
avk! timid dashing sombre
sensitive fine free light mistress
multiform constant blood bleeds
The branch must be weak that answers your voice,
blurred the realm of the phantasm
and of death,
flat the turf of lilies and delirium
where the mind's lament may run free
It must be mire, that chill of the hours a ter,
extinguished the fire of the blood
and the tiny door and the flame,
horrendous the cataclysm of the disunion of what, united 3
was life and was poison,
so that from the marble oblivion of my body
your voice of wind and shadow
of measured measure
of thin warmth
should draw me and gHde me and lead me
back to the torrent of life
It must be a weak branch, my will,
and smoke the sensitive-plant of my hand,
and my presence shut away and yellow
when your ariadne voice, voice of wind and shadow
shell of words,
is my last remembrance and my first summons
barely a lisp
shaped like a word
which tears me again from my body's depth
born out of the dream.
Light returning from dream clear shape,
light, presence, colour and movement,
367
BERNARDO ORTIZ DE MONTELLANO
sin peso y sin pesar^ desenlutada
que a las cosas devuelve su aislamlento
Luz que del sueno vuelve forma viva,
inslstente mirar de la mirada
absorta, nueva ? dia ?
y por primera vez iiuminada
Ake corredor
Forma desnuda
en su volumen fresco
y en su modo de ser casi de fruta
Aire que muerdo a gritos y cuchillos
por la primera vez
como en ahogado
que a la orilla del aire
sabe que respirar es verbo, gracla y pajaro.
Dilufdo en alegria
encuentro justo el mundo que se toca
se mira y me compara^
el multiforme y unlco
el mundo de mis plernas y mis brazos
dlscipulos del ojo
maestro de distancias,
el mundo colmenero de voluntad y llamas,
calles, cludades, hombres, amenazas^
imagenes, prislones, rios, ventanas,
triangulo de colores que me devuelve el alma.
Voz que del sueno vuelve^
adonde la carlcia no penetra
desciende, alegra, el aire, el sol^ la sangre . . .
y me desplerta.
368
BERNARDO ORTIZ DE MONTELLANO
-weightless and unwcighing, In mourning no longer,
restoring their aloneness to things
Light returning from dream living shape 3
insistent gazing of the gaze
absorbedj new, day,
and for the first time lighted
Racing air
Shape naked
In its fresh volume
and Its way of being almost fruitlike
Air that I bite with screams and knives
for the first time
like a drowned man
on the shore of the air
who knows that breathing Is word, grace and bird,
Dissolved In joy
I find that It Is just, this world that Is felt,
that is seen and that weighs me 5
multiform and unique
the world of my legs and my arms
the eye's disciples,
that master of distances,
the beehive world of will and flame 5
streets, cities, men, threats.
Images^ prisons, rivers, windows,,
coloured triangle that gives me back my soul.
The voice returning from dream^
where the caress does not reach,
descends* rejoices, air, sun ? blood . . .
369
and wakes me.
T. J,. s D, D. W, 9 D. F.
VICENTE HUIDOBRO
APPORTEZ des jeux
Des petltes distractions pour Pinfini
Qui bailie dans le regard de Dieu
Et pile et face
et jour et nuit
Le ciel traverse lent lent traine par des gros nuages
Irons-nous surveiller les antipodes
Le ciel commence a avoir de Page
Et Pexperience dit
II f ant se soulager en pluie
On chercher d'autres amusements
Mais le jour se tourne de Pautre cote
Et c'est Pobscurite
Laissons les parachutes a mi-chemin
Les histoires se dispersent tons les soirs
Quand pousse la rose de Paurevoir
SWJES WIN JPJBU
JE suis un peu lune et commis voyageur
J'ai la specialite de trouver les heures
Qui ont perdu leur montre
37 o
VICENTE HUIDOBRO
*mmiNG GAMES*
BRING games
Little distractions for the infinite
Which yawns in the face of God
Both heads and tails
both day and night
The sky crosses slowly slowly drawn by heavy clouds
Shall we go survey the ends of the earth
The sky is beginning to come of age
And experience tells us
We must seek solace in rain
Or look for other amusements
But the day turns over on its other side
And it is darkness
Let us leave the parachutes half way
Stories scatter every night
When grows the rose of solong
J.S.
I AM
I AM partly moon and partly traveling salesman
My specialty is finding hours
Which have lost their watches
37*
VICENTE HUIDOBRO
Croyez-moi bien
Sous mon ceil d'amiral tout se rencontre
Et ce n'est pas plus rare que ies cas d'enfants
Perdos dans Ies magaslns
II y a des heures qui se nolent
I! y en a d'autres mangees par Ies cannibales
Je connais un oiseau qui Ies boit
On peut Ies faire aussi melodies commerciales
Mais dans Ies bals atlantiques ainsi deguisees
C*est tres difficile de Ies distinguer
C&NNWJ
JLA
Tu N'AS jamais connu 1'arbre de la tendresse d'oii
j'extrais mon essence
II pousse a chaque etage sans preference
Au milieu d\ine discussion de pianos
II est aussi joli que soixante metres d'eau.
Les yeux de circonstance
Regardent le temps troue
A coups de pistolet
Mais s'il n*y a pas d'oreille
Nbs yeux pourtant sont des bouteilles
Videes a chaque regard
La nuit gardons Ies yeux dans mon hangar
Maiadie d*instrument ecoutez son conseil
L'archet glisse glisse sur Ies escaliers du sommeil
Maiadie melodic
VICENTE HUIDOBRO
Believe me
Under my admiral's eye everything meets
And this is no more rare than the cases of children
Lost in department stores
There are some hours which drown
There are others eaten by cannibals
I know a bird which drinks them
You can also make them into commercial melodies
But disguised thus at the Atlantic balls
It is very difficult to single them out
7.5.
YOU MAwm NEvmm KNOWN
OF TEWI>JUVJEKSS * . * y
You have never known the tree of tenderness whence
I extract my essence
It grows on any floor without preference
In the midst of a discussion of pianos
It is as pretty as a sixty-yard expanse of water.
The eyes of circumstance
Are looking at time riddled
By pistol shots
But if there is no ear
Nevertheless our eyes are bottles
Emptied at each glance
At night let us keep our eyes in my shed
Instrumental malady listen to its counsel
The bow glides glides over the stairs of sleep
Malady melody
373
VICENTE HUIDOBRO
Cherche bien sous les chaises
Cherche blen sous ies poxits
II y a des morceaux d'ame scies par mon violon
CJBLUtH ANT 9
NOTE charmant quelle heure est-il
DIs-moi la consistance des reveries
Interchangeables en chaos civil
Le calme est plein de laines de mouton
Et je ne sals rien
Dans les soufifrances en marche snr la vie
Les linges sechent jour et niait
Snr la corde de lliorizon
(Cela se passe tres loin)
Noye charmant
La belle musique des equinoxes entraine les amants
Selon la loi des gravitations
Et detend les murs du salon
Noye charmant
Si tu voyais maintenant
Les vagues apprivoisees
Venir avec des reverences a nos pieds
Noye charmant
Que t*a dit la Sainte VIerge
Garde-telle encore la rose des vents
Entre ses doigts diaphanes
Que dlscutent les autres saints
Dans leur langage d'aeroplane
374
VICENTE HUIDOBRO
Look well under the dfatairs
Look well under the bridges
There are bits of soul sawn away by my violin
7.5.
'BEWITCHI1VG DROHWED*
BEWITCHING drowned what time is it
Tell me the consistency of reveries
Which can be changed into civil chaos
Calmness is full of sheep's wool
And I know nothing
In the sufferings pacing over life
Clothes are drying day and night
On the horizon's line
(This Is happening very far away)
Bewitching drowned
The beautiful music of the equinoxes gathers in lovers
By the law of gravitation
And strips the walls of the salon
Bewitching drowned
If you were to see now
The gentled waves
Coining with little bows to our feet
Bewitching drowned
What did the Holy Virgin tell you
"Docs she still hold the rose of the winds
In her diaphanous fingers
What are the^ other saints discussing
In their airplane language
J.s.
375
VICENTE HUIDOBRO
QUE el verso sea corno una Have
quc abra mil puertas.
Una hoja cae; algo pasa volando;
cuaoto miren los ojos creado sea,
y el alma del oyente quede tembiando.
Inventa mundos nuevos y cuida tu palabra ;
el adjetivo, cuando no da vida, mata.
Estamos en el ciclo de los nervios.
El muscuio cuelga
como recuerdo, en los museos;
mas no por eso tenemos menos fuerza:
el vigor verdadero
reside en la cabeza*
I Por que cantais la rosa 3 oh^ poetas ?
fHacedla florecer en el poem a!
Solo para nosotros
vlven todas las cosas bajo el sol.
El poeta es un pequefio
vlento pasea a la luna
Y las banderas caen sobre el mar
Golpea golpea
La lona abre la puerta
Entrad senoras eotrad scnorcs
Las velas caen sobre el mar
Y la montafia cargada de cadenas
Espera aqui abajo el juicio final
376
VICENTE HUIDOBRO
of
LET verse be as a key
that opens a thousand doors.
A leaf falls; something passes flying;
let all that the eyes see become created,
and let the soul of the hearer stand trembling.
Discover new worlds and keep watch over your word ;
when an adjective does not strengthen^ It destroys.
We are in the cycle of nerves.
Our brawn hangs
like a memory. In museums;
but not for that are we less strong:
the true vigour
abides In the head.
Poets : why do you sing of the rose ?
Make It bloom In your poem !
For us alone
live all things under the sun.
The poet is a little God.
M. B. D.
THE wind takes the moon riding
And the flags fall upon the sea
Knock knock
The moon opens the door
Come in ladles come in gentlemen
The sails fall upon the sea
And the mountain laden with chains
Awaits the last judgment here below
377
VICENTE HUIDOBRO
El viento pasea al ojo
Y los cabellos caen sobre el mar
Golpea golpea
Ei ojo abre la puerta
Entrad senoras entrad senores
Las voces caen sobre el mar
Hay tin insecto milenario
Que frota sus nervlos en la vida
El viento pasea al corazon
Las lagrimas caen sobre el mar
Golpea golpea
El corazon abre la puerta
Entrad senoras entrad senores
Los dedos caen sobre el mar
El mar cae en el vacio
EI vacio cae en el tiempo
Y yo cazo conejos blancos
En la palma de tu mano
NATUKAiJEZA WWW A.
EL deja al acordeon el fin del raundo
Paga con la Huvia la ultima cancion
Alii donde las voces se juntan nace un enorme cedro
Mas confortable que el cielo
Una golondrina me dice papa
Una anemona me dice mama
Azul azul alii y en la boca del lobo
Azul Senor Cielo que se aleja
Que dice listed Hacla donde ira
378
VICENTE HUIDOBRO
The wind takes the eye riding
And the tresses fall upon the sea
Knock knock
The eye opens the door
Come in ladies come in gentlemen
The voices fall upon the sea
There is a millenial insect
That is rubbing its nerves in life
The wind takes the heart riding
The tears fall upon the sea
Knock knock
The heart opens the door
Come in ladies come in gentlemen
The fingers fall upon the sea
The sea falls into emptiness
The emptiness falls into time
And I am hunting white rabbits
In the palm of your hand
JD. D. W.
W&TXJKE WMVM
To the accordion he leaves the end of the world
Pays with the rain for the last song
There where the voices join a huge cedar is born
More soothing than the sky
A swallow says Papa to me
An anemone says Mamma to me
Blue blue there and in the wolfs mouth
Blue Mr Sky who moves away
What* s that you say Where will he head for
VICENTE HUIDOBRO
Ah el heraioso brazo azul azol
Dad el brazo a la Senora Nubc
Si tencis miedo del lobo
El lobo de la boca azul azul
Del diente largo largo
Para devorar a la abuela naturaleza
Senor Cielo rasque su golondrina
Senora Nube apague sus anemonas
Las voces se juntan sobre el pajaro
Mas grande que el arbol de la creation
Mas hermoso que una corrlente de alre cntrc dos astros
ELLA
ELLA daba dos pasos hacia delante
Daba dos pasos hacia atras
El primer paso decia buenos dias sefior
El segundo paso decia buenos dias senora
Y ios otros decian como esta la famUia
Hoy es un dia hermoso como una paloma en el cielo
Ella llevaba una camisa ardiente
Ella tenia ojos de adormecedora de mares
Ella habia escondido un sueno en un armario oscuro
Ella habia encontrado un muerto en medio de su cabeza
Cuando ella llegaba dejaba una parte mas hermosa muy lejos
Cuando ella se iba algo se f ormaba en el horizonte para
esperarla
Sus miradas estaban heridas y sangraban sobre la colina
Tenfa Ios senos abiertos y cantaba las tinieblas de su edad
Era hermosa como un cielo bajo una paloma
380
VICENTE HUIDOBRO
Ah the lovely blue blue arm
Give your arm to Mrs Cloud
If you are afraid of the wolf
The wolf with the blue blue mouth
With the long long tooth
To eat up Grandmother Nature
Mr Sky scratch out your swallows
Mrs Cloud extinguish your anemones
The voices join above the bird
Greater than the tree of Creation
Lovelier than a current of air between two stars
D.F.
SHE stepped two paces forward
And two paces back
The first step said good morning sir
The second step said good morning ma'am
And the others said how is your family
Today is as lovely a day as a dove in the sky
She was wearing a burning shirt
Her eyes were sea-lulling
She had hidden a dream in a dark closet
She had met a dead man in the middle of her head
When she arrived she would leave a lovelier part far away
When she left something would take shape to wait for her
on the horizon
Her glances were wounded and bled upon the hill
Her breasts were wide and she sang the dusks of her age
She was lovely as a sky beneath a dove
381
VICENTE HUIDOBRO
Tenia una boca de acero
Y una bandcra mortal dibujada entre los labios
Reia como el mar que siente carbones en su vientre
Como el mar cuando ia luna se mira ahogarse
Como el mar que ha mordido todas las playas
El mar que desborda y cae en el vacio en los tiempos de
abundancla
Cuando las estrellas arnillan sobre nuestras cabezas
Antes que el vlento norte abra sus ojos
Era hermosa en sus horizontes de huesos
Con su camisa ardiente y sus miradas de arbol f atigado
Como el clelo a caballo sobre las palomas
VICENTE HUIDOBRO
Her month was steel
And a deathbound banner was traced between her lips
She would laugh like the sea that feels coals In Its belly
Like the sea when the moon watches Itself drown
Like the sea that has bitten at all the beaches
The sea overflowing and falling Into the void In times of
abundance
When the stars coo above our heads
Before the north wind opens Its eyes
She was lovely in her horizons of bones
With her burning shirt and her weary tree eyes
Like the sky on horseback above the doves
D.F.
383
GONZALO ESCUDERO
JL0S
LA niebla me ha vendado los ojos. Estoy ciego.
Tiembla el pinar coino una cupula
sobre ml cabeza rebelde.
La noche suena como un organo.
Mis manos Incandescen.
He apretado los troncos de los arboles.
Estrangule los torsos de las mujeres
y rompi la tierra, como un vientre.
i Hoy, hoy!
i Tmenoj sorbo de DIos I
Mis brazos se agigantan como trombas oceankas.
Y estoy solo
ante mi eternldad^ como los dolmenes.
Nadie sabra despues quien soplo los ciclones,
qulen abrlo los ablsnios como fauces.
[Nadle!
Horacanes, grltad,, que estoy solo.
La niebla me ha vendado los ojos. j Estoy ciego !
SOBRE la noche de ebano, tlendo mis manos barbaras
para buscar a DIos . . * Y enarbolo en mis mastlles
el silencio. Y conduzco huracanes aligeros.
