Pablo Antonio Cuadra
translations
by Steven F. White
(From
The Birth of the Sun,
Unicorn Press, Inc., Greensboro, 1988)
Nonantzin
Girl
carved from a tree
Third class country
Republic
of poets
The campesinos go down the roads
At the heart of two burning stars
Written
near a blue flower
The
maiden's lament for the dead warrior
Night
is an unknown woman
Written on a roadside stone during the
first eruption
The birth of
Cifar
Woman lying on the beach
Fisher
The black ship
Exiles
NONANTZIN
(Imitation
of a poem by Netzahualcoyotl)
My
love, if I die,
bury
me beneath the hearth
where
you prepare meals.
As
your hands shape the tortilla,
your
heart will call me
the
way it used to.
But
if anyone, my love, keeps asking
about
your sorrow,
tell
them the wood is green
and makes your eyes tear.
GIRL CARVED FROM A TREE
Nicaraguan
birds are shaped by trees,
by
rain-ripened fruit,
by
wind-softened leaves,
by
each sigh that sap masters and
burnishes
into birdsong.
To
know my country is to hear
the
growing things sing and to kiss
the
spring as I have and to hear you
as
an orchard say goodbye to me
from a tree filled with
butterflies.
THIRD CLASS COUNTRY
Traveling in third class,
I have seen
a face.
Not all the men among my
people
cluster together like
sheep.
I have seen a face.
Not all of them fold
paper boats
to sail puddles.
Traveling, I have seen
the face of a farmer.
Not all of them offer
their faces to the whip of “no,”
or ask for charity.
I have seen dignity.
Because we do not simply
manufacture orphans,
or, inadvertently,
raise crows as children.
I have seen an austere
face. Peace
or sunlight on the
forehead
like some kind of fiery,
unique credentials.
If only we, the rebels
against the anthill,
marked by the usual
traits of our country,
could show
our face to the world!
REPUBLIC OF POETS
My
flag, like the sky,
strives
to unite
the
blue and the white.
The
founders erred
in
wanting to join from below
what
only brings us together
from
above...and not always.
Even
so, my compatriots,
you
achieve something by raising
the
sky on your flagpole:
we're
a million people
whose imaginations dip
and soar!
THE CAMPESINOS GO DOWN
THE ROADS
Two by two,
ten by ten,
by hundreds,
and thousands,
the campesinos go
barefoot
with their bedrolls and
their rifles.
Two by two the sons have
left,
hundreds of mothers have
cried,
thousands of men have
fallen
and turned to dust
forever
dreaming on their
bedrolls
about the life that was
their rifle.
The abandoned ranch,
the lonely fields of
corn,
the fields of beans
destroyed by fire.
The birds flying over
mute stalks
and the heart crying
its naked tears.
Two by two,
ten by ten,
by hundreds and
thousands,
the campesinos are
leaving
barefoot with their
bedrolls and their rifles.
Two by two,
ten by ten,
by hundreds,
and thousands,
the campesinos go
down the road
to fight the civil war!
(From El jaguar y la
luna, 1959)
AT THE HEART OF TWO
BURNING STARS
to Mario
Cajina Vega
He who fought for Liberty
was given a star,
next to
the luminous mother who
died in childbirth.
“How great was your
pain?” asked
the Warrior.
“Not
so great as my joy
in giving a new man to
the world,” she said.
“And did your deep
wound
torture you?”
“Not
so much
as my joy in giving man a
new world.”
“And did you know your
son?”
“Never!”
“And did you know the
fruit of your struggle?”
“I
died too soon.”
““Do you sleep?”
asked the Warrior.
“I dream,” replied
the mother.
WRITTEN NEAR A BLUE FLOWER
“I'm
scared to sketch the swallow's wing.
What
if my brush were to harm
its
tiny freedom?"
Heed
the
old master's wisdom, you with power,
when
you make laws for the weak.
Listen
to
the potter's adagio, my love,
when my lips are about to
meet yours.
THE MAIDEN'S LAMENT FOR THE DEAD WARRIOR
Ever
since ancient times,
the
rain has cried.
Still,
a
tear is always young
and
the dew is young.
Ever since ancient times
death
has been on the prowl.
Still,
your
silence is new
and so is my pain.