Y hasta muerdo la ruta de tus dos senos ntibiles
para encontrar a DIos en sus pezones turgldos
xnaravillosamente convertido en miel limpida.
Y hasta qukro palparle en la carlcla timlda
de los ninos que penden como manzanas prodigas
384
GONZALO ESCUDERO
TME
THE fog has bandaged my eyes. 1 am blinded.
The pine grove trembles like a dome
above my rebel head.
Night has an organ sound.
My hands burst into flame.
I have clutched the trunks of the trees.
I strangled the torsos of women
and broke the earth wide, like a belly,
Today ! Today !
Thunder, draught of God!
My arms grow huge, like waterspouts at sea.
And I am alone
before my eternity, like the dolmens.
Afterwards, no one will know who puffed up the cyclones,
who opened the abysses like jaws.
No one!-
Hurricanes, shout! For I am alone.
The fog has bandaged my eyes. I am blinded!
D.F.
I REACH out with my barbaric hands above the ebony night
in search of God . . . And at my mast-heads I break out
silence. And I guide wing-borne hurricanes.
And I even bite the fruit of your two nubile breasts
to find s in their swelling nipples, God
marvelously transformed into clear honey.
I would touch him even in the timid caress
of children hanging like lavish apples
385
GGNZALO ESCUDERO
del arbol de las madres, Y hasta en la llama palida
del alcohol de tu mirada muerta. Y hasta en la lampara
que me hizo conocer tus dos flancos de nayade
aquella nochebuena de ios primeros pampanos.
Y hasta en la madrugada de linos arcangeiicos
de tu rnuerte qulsiera buscarle, y en el tremolo
de una tarde ski fin con arcoiris dlaf anos
y corderos pascuales de hatos inverosimiles
y golondrinas de oro y campaniles de angelus.
Y hasta en las nubes blandas de un otoiio translucido
que nos haga llorar sin saber como , . . Cespedes
de berilo impalpable han caido de un alamo.
Mil grillos tkitinean unisonos sus crotalos
e ilumina su doble candela una luciernaga*
Estoy tranquilo. Floto en algodones hiimedos,
mientras Dios se desmaya dulcemente en mis parpados.
zoo
SOL,
inventario del color.
Los caballos han aprendido a leer el mundo
en las frutas de vidrio de sus ojos.
Colonia nudista de las madreporas.
Gruas de chocolate de las jirafas.
Claude Debussy es apenas
la aguja de sonido de las ratas.
Convoyes electricos de los boas constrictores.
Pantalones marineros de Ios elefantes.
Stravinsky es la pubertad de Ios gatos en Ios techos de luna
llena.
M etalurgia de Ios proyectiles de Ios pajaros.
GONZALO ESCUDERO
upon their mother-trees. And even in the pale
alcohol-flame of your dead gaze. And even in the lamp
that revealed to me your twin naiad thighs
on that Christinas Eve of the first new vines.
And even in the archangelical linen-
dawn of your death I would seek him, and in the tremolo
of an endless evening with transparent rainbows
and paschal lambs of improbable locks
and golden swallows and angelus bclltowcrs.
Even in the soft clouds of a shining autumn
that makes us weep, we do not know why . , . Lawns
of impalpable beryl have dropped from a poplar.
A thousand crickets are clinking in unison their tiny cymbals,
and a firefiy lights its double candle.
I am at pe^ace. I drift upon moist cotton,
while God swoons sweetly upon my eyelids.
P.F.
ZOO
SUN,
inventory of colour.
The horses have learned to read the world
in the glass fruits of their eyes.
Nudist colony of the white corals.
Chocolate derricks of the giraffes.
Claude Debussy is barely
the gramophone-needle of the rats.
Electric trains of the boa constrictors.
Sailor pants of the elephants.
Stravinsky, the puberty of tomcats on the roofs in the full
moon.
Metallurgy of bird-projectiles.
GONZALO ESCUDERO
Cremallera de cobre de la iguana.
I Que cordiilera se encabrita como los camellos ?
I Que transatlantlco enarbola los surtidores de las ballenas ?
Geodesia, sablduria del caracoL
La erudicion de Mars es el soviet de las hormigas.
Los pingiiinos son los camisas negras del cielo.
Carlos Chaplin se doctoro en el salto de los antilopes.
Nadle resolvera la ecuacion algebralca de una serpiente X,
I Que nodriza britanica como el canguro
donde Freud aprendio a balbucear la libido ?
Relojeria de las ostras.
I Que cortesana vistio en invlerno como los armifios ?
Traje dominical de las cebras penitenciarias.
Las avestruces raudas son los automoviles de pluma,
Arana titere de los andamios de cristaL
Y todoj para que el murcielago abra el paraguas de la noche.
388
GONZALO ESCUDERO
Copper cog-rack of the Iguana.
What mountain range rears up like the camels ?
What liner branches up such spoutings as the whales ?
Geodesy, wisdom of the snail.
The erudition of Marx is the soviet of the ants.
The penguins are the black-shirts of the sky.
Charlie Chaplin took his doctorate in antelope-leaping.
Nobody will solve the alebraic equation of a serpent X,
What British wet nurse better than the kangaroo,
where Freud learned to babble the libido ?
Clock-shop of the oysters.
What fancy woman dresses in winter like the ermines r
Sunday suit of the penitentiary zebras.
The swift ostriches are automobiles of feather.
Spider, puppet of the crystal scaffolding.
And all this, that the bat may open the umbrella of night.
/*, era
JOSE MIGUEL FERRER
NOCTVKNO DEL PEC ADO Y SU DELACt6N
a Fernando Cabrices
ANTORCHAS golpean, al compas de tu cuerpo oscurecido,
las tinieblas del mundo . , .
Duele a mis ojos Mmedos la noche, como el cedro cortado.
Camilla sobre plumas ml voz hacia tu sueno.
Qniero saber en que inanantiai canta tu nombre de criatura
deshabitada,
cual el guijarro que resbala en el viento hacia mi sombra,
cual la montaiia en que penetra el sendero que va hasta Dios . . .
No importa el desamparo del rio sin arboles que pregunta
en los anocheceres:
no estamos lejos del jardin aherrojado
donde el musgo suele nacer y morir al plazo de tu
huella.
Solo miro tu cuerpo tendido entre la hierba y los
balidosj
me toca tu lamento desflorado con su corona de sarmientos
amargos,
mientras fluyen mandragoras de tus poros cerrados al pecado
y al osculo.
Antes de que las torres lleguen para la bienvenida,
antes de que rompa su cascara el sopor que nos liga,
antes de ti ye de mi,
antes de que los humillados escondan en los surcos sus
lagrimas
y los infantes besen la sal llorada en los mendrugos,
antes de que el alba ponga su dedo en los capullos,
quiero vendar a tus pulsos mi pulso
y cegar la penumbra que llenas con tu cuerpo derramado . . .
390
JOSE MIGUEL FERRER
NOCTURNE OF SOT AWB ITS ACCUSATION
To Fernando Cabrices
TORCHES beat out, to your dark body's rhythm, the shadows of
the world . . .
Night wounds my moist eyes, like cut cedarwood.
My voice walks upon feathers toward your dream*
I must know In what f ountain sings your unfrequented name,,
know the pebble slipping through the wind toward my
shadow*
and the mountain pierced by the path that leads to God . . *
What matters the forlornness of the treeless river asking in
the dusk?
We are not far from the garden held in chains
where the moss Is born and dies beneath
your tread,
I look only at your body lying In the grass among bleating
sheep,
your ravaged lament touches me with Its crown of bitter
vines,
while mandrakes flow from your pores closed to sin and to
kisses.
Before the towers come here for welcome^
before the heaviness that binds us breaks Its shell,
before you and before me,
before the humbled caj. hide their tears in the furrows ?
and children kiss the salt of tear-drenched crusts,
before dawn can lay its finger on the buds s
I would bind your pulse to my pulse,
and blot out the penumbra that you will fill with your prodigal
body . . .
39*
JOSE MIGUEL FERRER
Antorchas golpean, ai compas de tu cuerpo oscurecido,
las tinleblas del mundo . . .
Hacla nuestras soinbras caminan las esplgas de traje bianco
y los escarabajos que saben dukes las canas que nos hieren.
RecobrandotCj en vilo, de las zarzas y las alondras,
entre campanas ya vlene, grltando, el ave de las madrugadas :
fuera de los penascos echan a andar 5 como hombres,
los ecos. ...
Siento que te desgaxras en los retofios entumecidos,
gimen dukes candados en los dinteles de tu aparicion:
|y sube tu secreto por los flancos del mundo al contacto
de tu ultima primavera! . . .
392
JOSE MIGUEL
Torches beat out, to your dark body's rhythm, the shadows of
the world . * .
Toward our shadows move the whitcsuitcd grain spikes
and the beetles tasting sugar in the cane that wounds us.
Snatching you free from thorns and Iarks 5
with ringing of bells now comes the shouting bird of daybreak :
out of the great rocks the echoes start to move away like
men . . .
I feel that you withdraw from me into the swollen sprouts,
soft padlocks groan on the threshold pf your presence:
and your secret ascends the Eanks of the world at the
touch of your last springtime !
R. 0'
3S
XAVIER VILLAURRUTIA
NOCTUtWO EN tt&JSrJLA JLA
Si la mucrte hubiera venldo aqui, conmigo, a New Haven,
escondida en un hueco de mi ropa en la maleta,
en el bolsillo de uno de mis trajes,
entre las paginas de un libro
como la serial que ya no me recuerda nada;
si mi muerte particular estuviera esperando
una fecha ? un instante que solo ella conoce
para decirme: * Aqui estoy.
Te he seguido como la sombra
que no es posible dejar asi nomas en casa;
como un poco de aire calido e invisible
mezclado al aire frio y duro que respiras ;
como el recuerdo de lo que mas quieres;
como el olvido ? si, como el olvido
que has dejado caer sobre las cosas
que no quisieras recordar ahora.
Y es inutil que vuelvas la cabeza en mi busca:
estoy fuera de ti y a un tiempo dentro.
Nada es el mar que como un dios quisiste
poner entre los dos;
nada es la tierra que los hombres miden
y por la_que matan y mueren;
ni el sueno en que quisieras creer que vives
sin mi, cuando yo misma lo dibujo y lo borro;
"ni los dias que ctientas
una wz y otra vez a todas horas,
ni las horas que matas con orgullo
sin pensar que renacen^fuera de ti.
Nada son estas cosas ni los innumerables
lazos que me tendiste,
394
XAVIER VILLAURRUTIA
IN wmicm
IF death had come here with me, to New Haven,
hidden in a fold of my clothing in the suitcase,
in the pocket of one of my suits^
between the pages of a book
like a bookmark that no longer recalls anything to m
if my own private death should be waiting
for a date 5 for a moment that only it knows,
to say to me: * Here I am.
I have followed you like the shadow
that you can't just leave behind at home like this;
like a bit of warm invisible air
mixed with the cold hard air that you breathe;
like the memory of what you love best;
like the forgetfulness, yes^ the forgetfulness
that you have allowed to fall over things
that yon would rather not remember now.
And it is useless to turn your head in search of me:
I am outside you and at the same time within you.
That sea is nothing that, like a god s you tried
to set between us two ;
that earth is nothing^ that men measure,
and for which they kill and die;
nor your dream of wishing to believe you are alive
without me, when I myself draw it and erase it;
nor the days that you count over
once and again at all hours^
nor the hours that you kill in your pride,
not thinking that they are bom again outside you.
These things are nothing, nothing the countless
snares that yon set for me,
595
XAVIER VILLAURRUTIA
ni las infantiles arguclas con que lias querido dejarme
engaiiada., olvidada.
Aqui estoy, no lo sientes?
Abre los ojos; cierralos, si quicrcs.*
Y me pregunto ahora ?
I si nadie entro en la pieza contigua,
quien ccrro cauteiosamente la puerta?
I Que mlsterlosa fuerza de gravedad
hizo caer la hoja de papel que estaba en la mesa ?
I POT que se Instala aqoi, de pronto^ y sin que yo la Invite,
la voz de una mujer que habla en la calle ?
Y al oprimlr la pluma 7
algo^como la sangre late y ckcula en elia 5
y slento que las letras desiguales
que escrlbo a!iora 3
mas pequeiias, mas tremulas, mas deblles,,
ya no son de ml mano solamente.
SE diria que las calles fluyen dulcementc en la noche*
Las luces no son tan vivas que logren desvelar el secreto,
el secreto- que los hombres que van y vlenen conocen,
porque todos estan en el secreto
y nada se ganarfa con partirlo en mil pedazos
si 5 por el contrario, es tan dulce guardarlo
y compartirlo solo con la persona elegida.
Si cada uno dijera en un momento dado,
en solo una palabra ? lo que piensa,
las cinco letras del DESEO formarian una enorme cicatriz
luminosa,
XAVIER VILLAURRUTIA
nor the childish cunning with which you tried to leave me
tricked, forgotten.
Here I am. Can you not feel it ?
Open your eyes ; shut them s if you like/
And now I wonder:
if no one came into the next room,
who closed the door so cautiously ?
What mysterious power of gravity
made the piece of paper fall that was on the table ?
Why do I find installed here, suddenly, without invitation,
the voice of a woman talking in the street ?
And as I press on my pen,
something like blood pulses and circulates in it,
and I feel that the uneven letters
that I set down now
smaller, more wavering, weaker
are no longer cpming from my hand alone.
D.F.
You would say that the streets flow sweetly in the night.
Lights are not quick enough to reveal the secret,
the secret known to the men who come and go,
for they are all in the secret,
and nothing were gained by dividing it in a thousand pieces
if, on the contrary, it is so sweet to keep it
to share alone with the chosen person.
If everyone should utter, at a given moment,
in one word only, that which he is thinking,
the six letters of DESIRE would form a huge shining scar.
397
XAVIER VILLAURRUTIA
una constelacion mas antigua, mas viva am que las otras.
Y csa constelacion serfa como un ardlente sexo
en el prof undo cuerpo de la noche,
o, mejor, como los Gemelos que por vez primera en la vlda
se miraran de firente, a los ojos, y se abrazaran ya para siempre.
De pronto el no de la calle se puebla de sedlentos seres.
Camlnaa, se detienen, prosiguen.
Camblan miradas, atreven sonrisas.
Forman Imprevlstas parejas . . .
Hay recodos y bancos de sombra,
orlllas de Indefinlbles formas profnndas
y subltos huecos de luz que clega
y puertas que ceden a la presion mas leve.
El rio de la calle queda deslerto un instante.
Luego parece remontar de si mismo
deseoso de volver a empezar.
Queda un momento paralizado, mudo anhelante
como el corazori entre dos espasmos.
Pero una nueva pulsacion, un nuevo ktido
arroja al rio de la calle nuevos sedlentos seres.
Se cruzan, se entrecrazan y suben.
Vuelan a ras de tierra.
Nadan de pie, tan milagrosamente
que nadie se atreveria a deck que no caminan.
Son los Angeles*
Han bajado a la tierra
por invisibles escalas.
Vienen del mar, que es el espejo del cielo,
en barcos de humo y sombra,
a fundirse y confundirse con los mortales,
308
XAVIER VILLAURRUTiA
a constellation still older, still more intense than the others.
And that constellation would be like a burning sex
in the deep body of the night,
or rather ? like the Twins when, for the first time in their lives,
they looked, face to face, into each other's eyes and embraced
each other for ever.
Suddenly the river of the street is peopled with thirsty beings.
They walk, pause, go on again.
Exchange glances^ venture smiles.
They form in casual couples . . .
There are turning paths and shaded benches,
shores of undefinable deep forms
and sudden hollows of blinding light
and doors which yield to the slightest touch.
The river of the street is deserted for a moment.
But then it seems to rise up from itself
a^ though it would begin again,
It is left for a moment paralyzed ? a panting mute
like the heart between two spasms.
But a new pulsing, a new throbbing
hurls new thirsty beings into the river of the street
They cross, intercross^ go up.
They fly close to the ground.
They swim on foot, so miraculously
that no one would dare to say they are not walking.
These are the Angels.
They have come down to earth
by invisible ladders.
They come from the sea* heaven's mirror*
in ships of smoke and shade,
to fuse and confuse themselves with mortal men*
S99
XAVIER VILL AURRUTIA
a rendir sus frentes en los muslos de las mujeres,
a dejar que otras manos palpen sus cuerpos ebrHmente,
y que otros cuerpos busquen los suyos hasta encontrarlos
como se encuentran al cerrarse los labios de una misma boca,
a fatigar su boca tanto tiempo inactiva,
a poner en libertad sus leBguas de fuego,
a decir las cancioncs ? ios juramentos ? las malas paiabras
en que los hombres concentran el antlguo misterlo
de ia carne, la sangre, y el deseo.
TIenen nombres supnestos, dlvlnamente sencillos.
Se llaman Dick o John 5 o Marvin o Louis.
En nada slno en la belleza se distingiien de los mortales.
Caminan, se detienen,, proslguen.
Cambian miradasy atreven sonrisas.
Forman Imprevistas parejas.
Sonrien maliclosamente al sublr en los ascensores de los
hoteles
donde aun se practka el vuelo lento y vertical.
En sus cuerpos desnudos hay huellas celestldes:
signos, estrellas y letras azules.
Se dcjan caer en las carnas, se hunden en las almohadas
que Ios hacen pensar todavia un momento en las nubes.
Pero clerran los ojos para entregarse inejor a los goces de su
encarnaclon mlsteriosa,
y cuando duermen sueSan no con los angeles sino con los
mortales.
400
XAVIER VILLAURRUT1A
to abase their brows to women's thighs,
permit other feverish hands to caress their bodies,
other bodies to seek theirs to the point of knowledge
as the lips of the same mouth know each other in closing,
to wear out mouths inactive for so long,
to set free their tongues of fire,
to utter the songs, oaths, and evil words
in which men concentrate the ancient enigma
of flesh, blood, and desire.
They bear assumed names y divinely simple.
They are called Dick or John, Marvin or Louis.
Only in their beauty are they to be distinguished from mortal
men.
They walk, pause, go on again.
Exchange glances, venture smiles.
They form in casual couples*
They smile maliciously going up in hotel elevators
where vertical slow flight is still being practised.
On their naked bodies there are celestial marks:
signs, stars, blue letters.
They drop into beds, sink into the pillows
that make them think for a moment longer of the clouds.
But they close their eyes, the better to yield to the delights of
their mysterious incarnation^
and when they sleep they dream not of angels but of mortals.
IX F.
401
XAVIER ABRIL
ELKGSA A IM PEWHDO Y WA M^mMAm mKL TIEMPO
(La sombra de yedra
que aflige tu semblante s
apaga la hondura de tus ojos
coma un sspulcro en el fondo del bosgue).
LAPIDA borrosa y oculta en ci bosque,
mas alia de la muerce del maraiol
y de la patina del tiempo,
Testigos son las bravas corrientes,
los ultimos resplandores,
las adelf as y el silencio.
Podeis confondir sus ojos con las letras
blancas dc la muerte,
con el negror que cae del cielo todas las noches de la muerte,
con ella mlsma si la iuz la hiiblera conocido.
I La pledra que la cubre desde la mucrte,
la sombra que la oculta desde la muerte !
Olvldad el paisaje que la secuestra a fondo de mares y de
Hanto.
Asi sera mejor para el olvido,
dura piedra, leve flor.
Muerta en el alba despertera en el aire la miisica dormida
de las flores.
Pierdanse costas de espanto y cabelleraSj
plerdese el mundo en sitio tan pequeno:
temba, oscuridad^ tragedia vegetal^ mar de su cuerpo.
Y todo lo que es miisica la txalta en alto vacio 5
en bosque Incinerado :
jnube, pledra de martirio, tabla de naufraglo,
mudo f uego de sacrificio !
402
XAVIERABRIL
ELEGY TO TME JL0ST AND
BY
(The ivy shadow^
troubling your look
quenches the depths of your eyes
like a tomb in the deaths of the woods.)
BLURRED tombstone, hidden in the woods,
beyond the death of marble
and the patina of time.
The wild streams are witness,
the sun's last flares,
the rosebays and the silence.
You may take her eyes for the white
letters of death,
for the darkness that falls from above every night of death^
for death itself, had the light known it.
The stone that covers her since death,
the shadow that conceals her since death !
Forget the landscape that isolates her in depths of sea and
weeping*
It will be better so for the forgetting.,
hard stone a light flower.
Dead at dawn the slumbering music of the flowers will
awaken in the air.
Let shores of fright and streaming hair be lost,
the world Is lost in so small a place:
tomb, darkness^ vegetal tragedy ? sea of her flesh,
And all that is music exalts her Into the lofty void,
in the charred forest:
cloud, stone of immolation, plank of wreckage,
mute fire of sacrifice !
405
XA.VIERABRIL
Conslderad detras del tlempo de musicas y lluvias
su definitive posiclon 3 su color personal,
su nombre ya perdldo y las palabras de su boca.
Como si lo supieran 3 los pajaros dialogan a duro pico
con arbustos y peiias de la quietud natural.
Al fondo del cielo, al horde de su lapida,
la tempestad bate bosques y cuernos de animales.
La tempestad, la musica total,
envuelve al ser y cuanto ha sido.
La fragil muerte bajo la piedra^ bajo la sombra.
El olvidoj el silencio, la musica total.
A JLA M UJTJBM
UNA mujer o su. sombra de yedra
llena esta soledad de lamparas vacias.
En la memoria del corazon
esta marchita una flor ?
un noinbre de mujer.
Los ojos de la ausencia
estan llenos de Huvia 3 de paisajes helados y sin arboles.
I Qulen conoce el nombre de esa mujer
que olvlda su cabellera en los rios del alba ?
jQue dificil es distinguir entre la troche
y una mujer aliogada hace tkmpo en un estanque!
El desmayo de una flor no se compare
al silencio de sus parpados cerrados.
XAVIERABRIL
Ponder beyond the time of music and rains
her eternal placement, her personal colour,
her name already lost and the words of her month.
As if they knew It, the birds 5 harsh beaks converse
with shrubs and peaks of nature's stillness.
In the depth of heaven, at the edge of her gravestone,
the tempest beats at the woods and the horns of beasts.
The tempest, total music,
envelops being and all that has been.
Fragile death beneath the stone, beneath the shadow.
Forgetfulness^ sllence ? total music.
B. L. C.
TO Tmm IIWEVTJEB WOMAN
A WOMAM or her shadow of Ivy
fills this solitude with empty lamps.
In the memory of the heart
a flower Is withered;
a woman's name.
The eyes of absence
are full of rain, of frozen landscapes without trees.
Who knows the name of that woman
who forgets her tresses in rivers of dawn ?
How difficult to distinguish between the night
and a woman long-drowned In a pool !
The swooning of a flower can not compare
with the silence of her shut eyelids.
M.L.
405
XAVIERABRIL
KXAMtTACtON mm JLAS MATEBXAS EUEMENTALES
(En dcsnudez intact a^
escafofrzo, desrnayo y suefio.
JDebaJo de sus senos nace un no
gue olvida los ternblores de su cucrpo).
I TE qmieres dar a mi hasta palidecer
desmayada en la noche ?
I Y que tu cabellera enclenda
los troplcos intimos del a* *or ?
I Sentlr la claridad del alba
anegada en tus senos ?
I Hundirte en mi,
en la temeraria orf andad de la sangre ?
Yo suefio verte un dia
desnuda de tallos y de aurora,
sefialando la transformaclon de las esferas,
alta de medlodia^ cenltal y luminosa, -
solltaria, unlca : J eteraa rosa !
f COMQ has podido entrar as% nebulosa,
en el sHencio de esta nocke vacia de amor,
rota de dolor,
a iluminar la soledad de ml vlda!
Oculto estaba dentro de mi mismo,
sordo y perdido en la mina del odio.
Fue un suave rumor,
jy me sangro la vida en lo interior!
406
XAVIERABRIL
OF
(Complete in nakedness^
shiver, siuoon and sleep.
Beneath her breasts a sir&am is born
forgets the trembling of her body,)
Do you wish to give yourself to me until you lose colour
swooning in the night ?
And until your hair sets on fire
the secret tropics of love ?
To feel the clarity of dawn
drowned in your breasts ?
To sink into me
in the foolhardy orphanhood of the blood ?
I dream of seeing you one day
stripped of stems and of dawn,
marking the transformation of the spheres,
lofty with noon ? at the zenith, luminous,
solitary, single: eternal rose!
H.R.H.
How HAVE you managed to enter so, like a mi
into the silence of this night empty of love ?
broken with grief 5
bringing light into the loneliness of my life !
I was hidden within myself ?
deaf and lost in the mine of hatred.
It was a gentle sound ?
alookj
and my life drained away within me!
H. R. H.
407
CESAR MORO
VJfJEJVJES JEW JLA C$N EJL
FAJBWJXMSO JB TI/ CASEXJLJERA
APARECES
La vida es cierta
Ei olor de ia lluvia es cierto
La lluvia te hace nacer
Y golpear mi puerta
Oh arboi
Y la ciudad el mar que navegaste
Y la noche se abre a tu paso
Y el corazon vuelve de lejos a asomarse
Hasta llegar a tu frente
Y verte como la magia resplandeciente
Montana de oro o de nieve
Con el humo fabuloso de tu cabellera
Con las bestlas nocturnas en los ojos
Y tu cuerpo de rescoldo
Con la noche que riegas a pedazos
Con los bloques de noche que caen de tus manos
Con el silencio que prende a tu llegada
Con e! trastorno y el oleaje
Con el vaiven de las casas
Y el oscllar de luces y la sombra mas dura
Y tus palabras de avenida fluvial
Tan pronto llegas y te fuiste
Y quleres poner a flote mi vida
Y solo preparas ml mueite
Y la muerte de esperar
Y el morir de verte lejos
Y los silencios y el esperar el tiempo
Para vivir cuando llegas
Y me rodeas de sombra
Y me haces luminoso
408
CESAR MORO
you COME IN
FABULOUS OF yOCR
You appear
Life is certain
The smell of rain is certain
Rain gives birth to you
And makes you knock at my door
Otree
And the city the sea that you sailed upon
And the night opens at your step
And the heart peers out again from afar
Until it reaches your forehead
And sees you glittering like oiagic
Mountain of gold or of snow
With the fabulous smoke of your hair
With nocturnal beasts in your eyes
And your body of embers
With night that you sprinkle in fragments
With blocks of night that fall from your hands
With the silence that takes fire at your coming
With the upheaval and the surging
With the swaying of houses ^
And the oscillation of lights and the most solid shadow
And your words a street like a river
So quickly you come and you went away
And you seek to launch my life
And you only prepare my death
And the death from waiting
And the dying from seeing you far away
And the silences and the waiting for time
To live when you come
And you surround me with shadow
And you make me luminous
CESAR MORO
Y me sumerges en el mar fosforcscente donde acaece
tu estar
Y donde solo dialogamos tu y mi nocion oscura y pavorosa de
tuser
Estrella desprendiendose en el apocalipsls
Entre bramidos de tigres y lagrimas
De gozo y gemir eterno y eterno
Solazarse en el aire rarificado
En que quiero aprisionarte
Y rodar por la pendiente de tu cuerpo
Hasta tus pies centelleantes
Hasta tus pies de constelaciones gemelas
En la noche terrestre
Que te sigue encadenada y muda
Enredadera de tu saogre
Sosteniendo la flor de tu cabeza de cristal moreno
Acuario encerrando planetas y caudas
Y la potencia que hace que el mundo siga en pie y guarda el
equilibrlo de los mares
Y tu cerebro de materla lumlnosa
Y mi adhesion sin fin y el amor que nace sin cesar
Y te envuelve
Y que tus pies transitan
Abriendo huellas Indelebles
Donde puede leerse la historia del mundo
Y el porvenir del universo
Y ese Iigarse luminoso de mi vida
A tu exlstencia
>IPOJLUXADOS
EN
EL Incesto representado por un seiior de levita
Reclbe las felkltaclones del viento caliente del incesto
Una rosa fatlgada soporta un cadaver de pajaro
410
CESAR MORO
And you drown me in the phosphorescent sea where you
happen to be
And where there is no speech but between you and my
obscure and fearful notion of your being
Star issuing out in the apocalypse
Among howls of tigers and tears
Of joy and moaning for ever and for ever
Self-solace in the thin air
In which I seek to imprison you
And to roll down the slope of your body
Even to your sparkling feet
Even to the twin constellations of your feet
In the earthly night
That follows you enchained and dumb
Entangled in your blood
Supporting the dark crystal flower of your head
Aquarium enclosing planets and pontifical trains
And the power that makes the world follow afoot and keeps
the balance of the seas
And your brain of luminous matter
And my endless adherence and the love that is ceaselessly born
And enfolds you
And that your feet travel upon
Opening indelible footprints
Where the history of the world can be read
And the future of the universe
And that luminous binding together of my life
With your existence
H. R. H.
ffiAWmW PIANOS
FAUJ2VG TO
INCEST represented by a frockcoated gentleman
Receives the congratulations of the hot wind of incest
A fatigued rose supports the corpse of a bird
411
CESAR MGRO
Pajaro de piomo donde tienes ei cesto del canto
Y las provisioncs para tu cria de serplentes dc reloj
Cuando acabes de estar muerto seras una briijula borracha
Uii cabestro sobre el lecho esperando un caballero moribundo
de las islas del Pacifico que navega en una tortuga
musical divina y cretina
Seras un mausoleo a las victimas de la peste o un equillbrio
pasajero entre dos Irenes que chocan
Mlentras la plaza se llena de humo y de paja y llueve algodon
arroz agua ceboilas y vestigios de alta arqueologia
Una sarten dorada con un retrato de mi madre
Un banco de ccsped con tres estatuas de carbon
Ocho cuartlllas dc papel manuscritas en aleman
Algunos dias de la semana en carton con la narlz azul
Pelos de barba de diferentes presidentes de la republica del
Peru clavindose como flechas de pledra en la calzada
y produciendo un patrlotlsmo vlolento en los enfer-
mos de la vejiga
Seras un volcan minusculo mas bello que tres perros sedientos
haciendose revcrencias y recomendaciones sobre la
manera de hacer crecer el trlgo sobre pianos fuera de uso
EL
IGUAL que tu ventana'que no existe
Como una sombra de mano en un instrumento f antasma
Con la misma igualdad con la continuldad preciosa que me
asegura idealmente tu existencia
A una distancia
A la distancia
A pesar de la distancia
Con tu f rente y tu rostro
Y toda tu presencia sin cerrar los ojos
4421
CESAR MORO
Leaden bird where is your basket of song
And provisions for your brood of clock serpents
When you stop being dead you will be a drunken compass
A halter on the bed awaiting a moribund gentleman from the
isles of the Pacific who sails on a musical turtle divine and
cretinous
You will be a mausoleum for victims of the plague or a passing
equilibrium between two trains in collision
While the square fills with smoke and straw and rains down
cotton rice water onions and vestiges of high archaeology
A gilded frying-pan with my mother's portrait
A lawn settee with three charcoal statues
Eight sheets of paper written in German script
Some days of the week in cardboard with blue noses
Hairs from the beards of different presidents of the Republic
of Peru nailing themselves like stone arrows into the
causeway and producing a violent patriotism in those
with ailing bladders
You will be a minuscule volcano more beautiful than three
thirsty dogs bowing to one another and recommending a
method of making wheat grow on disused pianos
M.L.
LIKE your window that does not exist
Like the shadow of a hand on a phantom instrument
With the same equality with the precious continuity that your
existence ideally assures me of
At a distance
At the distance
In spite of the distance
With your forehead and your face
And your whole presence without closing the eyes
4*3
CESAR MORO
Y el paisaje que brota de tu presencia cuando la ciudad no era
no podia ser sine el reflejo de tu presencia
de hecatombe
Para mejor mojar las plumas de las aves
Cae esta lluvia de muy alto
Y me enclerra dentro de ti a mi solo
Dentro y lejos de ti
Coino un camino que se plerde en otro continente
4*4
CESAR MORO
And the landscape that blossoms from your presence when the
city was not could not be anything but the reflection of
your hecatomb presence
The better to moisten the plumage o birds
This rain fails from on very high
And shuts me up alone within you
Within and far from you
Like a road which is lost on another continent
,\T . L.
415
EMILIO ADOLFO VON WESTPHALEN
Jic
el tieuipo
los pies crecen y maduran
andando el tiempo
los liombres se miran en los espejos
y no se ven
andando el tiempo
zapatos de cabritilla
corriendo el tiempo
zapatos de atleta
cojeando el tiempo
con errar de cada instante y no regresar
alzando el dedo
senalando
apresurando
es el tiempo y no tiene tiempo
no tengo tiempo
mostrar la libreta
todo en orden
por aquf a la aventura silencio cerrado
por alia la descompuesta inmovil movil
ya llega y tarda
y se olvida
por aca con boca falsa y palabras de otra hora
el pafiuelo nuevo y pronto
para el adios
adios y no ha llegado
esta es la senal
el tiempo
casi no es nifio
pero flor no es
casi
cuando esta sobre un arbol
se divisa el paisaje la estrella
los zapatos
416
EMILIO ADQLFO VON WESTPHALEN
AS TIME 0W
As TIME goes on
feet grow and mature
as time goes on
men look at themselves in mirrors
and do not see themselves
as time goes on
kidskin shoes
as time runs on
track shoes
as time limps on
with the straying of each instant and no returning
raising a finger
signaling
hastening
it is time and has no time
I have no time
show the passbook
all in order
this way to adventure locked silence
that way the run-down immobile mobile
already arrives and is late
and forgets
this way with mouth of falsity and words of another hour
the handkerchief new and quick
for goodbye
goodbye and it has not arrived
this is the signal
time
almost is not a child
but is no flbwer
almost
when it is over a tree
the landscape is perceived the star
shoes
EMILIO ADOLFO VON WESTPHALEN
osamentas cie pescado
y el ojo llena el horlzonte
el tiempo
aunque cojee y se hiera y se lamente
prohlbldo
no te hagas tan silencio
la nube sabe de otro lugar
son las escaleras que bajan
porque nadie sube
porque nadie muerde la nuca
sino las flores
o los pies UagacEbs
andando y sangre de tiempo
gotas la lluvia el torrente
la mano llega
este es su destlno
llegar el tiempo
se devuelve y listed sabe mas
estaba junto al silencio
estaba con ojos pequenos
la mano a lo deslerto
el pie a lo Ignorado
indudable
los prestados podian ser mios
si un leve slgno no dijera
y no decia
alzada levantada
me doy a tu mas leve giro
al amor de las pestaiias
a lo no dlcho
vertigo
te temia sin noche y sin dia
aunque no regreses
por la marcha de mis fcmesos a una otra noche
por el silencio que se cae
o tn sexo
EMILIO ADOLFO VON WESTPHALEN
fish-skeletons
and the eye fills the horizon
time
even though it limps and hurts itself and bemoans itself
forbidden
do not make yourself so silence
the cloud knows of otherwhere
they are stairways that go down
since nobody comes up
since nobody bites the nape
except flowers
or wounded feet
as time bleeds on
drops the rain the torrent
the hand arrives
this is its destiny
time arriving
comes back and you know more
close to silence
with little eyes
hand in the deserted
foot in the unknown
indubitable
the lent bones could be mine
if an insignificant sign did not say
was not saying
raised lifted
I surrender to your most gentle gyre
to the love of eyelashes
to the unsaid
dizziness
I feared you without night and without day
although you do not return
in the march of my bones to another night
in the silence that falls
or your sex
H. R. H.
RAFAEL MENDEZ DORICH
- ULEVABA Ul JLAJff PARA
LLEVABA la Mmpara:
*f Que no se apague nuncaP decia
y la apretaba contra su pecho
y la lampara mas luz tenia.
*jQue no se apague nuncaF El viento
tenazmente la zaheria
y ia luz de la lampara le quemaba los ojos,
pero ella estaba contenta y reia:
fi jQue no se apague nunca!' decfa,
y apretaba contra su pecho la lampara encendlda.
PASTORA de porcelana, ante un rebano de nieve,
una cestilla de mimbre tus manos sabias tejieron,
una cestilla de mimbre llena de luz y de viento
y lana de to rebano, Pastorcilla del Inviemo.
Virgen de la noche clara, desposada de mi sueno,
florecen a la inocencia los azahares de tus senos,
De todas tus huellas han brotado azucenas
y tus palabras son palomas mensajeras,
pero, las 1 esquilas Mmedas de tus ojos siempre tristes,
acariclan las llanadas donde pacen tus corderos
el alma de los almendros y el lino de tus cabellos.
Los Reyes del Crepiisculo han venido para la navidad de tus
ojeras.
420
RAFAEL MENDEZ DORICH
WAS CARXYMNG JMLWF
SHE was carrying the lamp:
*Let It never go out!* she said,
and she hugged It to her breast,
and the lamp burned brighter still.
'Let It never go out!* The wind
stubbornly rebuked her
and the light of the lamp burnt her eyes,
but she was gay and laughing:
TLet It never go out! 5 she said ?
and hugged to her breast the lighted lamp.
D. D, W.
OF
SHEPHERDESS of porcelain^ facing a snowy flbck ?
your clever hands wove a wicker basket,
a wicker basket filled with light and wind
and wool from your flock., little Shepherdess of Winter.
Virgin of the clear night, bride of my dream,
the orange-blossoms of your breasts unfold In innocence.
Lilies have flowered from all your steps
and your words are homing pigeons;
yet your eyes are always sad; but their moist bells 5
the soul of the almond trees and flax of your hair,
caress the meadows where your lambs are grazing.
The Kings of the Dusk have come for the birth of
your eyes;
RAFAEL MENDEZ DORICH
El Cordero Pascuai bala en tu pecho y la Estrella Polar brilla
en tu f rente.
Tus manos se hicieron cunas para que la luna duerma.
Se ha banado de pureza tu cabeza descublerta:
jque pronto has envejecldo bajo esta lluvia de nieve!
Tu, que viniste pastora^ te has convertido en oveja.
Melancolica zagala, pastorcllla del invlerno:
cuando resuclte el sol, se moriran tsis corderos . . .
MIS GATOS LANCS BE JLA
Los GATOS blancos de la dnquesa
ensimlsmados de luna ausente
hacen ovillos con las tanagras de porcelana.
Por las ventanas, ablertas siempre,
que ? manoteando, clerra la noche muerta de fiestas,
como espirales de humo cansado
se van filtrando ? perseguldores de su sllenclo ?
largos y en fila, en via lactea
para los syenos de la duquesa.
Los roedores de la manana, como taladros fosforescentes,
se esconden bajo los suaves parpados de la duquesa
y, sigilososj van horadando
el noble pecho de la durmlente,
Los gatos blancos arafian ? locos a la sombra densa
y rasgan todos los estertores de la tinlebla
y, poco a poco, se van abriendo
los suaves parpados de la duquesa.
Y luego, Ientos 3 como camellos
en caravana de mercaderes^ hacia el Orlente^
slempre en hilera, meditabundos,
como una hiiella larga de nieve
se van pausados los gatos blancos de la duquesa . . .
422
RAFAEL MENDEZ DORICH
the Paschal Lamb bleats in your breast and the North Star
shines on your brow.
Your hands are cradles to rock the moon to sleep.
Your bare head has been bathed in purity :
how quickly you have aged beneath this rain of snow !
You, who came as a shepherdess, have hair as white as wool
Melancholy lass, little shepherdess of winter,
when the sun revives, your lambs will die ...
D.D.W.
HI/CHESS'S WHITE CATS
THE white cats of the duchess,
tranced by the absent moon,
lie curled about the Tanagra figurines.
Through the ever open windows
that night, dead with revelry, is closing with a wave of its
hands,
like spirals of weary smoke
they filter, intent on their silence^
in a long line^ a Milky Way
for the duchess's dreams.
The gnawers of the morningj like phosphorescent drills,
hide beneath the duchess's smooth eyelids
and stealthily bore
into the sleeper's aristocratic breast.
The white cats claw crazily at the thick shadow
and tear out all the dying gasps of darkness,
and little by little,
the duchess's smooth eyelids gently open.
And then^ slowly, like camels
in a caravan of merchants^ toward the Orient,
always in line^ contemplativcj
like a long snowy footprint,
the duchess's white cats go their stately way . . .
D. D. W t
423
PABLO DE ROKHA
ALE-GOR1A BEL TORM E1T
EOTRE la vida y la imagen de la vida, combatiendo,
mi corazon,
como un animal rojo, bramando, escarbando lo sagrado,
gritando tlerra y cosas,
su drama eterno de guerrero,
contra el error y el terror, desplazandose . . .
Ahora, con anclio latigo, azota el mito mi certeza,
mientras la socledad me inunda y mi zapato contra el oceano
batalla, mientras da aguilas mi enigma,
y va a estallar el sol del yo, cmjiendo,
mientras la materia relampaguea en todo lo alto de mi pecho,
mientras crece el presente su Srbol,
mientras la ciudad boreal asoma su paloma de substancia.
Arrasar la personalidad abstracta, la idolatria mitica,
el drama tremendo, las chimeneas de la anarqnia 5 cielos
negros con cemento^ reconstruyendo,
y al abismo entre el ser y su impetu, arrojar todas las murallas.
Parado sobre sepulcros* en central ciudad de desorden,
busco mi flor de polvora,
mi caballo muerto entre titrros, sin escudos, sin palancas,
la eficiente cantidad de fusiles rojos 3
el volunaen del liecho del subsuelo del sueno, kinchando stis
velamenes,
la fruta de la realidad abierta y espantosa
como montana, como hueso, como paloma o lenguaje.
PABLO DE ROKHA
OF
BETWEEN life and life's image, battling 9
my heart,
like a red animal, roaring, scratching at what is
screaming earth and objects 3
its eternal warrior-drama,
against error and terror, displacing itself . . .
Now, with a broad whip, the myth lashes my assurance,
while society whelms me and my shoe battles against the
ocean, while eagles spring from my enigma,
and that sun which I am goes on to explode, crackling,
while matter flashes on the heights of my chest,
while the present flourishes, its tree,
while the boreal city puts forth its dove of substance,
To raze abstract personality, mythical idolatry,
the tremendous drama, chimneys of anarchy, black cemented
skies, reconstructing,
and to cast into the abyss all the walls between being and its
impulse.
Standing upon sepulchres, in the central city of disorder,
I seek my flower of dust,
my horse dead among swords ? without shields, without
stockades,
the effective quantity of red rifles,
the volume of the event from the subsoil of sleep, swelling its
sails,
the fruit of reality^ open and horrible,
like mountain, like bone, like dove or language.
425
PABLO DE ROKHA
Ser 3 en vertice, agrandando lo cotidiano con relampagos,
es deck, viviendo lo enigmatico,,
sembrar la verdad en la Incognita y los hermosos rios del fluir,
entre sus montafias.
No es exlstir en funcion religion de la Idea;
de llamas y frutas de piedra, si,
acumulando la ansiedad vital entre tres paredes, cerrando
todo lo poroso y de penumbra;
ml alma y su servlcio social, que es su verdad, y su culebra^ y SB
pantera, y sus ieones,
porque lo tremendo, pero lo cierto, es lo concrete;
tenaZj acerbo, fatal, lleno de saliva y ladrillos de iglesia,
el camino del hombre y su grainatica,
cuando de mesas de palo esta nutrido ? estalla y coinienza el
genesis.
Sintesis de los caballos encadenados,
espuma de hierro de cielo o acento de la marea sublimatoria
del individuo contra el universo,
no soy yo, sino lo herolco y sus chacales
mordiendo el numero burgues^ lo metaffsko, el ambito de
hijos de la tiniebla ?
cnredando la personalidad 3 creando la celestial arafia de
palabras, creando
el enigma y sus angeles de sangre.
For e$0j aquello ? todo lo rojo del impetu, aquel extraordinario
afan sintetico 3
deviene fuego sublime, mano y cucMlla de oro,
y arranca el espiritu del rodaje ? como del rodaje el
imponderable alarido de poderio;
ya la heroicidad comunista, su estrella de trabajo,
oceano de herofsmo sovietko ? organismo materialista, en las
aguilas historico-dialecticas resonando
y Icvantando los puiiados de la existencia.
426
PABLO DE ROKHA
To be, at the vortex, enlarging the quotidian with lightnings,
that is to say, living by the enigmatical,
to sow truth in the unknown and the beautiful rivers of flux
between its mountains.
This is not existence in operation cult of the idea;
of flames and stone fruits, yes,
accumulating vital anxiety within three walls, locking up
all that is porous and shadowy;
my soul and its social usefulness, which is its truth, and its
serpent, and its panther, and its lions ?
since what is tremendous., but certain, is what is concrete;
tenacious, sharp,, fatal, full of saliva and church-wall bricks^
man's road and grammar,
when nourished on wooden tables^ explodes: and genesis
begins.
Synthesis of enchained horses,
foam of iron from the sky or accent of the sublimatory tide of
the individual against the universe,
it is not I, but the heroic and its jackals
gnawing the burgeois numeral, the metaphysical^ the realm of
the sons of darkness 5
entangling the personality., creating the celestial spider of
words* creating a
the enigma and its angels of blood.
For that very reason, all the redness of impetus, that extraor-
dinary synthetic yearning
becomes sublime fire, hand and knife of gold 5
and wrests the spirit from the gears, as from gears it wrests the
immeasurable shout of power:
Communist heroism now, its star of labour,
ocean of Soviet heroism, materialist organism resounding in
the historko-dialectical eagles,
and raising fistfuls of existence*
PABLO DE ROKHA
Si, no el profeta, no ci iluminado,
no el terrible megalomano de metaforas, salteando los potros
lieroicos,
no,
adentro de la historia, haciendo la historia, expresando lo que
fluye ? sucede y gravita,
contra mis simboios, azotandome, desgarrandome,
en virtud de la verdad marxista, colectlvamente, la dinamita
de mi ser estalla,
PABLO DEROKHA
Ah yes, not the prophet^ not the enlightened one ?
not the terrible megalomaniac of metaphors, stealing heroic
colts,
no,
within history making history^ expressing what flows^ hap-
pens, and gravitates,
against my symbols, lashing me, rending me,
by virtoe of Marxist truth, collectively, the dynamite of my
being explodes.
H.R.H.
439
CESAR VALLEJO
JPEURSO2V.4LS
LAS personas may ores
I a que hora volveran ?
Da las sels el ciego Santiago,
y ya esta muy oscuro.
Madre dijo que no deraoraria.
Aguedita ? Nativa, Miguel,
culdado con ir por ahi, por donde
acaban de pasar gangueando sus memorias
dobladoras penas^
hacia el sUencloso corral^ y por donde
las gallinas que se estan acostando todavia,
se han espantado tanto.
Mejor estemos aqui no naas.
Madre dijo que no demoraria.
Ya no tengamos pena. Vamos viendo
los barcos j el mio es mas bonito de todos !
con los cuales jugamos todo el santo dia ?
sin pelearnos 5 como debe de ser:
han quedado en el pozo de agua^ listos,
fletados de dulces para manana.
Aguardemos asi, obedientes y sin mas
remedio^ la vuelta, el desagravio
de los mayores siempre delanteros
430
CESAR VALLEJO
THE grown-ups
what time will they get back ?
Blind Saint fames is striking six,
and it's already very dark.
Mother said she wouldn't stay long.
Little Agatha, Nadya, Michael,
be careful of going where
the double toll of punishment has just passed
whining its memories,
toward the silent yard t toward where
the henSj who are stil! going to bed,
have had such a fright.
We're better off right here.
Mother said she wouldn't stay long,
And let's not be sad any more. Let's go
looking at the boats (mine's the prettiest of all!)
which we've been playing with the whole blessed day,
without squabbling, as it ought to be:
they're still there in the water-hole, ready,
freighted with treats for tomorrow.
And let's wait like this, obedient, with nothing
we can do about it, till the grown-ups come back
and make it up to us: the grown-ups who always come first,
43*
CESAR VALLEJO
dejandonos en casa a los pequeios ?
como si tamblen nosotros no pudiesemos partir.
Aguedita, Nativa, Miguel ?
Llamo, busco al tanteo en la oscurldad,
No me vayan a ver dejado solo,
y el unico recluso sea yo.
mi; mos mm
el dos de Novlembre.
Estas sillas son buenas acojidas.
La rama del presentimiento
va 5 viene ? sube 3 ondea sudorosa^
fatigada en esta sala.
Dobla triste el dos de Noviembre*
Difuntos ? que bajo cor tan vuestros dientes
abolldosj repasando ciegos nervios,,
sin recordar la dura fibra
que cantores obreros redondos remiendan
con canamo inacabable^ de innumerables nudos
laticntes de encmcijada.
Vosotros^ difuntos, de las nitidas rodillas
puras a fuerza de cntregaros,
como aserrais el otro corazon
con vtiestras blancas coronas, ralas
de cordialldad. SL Vosotros^ difuntos.
Dobla triste el dos de Novlembre.
Y la rama del presentimiento
se la tnuerde un carro que siraplernente
rueda por la calle.
CESAR VALLEJO
leaving us little ones behind at home
as though we too couldn't go out,
Little Agatha, Nativa, Michael ?
I'm calling yon, Pm feeling around in the darkness,
Don't go away and leave me all alone
to be the only one shut in.
D, D. w.
THE second of November tolls.
These chairs are a place of refuge.
The branch of foreboding
comes and goes, rises., and steaming sways
wearied in this room,
Sadly tolls the second of November,
You deadj how deep your abolished teeth
cut, passing over blind nerves^
forgetful of the tough fibre
that plump singing workers mend
'with endless hemp and with innumerable
fluttering crisscross knots.
You, the dead, with bare knees
pure by dint of surrender:
how you hack at the other heart
with your white crowns, sparing
of your cordiality. Yes. You* the dead.
Sadly tolls the second of November.
And the branch of f oreboding
is bitten by a simple cart
rolling through the street.
D. D. W.
433
CESAR VALLEJO
*5fl JULOVIf RA mSTA NWCMffi*
Si lloviera esta noche^ retirariame
de aqui a mil anos.
Mejor a den no mas.
Como si nada hubiese ocurrido^ haria
la cuenta de que vengo todavia.
O sin madre, sin amada, sin porfia
de agacharme a aguaitar al fondo, a puro
pulso,
esta noche asi, estaria escarmenando
la fibra vedica,
la lana vedica de mi fin final, hilo
del diantxe, traza de haber tenido
por las narices
a dos badajos inacordes de tiempo
en una misma campana.
Haga la cuenta de ml vida
o haga la cuenta de no haber aun nacido,
no alcanzare a librarme.
No sera lo que aun no haya venido., sino
lo que ha llegado y ya se ha ido ?
sino lo que ha llegado y ya se ha ido.
JLA ARA2VA
Es una arafia enorme que ya no anda;
una arana incolora ? cuyo cuerpo ?
una cabeza y un abdomen, sangra.
Hoy la he visto de cerca. Y con que esfuerzo
hacia todos los flancos
434
CESAR VALLEJO
IF IT KAJtiVJEl) TONIGHT 9
IF It rained tonight, I should retreat
a thousand years away,
Or better,. Just a hundred.
As if nothing had happened, I should dream
that I am still to come.
Or without mother,, without mistress^ with no urge
to crouch down here on watch,
clinging to
a night like this y I should be untangling
the Vedic fibre,,
the Vedic skein of my final end, devil's
thread, with a look of having held
by the nose
two jangling clappers of time
in one single bell*
Whether I dream my life
or dream that I am not yet born^
freedom is beyond my reach.
It will not be what is still to come ? but
what has come and is now gone 5
but what has come and is now gone,
D. D. W,
IT is a huge spider that can not crawl farther ;
a spider drained of colour,, whose body-,
all head and abdomen, bleeds.
Today I watched it close. With what effort
toward every side
435
CESAR VALLEJO
sus pies ijtinumerables alargaba.
Y he pensado en sus ojos invisibles^
los pilotos fatales de la arana.
Es una araiia que temblaba fija
en un filo de piedra;
el abdomen a un lado,
y al otro la cabeza.
Con tantos pies la pobre^ y aun no puede
resolverse. Y ? al verla
atonita en tal trance,
hoy me ha dado que pena esa via] era.
Es una araiia enorme ? a quien iropide
el abdomen seguir a la cabeza.
Y he pensado en sus ojos
y en sus pies numerosos . . .
| Y me ha dado que pena esa via j era!
ESTA tarde llueve ? como nunca; y no
tengo ganas de vivir, corazon.
Esta tarde es dulce. Porque no ha de ser ?
Viste gracia y pena; viste de mujer.
Esta tarde en Lima Ilueve. Y yo recuerdo
las cavcrnas crueles de mi ingratitud;
mi bloque de hielo sobre su amapola,
mas fuerte que su *No seas asi! 9
Mis violentas flores negras; y la barbara
y enorme pedrada; y el trecho glacial.
Y pondra el silencio de su dignidad
con oleos quemantes el punto final.
CESAR VALLEJO
it put out Its innumerable feet.
And I have been thinking of its invisible eyes,
the fatal pilots of the spider.
It is a spider which trembling was fixed
upon the sharp edge of a stone ;
its abdomen on one side,
and on the other its head.
With all the feet the poor thing has, it still can not
make up its mind. And, on seeing it
dazed at so tense a time,
what a pang that traveler has given me today.
It is a huge spider., whose abdomen
prevents it from folio wing* its head.
And I have been thinking of its eyes
and of its numerous feet* . .
And what a pang that traveler has given me!
D.D.W
THIS afternoon it is raining as never bcf ore, and I,
my heart, have no desire to live.
This afternoon is sweet Why shouldn't it be ?
It is dressed in grace and sorrow; dressed like a woman.
It is raining this afternoon in Lima, And I remember
the cruel caverns of my ingratitude;
my block of ice crushing her poppy ?
stronger than her *Don*t be like this!*
My violent black flowers ; and the barbarous
and enormous stoning; and the glacial interval.
And the silence of her dignity will mark
in burning oils the final period.
437
CESAR VALLEJO
For eso esta tarde ? como nunca, voy
con este buho> con este corazonr.
Y otras pasan; y viendome tan triste,
toman un poqulto de ti
en la abrupta arruga de mi hondo dolor.
Esta tarde llueve, llueve mucho. { Y no
tengo ganas de vivir, corazon!
JESPAWA, APART A mm Mi ESTE CAJLIZ
NINOS del uitindo,
si cae Espana digo, es un decir
sicae
del cielo abajo su antebrazo que asen,
en cabestro ? dos laminas terrestres;
ninos, J que edad la de las sienes concavas f
Jque temprano en el sol lo que os decia!
{que pronto en vuestro pecfio el ruido anciano!
I que viejo vuestro 2 en el cuaderno !
Ninos del mundo, esta
la madre Espaiia con su vlentre a cuestas;
esta nuestra maestra con sus ferulas,
esta madre y maestra,,
craz y madera ? porque os dio la altura,
vertigo y division y suma, ninos;
esta con ella, padres procesales !
Si cae digo, es un decir si cae
Espana, de la tierra para abajo,
438
CESAR VALLEJO
And so this afternoon, as never before^ I go
with, this owlj with this heart.
And other women pass; and seeing me so mournful,
they take a little of you
from the grim convolution of my pain.
This afternoon It Is raining^ pouring* And I,
my heart, have no desire to live!
M. L.
Aff JE? THIS CIHP
of the world,
if Spain falls I say, if It should happen
if they tear
down from the sky her f orearrn^ held
In a halter by two terrestrial rings:
children, what an age of hollowed temples!
How soon the sun will bring what I foretold !
How quick in your breast the ancient shouting!
How lost the B+ in your notebook !
Children of the world*
Mother Spain sweats with weariness;
our teacher with her ferules,
our mother and mistress*
our cross and our wood, for she gave you height^
dizziness and division and addition* children ;
she Is hard pressed,, fathers of tomorrow I
If she falls., I say, if it should happen If
Spain falls., from earth downward^
439
CESAR VALLEJO
nino$ ? j como vais a cesar de crccer !
| como va a castigar ei ano al mes !
j como van a quedarse en diez los dientes.,
en palote el diptongo, la medalla enilanto!
I Como va el corderillo a continuar
atado por la pata al gran tlntero!
j Como vais a bajar las gradas del alfabeto
hasta la letra en que nacio la pena!
hijos de los guerreros ? entretanto,
bajad la voz* que Espaiia esta ahora mismo repartiendo
la energia entre el reino animal,
las florecillas, los cometas y los hombres.
j Bajad la voz^, que esta
con su rigor, que es grande, sin saber
que hacer, y esta en su mano
la calavera hablando y habla y habla,
la calavera, aqnella de la trenza,
la calavera, aquella de la vida!
J Bajad la voz ? os digo;
bajad la voz, el canto de las silabas, el llanto
de la materia y el rumor menor de las plramides, y aun
el de las sienes que andan con dos piedras !
J Bajad el aliento, y si
el antebrazo baja,
si las fenilas suenan, si es la noche,
si el cielo cabe en dos limbos terrestres,
si hay ruido en el sonido de las puertas,
si tardo,
si no veis a nadie 7 si os asustan
los lapices sin punta, si la madre
Espaiia cae digo, es un decir
y nifios del mundo; id a buscarla! . . .
440
CESAR VALLEJO
children, then you will grow no more !
Then the year will punish the month!
Then the teeth In your mouth will stop with ten,
the diphthong will end on a downstroke, the medal In tears!
The little primer lamb will be left
in the big inkwell, unread, unwritten!
You will go down the steps of the alphabet
as far as the letter at which pain was born !
Children,
sons of warriors, meanwhile
hush your voices, for Spain even now is parting
her strength among the animal kingdom,
the little flowers, the comets, and man.
Hush your voices, for she is
in agony, great agony, not knowing
what to do, and In her hand
Is the talking skull that talks and talks,
the skull with braided hair,
the skull of life!
Hush your voices, I tell you;
hush your voices, the chanting of syllables, the wailing
of lessons and the minor murmur of the Pyramids, and even
that of your temples which throb with two stones!
Hush your breath, and if
her forearm falls,
if the ferules rap, if night comes,
if the sky is contained In two terrestrial limbs.
If there is a creaking in the sound of doors,
If I am late,
if yon see no one, if you are frightened
by pencils without points, if Mother
Spain falls I say, if it should happen
go forth, children of the world ; go and seek her !
D.D.W.
44*
OUVERIO GIRONDO
c. 14XJUE mm JLAST
corrlente de brazos y espaldas
nos encauza
y nos tiace desembocar
bajo IDS abanicos^
las pipas,
los anteojos enormes
colgados en medio de la calle :
unices testimonies de una raza
desaparecida de gigantes.
Sentados al borde de las
cual si foeran a dar un brinco
y ponerse a bailar^
los parroquianos de los cafes
aplauden la actividad del camarero,
mientras los limpiabotas les lustran los zapatos
hasta que pueda leerse
el anuncio de la corrida del domingo.
Con sus caras de mascaron de
el habano hace las veces de
los hacendados penetran
en los despachos de bebidas 5
a muletear los argumentos
como si entraran a matar ;
y acodados en los mostradores*
que siniulan barreras^
brindan a la concurrencia
el miura disecado
que asoma la cabeza en la pared.
OLIVERIO GIRONDO
A STREAM of arms and backs
is our channel
that spews us forth
beneath the fans,
the pipes.,
the huge eyeglasses
hanging over the middle of the street :
sole witnesses to a race
of giants now no more.
Seated on the edge of their chairs
as if they were about to give a bound
and break into dancingj
the cafe customers
speed on the waiter with hand-clapping^
while bootblacks shine their shoes
until one can read in them
the announcement of Sunday's bull-fight,
"With their shlp*s-figurehead faces
cigars serving as bowsprits
the rich farmers barge into
the drinking-places
to brandish arguments
as though they were going in for the kill ;
and leaning with their elbows on the counters
that ape the ring-side barricades
they drink their challenging toasts
to the stuffed Miura bull
who pokes his head out from the wall.
OLIVERIO GIRONDO
Ceiiidos en sus capas, como toreros,,
los curas entran en las peluquerias
a afeitarse en cuatrocientos espejos a la vez,
y cuando salen a la calle
ya tlenen una barba de tres dias,
En los Invernaculos
edificados por los circulos^
la pereza se da
como en ninguna parte
y los socios la ingleren
con chiirros o con horchata >
para encallar en los sillones
sus abullas y sus laxltudes de fantocties.
Cada dosclentos cuaranta y seis tiombres,
trescientos doce curas
y doscientos noventa y tres soldados^,
pasa una mujer.
444
OLIVERIO GIROKDO
Girdled in their capes 3 like bullfighters,
the priests come into the barber shops
to be shaved in four hundred mirrors at once ?
and when they go out into the street again
they are already wearing a three-days* beard.
In the conservatories
built by the clubs
you can find laziness
as nowhere else :
the members swallow it down
-with fritters and cold J rinks.,
leaving stranded in deep armchairs
their puppetllke stupor and spinelessness.
Every two hundred forty six men.,
three hundred twelve priests
and two hundred ninety three soldiers,,
a woman passes by.
M, B. D.
44*5
GENARO ESTRADA
CJ&2VCJTO7VCJTJLJLA JEHV KJJ^ AMKE
(Malaga.)
SALE esta manana el aire
con su caracol rosado.
Cuatro angeles mofletudos
los vicntos estan soplando.
Sale esta manana el aire
enhiesto y empavesado*
Aire que vuela ? que vuela 5
aire del cielo.
Vuela y sopla el aire fresco
qiie va empujando, empujando
las largas velas 5 las largas
jarcias del velero barco.
Geografico vientecillo
por mar y cielo azulados.
Aire que pasa^ que pasa^
aire del mar.
Vamos de la mano
por el agro llano,
entre el aire vasto
del caixipo aromado ?
a la negra sombra
que nos brinda el arboL
Aire que rasa 5 que rasa >
aire del campo.
Aire ? solo aire,
sin tiempo ni espacio*
sin mar y sin cielo >
GENARO ESTRADA
sm
air comes forth this morning
with its rosy conch.
Four chubby angels
arc puffing the winds.
The air comes forth, this morning
sailing high with ail flags flying.
Flying* flying air^
air o die sky*
The cool air flies and puffs,
It goes pushing^ pushing
the long sall$ 5 the long
rigging of the swift boat,
Geographic little wind
through, the azure sea and sky,
Passing^ passing air^
air of the sea.
"We go hand In hand
through the level field*
amid the vast air
of the fragrant countryside^
to the black shade
proffered by the tree,
j skimming
air of the open fields*
Air, only air,
without time or space s
without sea, without sky*
44*7
GENARQ ESTRADA
sin monte nl campo;
aire que atravlesa
para ningun lado ;
aire puro, solo,
por la tierra y alto,
tan fuera del mundo,
tan sencillo y llano,
que es el aire unico
fino, lento, largo.
Aire, solo aire.
el pozo se cayo una tarde.
j Ay de mf , quien la sacara I
La sortija de dos cifras
perdido se me ha;
con ella se me fueron
un Iloro y tin cantar.
Se me perdio la suerte,
no la he vuelto a encontrar,
aqoi estoy noche y dia
al b-orde del brocal.
En el pozx> se cayo una tarde.
I Ay de mi, qnien la sacara!
Mi sortija, la mia,
era mi companera,
a volver a encontrarla
las cosas que yo diera,
de volver a tenerla
un momento siquiera,
de llevarla en mi mano
lo que yo la dijera ;
GENARO ESTRADA
without mountain or field ;
air traversing
to neither side;
pure air, only,
on the ground and on high,
so outside the world^
so simple, so plain ?
that it is the only air*
fine, slow, prolonged.
Air^ only air,
z> n. w r .
JLAMENTT JPO JLOS!F JLO VJE
IT dropped into the well one evening.
Oh dear! Who'll get it out ?
My double-lettered ring 5
I've lost it now ;
and with it went
tears and a song.
I've lost my luck,
Fve not found it again,
and I'm here night and day
at the curb of the welL
It dropped into the well one evening.
Oh dear! Who'll get it out ?
My ring,,
it was my playmate;
-what wouldn't I give
to find it again 1
If I could have it
for just one moment
to wear on my hand,
the things that I'd tell it!
GENARO ESTRADA
era toda de plata
mi sortija primer a^
pero tanto valia
como puede cualquiera.
En el pozo se cayo una tarde.
j Ay de mi, quien la sacara !
Sin duda quiso verse
en el espejo negro
que en el fondo del pozo
lanzaba sus destellos;
quiso mirar acaso
su profundo misterio
presentido en el agua
por fugaces reflejos;
pudo emocionarse
al or nn 1 amen to
que stibio como el hllo
de la queja de un eco
j Qoe diera por alcanzarla
para volverla a llevar!
jTortuga que estas adentro,
subela !
En el pozo se cayo una tarde*
1 Ay de mf^ quien la sacara !
mm
Od . ad Tyndarldem
PREFIHREM a su monte Liceo
los aunos que solo sestean en Mallarme,
un ameno agro del Lucretilo
en donde los cliivos de barbas israelitas
GENARO ESTRADA
It was all of silver ?
my very first ring.,
but as precious to me
as any can be.
It dropped. Into the well one evening.
Oh dear ! Who'll get it out ?
I'm sure it tried to look
in the black mirror
that from the well-bottom
was lancing its light ;
or perhaps to watch
its deep mystery
foretold in the water
by fleeting reflections ;
or it may have been touched
upon hearing a sigh
that came up like the thread
of an echoes lament.
What I'd give to find it,
to "wear it again!
You turtle down there,,
bring it up !
It dropped into the well one evening.
Oh dear! Who'll get it out?
JD. Z>.
OJF
Ode ad Tyr^arMem (&. /, Carm. 17
RATKER than their Mount Lychnis
the fauns who only nap in Mallarme
prefer a pleasant field near Lucretilis
where Hebraically bearded goats
45*
GENARO ESTRADA
encuentran ventilador para el verano
y paragnas para los cttubascos*
Las hembras Infieles
al brincador marido
vlenen libremente a ml bungalow,,
al almuerzo de ensalada de tomillo,
siempre desconfiando de hallarse invitados
a la culebra de robe verde Patou
y al lobo de milltares instintos,
Despues del cafe el concierto j oh. Tindaris !
El l lagarto-lagarto ! dice en su flauta
un andante spianato del Notico,
| Cuan dulce sentirse cuidado por los dioses !
j Pledad y poesia me atraen su beneficio !
Ya se ve la protecclon que te brinda
la buena suerte de la loterfa,
cuyas f anegas de rnafz te permiten
la decadencla veraniega en Ostende
y aun te dejan tus ratos libres
para pulsar la cuerda Teia
y can tar dos cosas a Penelope
y a la calumniada hedhlcera Circe,
ademas de catar un Lesbos
de 1 60 anos antes de Jesucristo^
sin que el perturbador hijo de Semele
te infunda irritadas empresas,
ni el aspero Cyro el chismorreo,
engreido por haberte levantado la mano,
para ratearte la vegetal corona
y tu gabardina muy sport*
GENARO ESTRADA
find summer ventilation
and umbrellas for the showers.
The wives unfaithful
to their bucking husband
come freely to my bungalow,
to my thyme salad luncheon,
always apprehensive lest they find among the guests
the snake with the Patou green frock
and the wolf with a military urge.
After coffee comes the concert, O Tyndaris !
The "Ware-the snake! sings on his flute
an Andante Spianat from the *Notic*.
How sweet to be looked after by the Gods S
My piety and poetry procure me thek favour !
See now the protection thrust upon you
by your good luck in that lottery
whose bushels of grain permit you
a summery decadence in Ostend
and even leave you your free moments
in which to pluck the Anacreontic strings
and sing a selection or two for Penelope
and that calumniated witch of a Circe,
besides sampling a wine from Lesbos
bottled in 160 B.C*
without having Scmde*s rambunctious son
inflaming you with ticklish projects,
or brutish Cyrus promoting gossip y
puffed up with having raised his hand
to filch from you your vegetable crown
and your sporty gabardine.
D. D, w.
463
SILVINA OCAMPO
s fac&fczs
LAS olas y las algas y las
los caracoles rotos y sonoros,
la sal y el yodo ? las tormentas raalas,
los delfines inclertos y los coros
de sirenas cansadas de cantar,
no te reemplaxaran las tierras suaves
donde vagabas con el quleto andar
que aleja siempre a las profundas naves.
Palinuro : tu rostro claiisurado
y maritlmo ofrece a la serena
noche insomnios. Desnudo y acostado
perpetuaras tus uiuertes en la arena,
y creceran con distraccion de piedra
tus unas y tu pelo entre la hiedra.
454.
SILVINA OCAMPO
*nudu$ in ignatd* Paiinure? jaceMs haren&*
-wings the seaweed the waves,,
the broken and sonorous shells*
the salt foam when, the whirlwind raves,
the flickering dolphins* the chorals
of sirens weary of their song
these will not take the place of lands
where once you 'wandered, peaceful^ strong
to keep the deep ships from those strands.
Your maritime and cloistered f ace ?
"O Palinurus, teases night
awake, But you in naked sleep
die ever in a sandy place :
your living nails and hair will creep,
senseless as stone^ through ivy bright^
IX F.
RAFAEL MAYA
JLJB JTOS
^ Job muerte!
Coge la flor abierta
de mis anos. No dejes
que envejezca. Ven pronto,
Rompe la hellce roja
de mi ambicioso corazon en pleno
volar sobre los curves hiorizontes*
Paraliza mis brazos
que hunden el remo en las doradas aguas
del tletapo. Ata mis plantas
manctiadas con la sangre del racimo
carnal. Apaga el ritmo
de mis arterias cuyo golpe Mere,
en la noche de insomnio^ mis oidos
con un rumor de agua stibterranea.
Fajame con tn venda
como a un nifio y y entxegame a los brazos
de la oscura nodriza que alimenta
las avidas rafces de los arboles.
No ver la luz., no ver la luz creadora
que saca de su abismo inagotable
las infinitas formas de la vida,
No atisbar el espacio
que se puede beber con la mirada
como una copa azul Ilena de espumas,
No ver un rostro humano
ni oir una palabra.
^ {oh muerte!
456
RAFAEL MAYA
WOUND mGj O Death !
Gather the open flower
of my years. Let it not
age. Come soon.
Break the crimson coil
of my ambitious heart in full
flight over the curved horizons*
Paralyze my arms
that dip the oar in the golden waters
of time. And bind my feet
stained with the blood of the carnal
grape-cluster. Quench the rhythm
of my arteries whose beat wounds,,
in the sleepless night^ my cars
with a rumour of underground water*
Bandage me
like a child., and deliver me to the arms
of the dark wet-nurse who suckles
the hungry roots of the trees.
Not to see the light, the creative light
that draws from its inexhaustible depths
the infinite forms of life.
Not to stare into space
potable to the gaze
like a blue cup full of foam.
Never to see a human face,
never to hear a wordL
Wound me, O Death.
RAFAEL MAYA
Ni el dulce mar em que naufiragan tantas
rlquezasj y que guarda entre sus aguas
fabulosas ciudades 5
hundidas como funebres navios
con sus copas de oro
y sus leciios cargados de mujeres.
ISfi el mismo cielo eterno que sustenta
la arqultectura movil de las nubes,
y traza la remota geometria
de las constelaciones raisterlosas.
Ni el cuerpo adolescente
de una doncella, apenas sombreado
en sus pliegues reconditos por una
vegetacion de suave terclopelo.
Nada podra ligarme a la ribera
terrestre.
Ven ! oil muerte !
Quiero bajar lo$ humedos peldafios,
afelpados de musgo, de la estrecha
galeria que lleva hasta tu cripta
donde espera la esfinge somnollenta
coronada de rosas inmortales.
Allf, al fulgor de las marchitas lamparas
que filtran una aurora penumbrosa
a traves de los grises alabastros 5
repasare la escena multlforme
de mi vida, los rostros conocldos,
y la iraagen dorada de unos campos
que florecen aun ? bajo otros cielos^
perdidos en el tiempo y la memorla.
RAFAEL MAYA
Neither the gentle sea ? wrecker of many
riches^ keeping beneath, its waters
fabulous cities
drowned, like funeral vessels
with their cups of gold
and their couches laden with women.
Nor the same sky forever that sustains
clouds* mobile architecture*
tracing the distant measure
of mysterious constellations,
Nor the adolescent body
of a young girl ? just shaded
along its hidden creases
by a soft velvet down.
Nothing can bind me to this shore
of earth.
Come^O Death!
I would descend the dank stairs,,
carpeted with moss, of the narrow
gallery that leads to your crypt
where the drowsy sphynic is waiting
crowned 'with immortal roses.
There, in the glimmer of the fading- lamps
that filter a shadowy dawn
through the grey alabaster ?
I will review the multiple scene
of my life, the faces known^
the golden image of certain fields
still blooming* under other skies^
lost in time and memory.
H. H.
450
DURACINE VAVAL
XJES
NE pouzrais-jc, poor t'enivrer du vin des choses,
T'offrir un bouquet pale oil def aillent des roses ?
Tin poeme qui plait par ses rythmes egaux ?
Or, je t'envoie une corbeille de mangos.
Le desir pend a leur chair blonde, ardernment blonde,
La saveur du terroir s'y revele profonde.
Leur tenebreux parfum de camphre ou de muscat
S'infiltre jusqu'en 1'ame a travers Fodorat.
Et ces mangos de miel qui pavoissaient la hale,
Us sentent Fombre noire, ils sentent le soleil,
Us sentent une haleine enamourante et vraie,
Dans le verger qui saigne en son manteau vermeil
La mangue couleur d*or passe en douceur premiere
Nos fruits royaux gorges de seve et de lumiere !
4^60
DURACINE VAVAL
MANWE&
To intoxicate you with the wine of things^
Might I not offer you a pale bouquet where roses fail ?
A poem pleasing in its even rhythms ?
I send you then a basket full of mangoes.
Desire clings to their yellow tawny flesh.
The savour of the soil lies deep within them.
Their dusky tang of camphor or of muscatel
Filters scent-borne into the very soul.
And these mangoes, honey-sweet a that decked the hedge^
They are fragrant with black shadow, with the smij
Fragrant with a true and love-provoking breath.
In the orchard that bleeds in its vermilion cloak
The golden mango surpasses in prime sweetness
Our royal fruits swollen with juice and light!
Z>. D. W.
GERMAN PARDG GARCIA
JBJL
SENT quc algo hacla el silenclo
de la muerte, descendia.
Algo profundos y tan mio^
como lo es mi sangre misma,
Tuve pavor de estar vivo*,
y de hallarme en agonia ;
y en aquel instante inmenso
de negaclon infinlta ?
al pechto lieve las manos^
por saber lo que perdia.
Pero Halle mi fuerza intacta
y mi voluntad actlva;
y ardieodo en sus soledades
como entre llamas divinas^
mi corazon traspasado
por siete espadas de vida.
NAI>A de ti. Xu ser es semejante
a un jardin clausnrado que visita
por las tardes el anima infinita,
inmersa en IDS silencios del instante.
Tremulas hojas, vlento delirante
liny en por el jardin en que gravita
como una pena abscondita y maldita 5
clavada en la souibra sollozante.
GERMAN PARDO GARCIA
that an essence., close
to the silence of death^ came clown ;
something profound, and mine
as much as my very blood.
I was afraid to live-,
to find myself in anguish ;
and in that monstrous moment
of infinite denial
I raised my hands to my breast
to realize my loss.
But I found my strength unbroken*
my ^will I found alive;
and burning in solitude,
as among heavenly flames*
I found my heart transfixed
with seven swords of life.
from you at all. Your being seems
a cloistered garden where, in the afternoon^
an infinite presence is a haunting guest,
deep in the moment's utter silences,
The leaves tremble. They and the crazy wind
flee through the garden where the spirit rests
like an affliction* Mdden and accursed,,
fastened for ever in the sobbing shade.
GERMAN PARDO GARCIA
And now and then the slanting western sun
velvets the blue majestic cypresses
over whose crest a wing hangs motionless,
all outcry null and muffled in the mist;
and bitterness flows toward oblivion
upon the peace of the tremendous heart.
R.H.
JOSE MARIA EGUREN
JLA WJWA mm K*A
EN el pasadizo nebuloso
cual magico suerio de Estambul,
so perfil presenta destelloso
la niiia de la lampara azuL
Agil y risuena se insinlia^
y su llama seductora brilla*
tiembla en su cabello la gartia
de la play a de la mara villa.
Con voz infantll y meiodiosa
en fresco aroma de abedul ?
tabla de una vlda mllagrosa
la xiina de la lampara azuL
Con calidos ojos de dulzura
y l>esos de amor matutino,
me ofrece la bella crlatura
un magico y celeste camino.
' De encantacion en tin derrochej
htlcnde leda^ vaporoso tul;
y me guia a traves de la noche
la niiia de la lampara azul.
la orllla contemplo
suaves, llgeras,
con sus penachos finos 3
las caiiaveras*
4,66
JOSE MARIA EGURE2ST
CflMJL WITH 3TBTJ3
IN the shadowy passageway,
like a magical dream of Stambul^
she turns her sparkling profile.,
the girl with the blue lamp.
Lithe and smiling she glides,,
her enticing flame burns bright;
on her hair trembles the spray
from the shores of wonder.
With a childlike melodious voice
in a fresh scent of birch
she speaks of a miraculous life,
the girl with the blue lamp,
"With eyes warm with sweetness
and kisses of morning love
the fair creature shows me
a magical^ heavenly road.
Lavish with incantation*
she splits gaily the cloudy veil;
and she lights me through the night,,
the girl with the blue lamp,
JD. U. W.
the shore I watch,
light in the wind,
-with their delicate tufts,,
the reeds.
JOSE MARIA EGUREN
Las totoras caidas,
de core pintadas^
el verde musgo adornan
Iluminadas.
Campanillas presentan
su dulce poma
que licores destila
de fino aroma.
En pare j as discurren
verdes alclones^
cpie descienden y buscan
los camarones.
Alii, gratos se adueruien
los guarangales^
y por la sombra juegan
los recentales.
Ora Yes largas alas ?
cabezas brunas
de las garzas que vienen
de las lagunas.
Y las almas campestres,
con grande anhelo^
en la espuma rosada
miran $u cielo*
Mientras oyen que cn*~ Tc
tras los canares,
la canclon fugitiva
de esos lugares.
4,68
JOSE MARIA EGUREN
The fallen cat-tails.,
painted with ochre^
adorn the green moss
glowing,
Bellflowers offer
their sweet pods
distilling liquors
of fine bouquet.
In pairs By
green kingfishers
that come down* hunting
for shrimp,
There, slumber the pleasant
acacia fields*
and in the shade
young animals play*
Now you see long wings,,
dark brown head%
of the herons that come
from the lagoons.
And the country folk,
with great eagerness,
in the rosy foam
watch their sky.
"While they hear swelling
beyond the cane stalks
the fleeting song
of those places.
IX IX W,
JOSE MARIA EGURElSf
V
LA cancioii del adormido cielo
dejo dulces pesares ;
yo quislem dar vlda a esa canclon
que tiene tanto de ti.
Ha caido la tarde sobre el musgo
del cerco ingles^
con aire de otro t: ripo musical.
El mnrmurio de la ultima fiesta
ha dejado colores tristes y suaves
cual de primaveras obscuras
y listones perlinos.
Y las dolidas BOtas
han traldo melancolia
de las sombras galantes
al dar sus adioses sobre la playa.
La celestia de tus ojos dulces
tiene un pesar de canto
que el alma nunca olvidara.
El angel de los suenos te ha besado
para dejarte amor sentido y musical
y cuyos sones de tristeza
llegan al alma mia,
como celestes miradas
en esta niebla de profonda soledad.
I Es la cancion simbolica
como un jazmin de sueno,,
que tuviera tus ojos y tu corazon I
j Yo quisiera dar vida a esta cancion!
4.70
JOSE MARIA EGUREN
JLHBJD V
THE song of the drowsy sky
left gentle regrets;
I would give life to that song
which has in it so much of you.
Night has fallen over the moss
of the English wall
as though an air in music had changed its tempo.
The murmur of the last festival
has left sad, soft colours
as of dark springtimes
and pearl-grey ribbons.
And the mournful notes
have grown melancholy
from the shadows of lovers
saying goodbye on the beach,
The blue of your soft eyes
has a songlike grief
that the heart will never forget.
The angel of dream has kissed you
to leave with you a love felt like music
whose strains of sadness
reach my heart*
like heavenly glances
in this mist of deep solitude.
The song is symbolic
as a jasmine in dreams^
with your eyes and your heart!
I would give life to this song!
D. D. W,
47*
FRANCISCO LOPEZ MERINO
CANCXON
Tu quc cada domlngo vas al Jardin Botanlco
y te pasas las Iioras, callada, contemplando
los matices suntuosos de las Sores que nunca
tcndrds en tu pequeno huerto, Tu que preguntas
cosas alucinantes con palabras senclllas
y el amblente fantastico de tus sueiios me explicas.
Tu que amas como un nlno las liojas de la menta
por los recuerdos limplos que su aroma desplerta.
Tfi que hablas del esmalte reluclente que tienen
los Insectos exoticos que en el aire florecen.
Tu que narras la vida de Juan Jacobo y sabes
que bajo un clelo claro corto hierbas,, de tarde.
Tu que vistes de bianco para el Mes de Maria
y pueblas el silencio de imagenes pacificas,
porque fuiste mi novia pondras en mi sepulcro,
cuando me muera 3 lilas de un resplandor oscuro.
MIS PRIM AS 9 JLOS
Mis primas, los domingosj, vlenen a cortar rosas
y a pedirme algiin libro de versos en frances.
Caminan sobre el cesped del jardin, cortan fibres,
y se van de la mano de Musset o Samaln.
AmaB las frases bellas y las mananas claras.
Una estatua impasible las puede conmover.
Esperan la llegada de las tardes de otono
porque^ tras los cristales, todo de oro se ve , .
FRANCISCO LOPEZ MERINO
SONG WOm AFTJEMWAJIIIS
You who go every Sunday to the Botanical Garden
and while away hours in silence, contemplating
the sumptuous colourings of flowers
that you will never have In your own little garden;
you who ask fascinating things so Ingenuously
and explain to me the fantastic ambient of your dreams;
you who love like a child the leaves of the mint
for the clean memories that Its scent awakens;
you who talk about the glittering enamels
of exotic Insects that blossom In the air;
you who tell the life of Jean-Jacques, and know
that under a clear sky he cuts herbs at close of day ;
you who dress in white for the Month of Mary
and people the silence with images of peace:
because you were my beloved you will lay on my tomb 5
when I am dead 5 lilacs of dark splendour.
JR. O'C.
MY COUSIUfS, ON SCNDAYS * . .
MY cousins* on Sundays, come to cut roses
and to ask me for some book of verses in French,
They move about the garden lawn, cutting flowers^
straight from the pages of Musset or Samain.
They love pretty phrases and clear bright mornings.
An imperturbable statue can thrill them through and through.
They are waiting for the coming of the autumn evenings
because through the window-panes everything looks gold . . .
475
FRANCISCO LOPEZ MERINO
Y vlenen, los domingos^ cortar rosas Saben
que el eco de sus voces para mi grato cs.
Entre las hojas quedan sus rlsas armoniosas;
ellas seguramente se rien sin saber.
Mis primas, cuando llueve ? no vlenen. Dulcemente
aparto los capullos que el viento hara caer;
hago un ramo con ellos y pongo bajo el ramo
un volumen de versos de Musset o Samain.
474
FRANCISCO LOPEZ MERINO
And they come to cut roses on Sundays . . . They know
that the echo of their voices is pleasing to me.
Among the petals they leave their harmonious laughter;
surely they are laughing unaware.
My cousins, when it rains, do not come. Sweetly
I bring away whatever buds the wind has blown down;
I make a bouquet with them, and place beneath the bouquet
a volume of poems by Musset or Samain.
R. O'C.
475
RAFAEL ALBERTO ARRIETA
f 1VEKO
NOCHOE de enerOj quieta y luminosa,
junto al ro ? entre piedras^ y a tu lado,
mi corazon maduro
para la maravllla y el milagro,
Si una estrella cayese
tenderia mi mano . * .
43
RAFAEL ALBERTO ARRIETA
JANUARY night, quiet and luminous,
near the river, among the rocks ? at your side,
cay heart ripe
for marvel and miracle.
If a star fell,
I should hold out my hand . , .
M. l^.
4*77
EMILIO VASQUEZ
MMMEJLA
ESTB es el poema del amor rural
desde la naclente del agua
aquella per dida tarde
me alumbraron de locura tus ojos
En tambor de gritos
sc ha trocado mi pecho veterano
fustina
estoy pasteando
centinela
sankayus kantutas para tu alma
Voy a engendrar una noeva warav^ara
con flores de agua
para el da rosado de nuestros besos
Entonces en tos labios
danzaran todas las alboradas
Asldos pasaremos saltando el rio
al pastaje de nuestros suefios.
EMILIO VASQUEZ
1WDIA1V OMHJL
THIS Is the poem of rustic love
from the source of the waters
on that lost afternoon
your eyes inflamed me with madness
My old campaigner's breast has become
a pounding drum
Justina
I am shepherding
zealously
wild berries and red flowers for your soul
I will bring to life a new star
made of water lilies
for the day blushing with our kisses
Then upon your lips
all the dawns shall dance
Hand in hand we shall leap across the river
to the pastures of our dreams.
B. . C.
479
LUIS FABIO XAMMAR
JE7JL
TE seguire hasta el puquial,
cliollta, aunque no lo quieras.
Me dejaras que abandone
tu tinaja en una pledra.
Que cante para ti sola
un huaynito de mi tierra-
Que el agua mojc tu pie.
Que se escapen tus borregas,
Y sobre todo cholita
me dejaras que te expllque
como se quiere en la hlerba*
480
LUIS FABIO XAMMAR
SJPJRUHVG
I'LL f ollow you down to the spring,
cholita y although you don't "want me to.
You will let me abandon
your water-jar on a stone.
May a thrush from my country
sing for you alone.
May the water wet your foot.
May your lambkins run away.
And above all, cholita^
you will let me teach you
how much fun we can have in the grass.
481
ILDEFONSQ PEREDA VALDES
CA2VC1&V
A UI
, ningfa.e ? ninghe^
tan clnquito^
el negrito
que no quiere dormir.
Cabeza de coco,
grano de cafe,
con lindas motitas
con ojos grandotes
como dos ventanas
que miran al mar-
Cierra esos ojltos
negrito asustado
el mandinga bianco
te puede coiner.
Ya no eres esclavo !
y si duermes mucho,
el seno de casa
promete complar
traje con botones
para ser un groom.
Ninghe, ninglie, ninghe^
duermete negrito
cabeza de coco 5
grano de cafe.
482
ILDEFONSO PEREDA VALDES
SONG TO FC/T A NEGMO
BABY TO
PICKANINNY, ninny, ninny,
so tiny
the little black baby
that won't go to sleep.
Coconut head,
coffee berry,
with pretty little specks,
and great big eyes
like two windows
that look at the sea.
Close those eyes,
scared black baby,
the white bogey-man
might eat you up.
You are no slave now!
and if you sleep sound,
the boss of the house
promises to buy you
a suit with buttons
to be a groom.
Pickaninny, ninny, ninny,
sleep, black baby,
coconut head,
coffee berry.
M.L.
483
PEDRO JUAN VIGNALE
EX
ANGELINA, tu coses., y tu que bordas, Juana,
y tu Gabriel, que sabes hacer de carpintero,
unas el atavio y el otro la peana,
haced que resucite este buen caballero.
Con su corcel, muriose en batalla campal
y i quien le despintara las botas y el jubon
sino el Gran Capitan,
el capitan de barbas azules y dorado galon ?
El tenia la cara toda rosa 5 y tema
una no via: Maria.
Y tambien tenia una casa y un huerto
el granadero muerto,
Durante los descansos
cuidaba las gallinas^ los patos y los gansos,
y curaba el jamon y el tocino.
Le decia a su madre: 'Esto anda bien, mama . . .*
Y tomaba su copa de vino.
Pero he aqui que ahora el caballito overo
y el buen granadero
en un rincon, en un rincon estan 3
todos empolvadosj con telaraiias ya . * *
484
PEDRO JUAN VIGNALE
THE BEAD
ANGELINA, you who know how to sew, and you who em-
broider, Jane,
and you, Gabriel, who have the builder's skill :
let his finery be the girls' task; his broken pedestal, the boy's
bring back to life this brave horseman.
With his charger he died on the field of battle !
And who could have taken the colour from his boots and his
doublet
but the Great Captain,
the bluebearded goldbraided Captain ?
His whole face was ruddy, and he had
a betrothed : Mary.
And he had a house, too, and an orchard,
the dead grenadier.
Whenever he was on leave,
he would tend to his hens, his ducks, and his geese,
and cure his ham and bacon,
He would say to his mother, Things are going fine,
mamma . . .
And drink his glass of wine.
But see: the little brindled horse
and the brave grenadier
are in a corner, lying in a comer,
all dusty and covered with cobwebs now . * .
485
PEDRO JUAN VIGNALE
De iiocfa.e ? los ratones pasan por sobre ellos
con sus pasos menudos y sus cuerpos de estaiio.
I Quien no tta oido en la noche suspirar al granadero ?
I Quien no lia oido el bufido ronco de su caballo ?
Cuando la luna entra e iluniina el altillo
el buen granadero se siente remozar . . .
Ve su madre 5 la huerta., el peral y el membrillo,
oye para el almnerzo afilar el cucliillo
y con Maria se qulslera casar.
Angelina^ tu coses, y tu que bordas,
y tii Gabriel, que sabes hacer de carpintero,
unas el atavio y el otro la peana,
haced que resuciten caballo y caballero.
486
At night the mice run over them
with their tiny feet and their tin-coloured bodies.
Who hasn't heard the grenadier sighing in the night?
Who hasn't heard the harsh snorting of his horse ?
When the moon shines in and lights up the attic,
the brave grenadier feels like a boy again . . .
He sees his mother, the garden, the pear tree, and the quince,
he hears the knife being sharpened for lunch,
and would like to be married to Mary.
Angelina, you who know how to sew, and you who em-
broider, Jane,
and you, Gabriel, who have the builder's skill:
let his finery be the girls' task; his broken pedestal, the boy's
bring back to life the horse and horseman.
D. D. w.
487
MARTIN ADAN
TTJS ojos
unen las manos
como las Madonnas
de Leonardo,
Los bosques de ocaso,
las frondas moradas
de un renacimiento sombrio,
El rebano del mar
bala a la grata
del cielo lleno de angeles.
Dios se encarna
en un nifio que busca los juguetes
de tus manos.
Tus labios
dan el calor qne niegan
la vaca y el asno.
Y en la penumbra,
tu cabellera mulle sus pajas
para el Dios nino.
MARTIN AD AN
YOUR eyes
join hands
like the Madonnas
of Leonardo,
The groves of sunset,
purple foliage
of a shadowy Renaissance.
The flock of the sea
bleats at the cavern
of a sky full of angels.
God is made flesh
in a child that gropes for the toys
of your hands.
Your lips
give the warmth denied
by cow and ass.
And in the half light
your hair spreads its straw
for the Infant God.
48
JUANA DE IBARBOUROU
NOCWE mm EJLffflA
LUCJEVB . . . y espera, no te duermas 3
Quedate atento a lo que dice el viento
Y a lo que dice el agua que golpea
Con sus dedos menudos en los vidrios.
Todo mi corazon se vuelve oidos
Para escuchar a la hechizada hermana,
Que ha dormido en el cielo,
Que ha visto el sol de cerca,
Y baja ahora, elastica y alegre,
De la mano del viento^
Igual que una viajera
Que torna de un pais de maravilla*
I Como estara de alegre el trigo ondeante !
I Con que avidez se esponjara la hierba !
j Cuantos diamantes colgaran ahora
Del ramaje profundo de los pinos !
Espera, no te duermas. Escuchemos
El rltmo de la lluvia.
Apoya entre mis senos
Tu frente taciturna.
Yo sentire el latir de tus dos sienes,
Palpitantes y tibias.,
Tal cual si fueran dos martillos vivos
Que golpearan mi carne.
JUANA DE IBARBOUROU
IT is raining . . . Wait, do not sleep.
Listen to what the wind is saying
And to what the water says tapping
"With little fingers upon the window-panes.
All my heart is listening
To hear the enchanted sister
WTio has slept in the sky,
Who has seen the sun close by.
And now comes down, buoyant and gay,
Holding the wind's hand
Like a traveler returning
From a marvelous land.
How gay the waving -wheat will be !
How eagerly the grass will thrive !
What diamonds will cluster now
In the deep branches of the pines!
Wait, do not sleep ; but let us listen
To the rhythm of the rain.
Cradle between my breasts
Your silent forehead.
I will feel the beating of your temples
Palpitant and warm
Just as if they were two living hammers
Striking upon my flesh.
JUANA DE IBARBOUROU
Espera, no te duermas. Esta noche
Somos los dos un mundo,
Alslado por el viento y par la lluvia
Entre las cuencas tibias de una alcoba.
Espera, no te duermas. Esta noche
Somos acaso la raiz suprema
De donde debe germinar maSana
El tronco bello de una raza nueva.
JUANA DE IBARBOUROU
'Wait., do not sleep. Tonight
The two of us are a world^
Isolated by -wind and rain
In the warmth o a bedroom.
tj do not sleep ; tonight we
Perhaps., that root that goes deep down,
From which tomorrow there will spring
The lovely stock^ the race to come.
R.H.
RAFAEL HELIODORO VALLE
Para Ricardo AreTioIes
CREO en la Idea todopoderosa
que da el laurel a la melena endrina
y que en la Tlerra Santa de la Espina
eleva su Jerusalen la Rosa*
Y en la dladema crisoelef antina
que en la cabeza lugubre reposa,
y en el viento^ que es de la golondrina,
y en el jardin^ que es de la mariposa.
Creo que la neblina en la tormenta
arde en el ritxno puro y lo ilurniiia.
La noche es como un anfora sedienta
en que fulguran gemas silenclosas
Creo en la noche y creo en la neblina.
I Mi corazon ? Lo que yo tengo es rosas.
404
RAFAEL HELIODORO VALLE
For Ricardo
I BELIEVE in the omnipotent idea which bestows
the laurel on sloe-black locks, and
which in the thorn's Holy Land
lifts up its Jerusalem the Rose.
In the chryselephantine crown which lies
upon the brow that sadness hollows;
and in the wind which is the swallows*,
and the garden that is the butterflies*.
I believe that mist amid storm is a bright
flame in the pure rhythm which it discloses.
Night is an amphora athirst
where silent gems into radiance burst . . ,
I believe in the mist, I believe in the night.
My heart ? What I bear in my breast is roses,
M.L.
4-95
RAFAEL AREVALO MARTINEZ
IS0JPA MJLMPEA.
LE bese la mano y olia a jabon:
yo lleve la mia contra el corazon.
Le bese la mano breve y delicada
y la boca mia quedo perfumada.
Mudbachlta limpla, qulen a ti se atreva,
que como tus manos huela a ropa nueva.
Bese sus cabellos de crencha ondulada:
jsi tambien olian a ropa lavada!
I A que linfa llevas tu cuerpo y tu ropa ?
I En qne fuente pura te lavas la cara ?
Muchachita Iimpia 3 si eres una copa
llena de agua clara.
496
RAFAEL AREVALO MARTINEZ
CLEAN CL&TME&
I KISSED her hand and It smelt of soap:
I laid my own against my heart,
I kissed her short and delicate hand
and my mouth was left fragrant.
Clean little girl, whoever dares approach you
should^ like your hands, smell of fresh clothes.
I kissed her hair where the waves parted :
and they too smelt of laundered clothes!
To what waters do you take your body and your clothing ?
In what pure spring do you bathe your face ?
Clean little girl, you are just like a goblet
full of clear water.
M.L,
497
YOLANDA BEDREGAL DE CONITZER
mi
en rectangulo de sombras
como de una ventana en el vacio
mi cara adolescente me contempla.
Viene de lejos la mirada llmpia
bajo el ala extendida de las cejas
en clara catedral de la esperanza
y se arrodilla, ritmica, en los labios.
Limpia mirada en la que cae el mundo,
redonda como gota de rocio. . .
Yo me miro distante en esa imagen
de flor que va cuajando prlmavera:
mejillas de pelusa de durazno,
un hoyuelo inf antil como si un angel
tubiera hundido un dedo pequenito.
En el tallo del cuello la promesa
dormida de las venas que se Inician,
del dlmlmito pie a las manos finas ;
pallde^ matinal bajo la noche
partida en dos de relucientes trenzas.
Cinco afios esta inmovil esa imagen
mirando en la ventana del vacio,
Mientras tanto Ilovieron muchas lagrimas,
cinceles en la pulpa de la vida.
Es todavia flor mi cara joven,
pero de norte a sur, de este a oeste
tormenta en primavera liirio mi frente.
498
YOLANDA BEDREGAL DE CONITZER
jwnr
FRAMED in its shadow-rectangle
a window open upon empty space
my adolescent face confronts me.
From, far off comes that limpid gaz,e
beneath the brows* extended wing
in a cathedral of cloudless hope,
and kneels down, lilting, upon the lips.
Clear gaze in which the world descends,
round as a drop of dew
I contemplate myself afar within
that flower-image embellishing the spring :
cheeks of peach down,
a baby dimple as though an angel
had thrust in a tiny finger.
In the stem of the neck a dormant
promise of budding veins,
from little foot to dainty hands ;
a morning pallor beneath a night
falling in two shining braids.
For five years that unmoving image
has watched there in the window of emptiness.
Meanwhile how many tears have fallen,,
scoring the living flesh!
My youthful face is still a flower ;
but from north to south, from east to west,
an April storm has beaten upon my brow.
4.99
YOLANDA BEDREGAL DE CONITZER
En la mistica boca arrodillada
desangro el beso la evidencia Humana.
Mis pies danzaron, y mis manos saben
las formas de la arcilla atormentada.
En mi cuello bailaron las palabras
dc latigaxo y de caricia.
Una ausencia, una muerte y una vida
desdibujaron el retrato antiguo.
Estoy ahora como he sido siempre
y como nunca mas habre de ser,
Estaba escrito todo en lioja blanca.
Recien aprendo a leer mi adolescencia,
y he de aprender a leer toda mi vida
cuando y como hoy me miro en el retrato,
pueda iin dia mirarme desde el marco
sereno ? inmarcesible de la muerte.
500
YOLANDA BEDREGAL DE CONITZER
The kiss upon the mystic kneeling mouth
has been bled white by mortal evidence.
My feet have danced, and my hands have known
the contours of tormented clay.
Words that lash, words that caress,
have danced within my throat.
An absence, a death, and a life
have blurred the ancient portrait.
Now I am as I have always been
and as I shall never be again.
It was all written on the empty page.
I have just learned to read my youth,
and I shall learn to read my whole life when,
just as today I stare back at my portrait,
I shall one day look out upon myself
from the calm, and fadeless picture-frame of death.
D. D. w.
501
EMILE ROUMER
MAEABOUT de man cceur, aux seins de mandarine,
tu m'es plus savoureux que crabe en aubergine,
tu es mon afiba dedans mon calalou,
le doumbreuil de mon pois, mon the de zerbe a clou.
Tu es le boeuf sale dont mon coeur est la douane,
Faccasan au sirop qui coule en ma gargoine.
Tu es un plat fumant ? diondion avec du riz,
des acras croustillants et des thazars bien frits . .
Ma fringale d^amour te suit ou que tu ailles.
Ta fesse est un boumba charge de victuailles.
502
EMILE ROUMER
THE? PEASANT RECLAMES MIS
HIGH-YELLOW of my heart, with, breasts like tangerines,
you taste better to me than eggplant stuffed with crab,
you are the tripe in my pepper-pot,
the dumpling in my peas, my tea of aromatic herbs.
You are the corned beef whose customhouse is my heart,
my mush with syrup that trickles down the throat.
You are a steaming dish, mushroom cooked with rice,
crisp potato fries, and little fish fried brown . . .
My hankering for love follows you wherever you go .
Your bum is a gorgeous basket brimming with fruits and
meat.
J P.B.
5<>3
LUIS CANE
OKACION mm CABA
DEBO culdar este dia
en salud, en amor
y en alegria,
como de un hermano menor
cuya suerte se me conffa.
MI pensamlento
debera ser puro,
noble mi sentimiento,
mis ideas serenas,
mis palabras cordiales y buenas
y mi brazo acogedor y seguro.
Como dentro de cada brote esta contenida
la Primavera,
cada hombre tiene en su espiritu la manera
de ernbellecer la vida.
Malgastar una hora
en un mal pensamiento ? en una mala accion,
es dilapidar la riqueza que atesora
el corazon.
Debo cuidar este dia
para que mi vida sea bella
como la alegria
de una doncella.
504
LUIS CANE
JFOK JEACm AWAJBO5IVIJV
I MUST watch over this day,
in health, in love
and in joy,
as though it were a younger brother
whose fate is in my hands.
My thinking
must be pure,
my perceptions exalted,
my ideas composed,
my words sound and from the heart,
and my arm welcoming and sure,
Just as each bud encloses
Spring,
so in his soul each man holds the secret
of beautifying life.
To waste an hour
in a bad thought, a base action,
is to destroy the riches stored up
by the heart.
I must watch over this day
so that my life will be as fair
as the merriment
of a young girl.
D.F.
505
CONRADO NALE ROXLO
EL bosqoe se duerme y suena ?
el rio no duerme, canta.
Por entre las sombras verdes
el agua sonora pasa
dejando en la orilla oscura
manojos de espuma blanca.
Llenos los ojos de estrellas,
en el frondo de una barca.,
yo voy como una emocion
per la muslca del agua,
y llevo el rio en los labios,
y llevo el bosque en el alma.
LA partida de mi vlda
juego con tanta pereza
que perdere la partida
por no mover una pieza.
g Que me levante ? Que saiga
en busca del vellocino ?
No hay vellocino que valga
las fatigas del camino.
506
CONRADO NALE ROXLO
THE forest falls asleep and dreams,
the river does not sleep, but sings.
Among the green shadows
the ringing 'water flows
leaving on the dark bank
flecks of white foam.
My eyes filled with stars,
on the bottom of a boat,
I pass like an emotion
over the music of the water,
and I bear the river on my lips,
and I bear the forest in my soul.
M. B. D.
TMJE
AT the game which is my life
I play with such sloth
that I shall lose the game
for not moving a pawn.
I should get up ? I should go
to seek the Golden Fleece ?
There is no Fleece that is worth
the weariness of the road.
M. B. D.
507
CONRADO NALE ROXLO
SEMOR nunca me des lo que te pida.
Me encanta lo imprevisto, lo que baja
de tus rubias estrellas; que la vlda
me presente de golpe la baraja
contra que he de jugar. Qulero el asombro
de Ir silencioso per .mi calle oscura,
sentir que me golpean en el liombro-,
volvernxe,, y ver la f az de la aventura.
Quiero Ignorar en donde y de que modo
encontrare la muerte. Sorprendlda^
sepa el alma a la vuelta de un recodo,
que un paso atras se le quedo la vida.
CONRADO MALE ROXLO
LORD never grant me what I ask for*
The unforeseen delights me, what comes down
from your fair stars ; let life
deal out before me all at once the cards
against which I must play, I want the shock
of going silently along my dark street^
feeling that I am tapped upon the shoulder,
turning about, and seeing the face of adventure*
I do not want to know where and how
I shall meet death. Caught unaware,
may my soul learn at the turn of a corner
that one step back it still lived.
M. B. D,
509
CARMEN ALICIA CADILLA
RESPOISTSOS por el alma
del reloj muerto.
Santa Maria . . .
Media cniz solamente
pudleron
hacer sus dedos.
Paraliticas qiaedaron
en su pobre cara livida,
las tres de la madrugada.
Padre ISTuestro que estas
con el alma de mi reloj-
en los cielos . . .
EL aire es triste a veces,
Tan triste
que imagine
que E>ios duerme
y olvida.
CARMEN ALICIA CATHLLA
EJESPONSORIES for the soul
of the dead clock*
Holy Mary . .
Only half a cross
could
its fingers make*
Paralytic they stopped
on its poor livid face,
three o'clock in the morning.
Our Father, tuho art
with the soul of my clock
in Heaven . . *
D.F.
AIR
AT times the air is sad,
So sad
that I fancy
God is sleeping,
unaware,
ZXF.
CARMEN ALICIA CADILLA
O jo de piedra.
Lagrima de bronce.
Lagrima sonora
quc se dilnye
como mid de sonido
en la campina.
Angelus.
Gracla de Dies,
Hisopo musical
que bendice
todo lo que acaricia.
Anciano campanario.
^Relicario de siglos devotos
colgado al pecho de la tarde
ungida de inocencia.
Tarde.
Primera comulgante
arrebolada en goce
de iniciacion suprema.
CARMEN ALICIA CADILLA
of stone.
Tear of bronze.
Resonant tear
melting
like Honey of sound
in the fields.
Angelus,
Grace of God,
Musical aspergillum
that blesses
all it caresses.
Ancient belfry.
Shrine of devout ages
adorning the breast of the evening
anointed with innocence.
Evening.
First communicant
rosy with the joy
of supreme initiation.
/>. F.
5*3
ALFONSINA STORNI
SE balancea^
arriba, sobre el cuello^
el mundo de las slete puertas :
la humana cabeza
Redonda., come las planetas :
arde en sn centre
el nucleo primero.
O sea, la corteza;
sobre ella el limo dermico
sembrado
del bosque espeso de la cabellera.
Desde el nucleo,
en mareas
absolutas y azules.,
asciende el agna de la mirada
y abre las suaves puertas
de los ojos
como mares en la tlerra.
... tan quletas
esas mansas aguas de Dlos
qxie sobre ellas
marlposas, insectos de oro
se balancean.
Y las otras dos puertas :
las antenas acurnicadas
en las catacumbas que inician las ore] as;
pozos de sonidos.,
caracoles de nacar donde resuena
5*4*
ALFONSINA STORNI
WOKLD OJF TMm SEVEN WEULS
THERE sways,
up there, upon the neck,
the world of the seven doors ;
the human head . . .
Round, like the planets :
at its centre burns
the primal nucleus,
which is the shell;
over it the dermic slime
sown
with the deep forest of the hair*
From the nucleus,
in tides,
limitless and blue,
the rising waters of sight
open the soft doors
of the eyes,
like seas upon the land.
... so still,
those calm waters of God,
that over them
butterflies and golden insects
hover.
And the other two doors:
the antennae huddled
in the catacombs that lead in from the ears ;
wells of sound,
pearly shells where echo
5*5
ALFONSINA STORNI
la palabra cxpresada
y la no expresa;
tnbos colocados a derecha e izqtilerda
para que el mar no calie nunca,
y el ala mecanica de los mundos
mmorosa sea,
Y la montana alzada
sobre la linea ectiatorlal de la cabeza:
la nariz de batientes de cera
por donde coraienza
a calarse el color de la vida;
las dos puertas
por donde adelanta
fiores, ramas y fmtas
la serpentina olorosa de la primavera.
Y el crater de la boca
de bordes ardidos
y paredes calcinadas y resecas ;
el crater qiae arroja
el aziifre de las palabras vlolentas^
el humo denso que viene
del corazon y su tormenta;
la pnerta
en corales labrada suntuosos
por donde engulle., la bestia,
y el angel canta y sonrie
y el volcan hnmano desconcierta.
Se balancea,
arriba,
sobre el cuello,
el mundo de los slete pozos :
la humana cabeza.
ALFONSINA STORNI
the word expressed
and the unexpressed;
tubes placed to right and left
that the sea may never be hushed,
and that the mechanical pavilion of the worlds
may be filled with murmurs.
And the mountain rising
on the head's equatorial line:
the nose with waxen portals
through which begins
to penetrate life's colour;
the two doors
through which advances
flowers, boughs and fruits
the fragrant coil of Spring.
And the crater of the mouth
with burning edges
and calcined desiccated walls;
the crater casting forth
sulphur of wrangling words,
dense smoke proceeding
from the heart and its agony;
that door,
coral-carved most sumptuous,
through which the beast gobbles,
the angel sings and smiles,
and the human volcano pours out confusion.
There sways,
up there,
upon the neck,
the world of the seven wells :
the human head.
517
ALFONSINA STORNI
Y se abren praderas rosadas
en BUS valles de seda :
las mejillas musgosas.
Y ricla
sobre la coraba de la frente,
desierto bianco,
la luz lejana de u 
