Portico
(Translated by Thomas Walsh)
I am the singer who of late put by
The verse azulean and the chant profane,
Across whose nights a rossignol would cry
And prove himself a lark at morn again.
Lord was I of my garden-place of dreams,
Of heaping roses and swan-haunted brakes;
Lord of the doves; lord of the silver streams,
Of gondolas and lilies on the lakes.
And very eighteenth century; both old
And very modern; bold, cosmopolite;
Like Hugo daring, like Verlaine half-told,
And thirsting for illusions infinite.
From childhood it was sorrow that I knew;
My youth-was ever youth my own indeed?-
Its roses still their perfume round me strew,
Their perfume of a melancholy seed-
A rainless colt my instinct galloped free,
My youth bestrode a colt without a rein;
Intoxicate I went, a belted blade with me;
If I fell not-'twas God who did sustain.
Within my garden stood a statue fair,
Of marble seeming, yet of flesh and bone;
A gentle spirit was incarnate there
Of sensitive and sentimental tone.
So timid of the world, it fain would hide
And from its walls of silence issue not,
Save when the Spring released upon its tide
The hour of melody it had begot-
The hour of sunset and of hidden kiss;
The hour of gloaming twilight and retreat;
The hour of madrigal, the hour of bliss,
Of "I adore thee" and "Alas" too sweet.
And 'mid the gamut of the flute, perchance,
Would come a ripple of crystal mysteries,
Recalling Pan and his glad Grecian dance
With the intoning of old Latin keys,
With such a sweep, and ardor so intense,
That on the statue suddenly were born
The muscled goat-thighs shaggy and immense,
And o the brow the satyr's pair of horn.
As Gongora's Galatea, so in fine
The fair marquise of Verlaine captured me;
And so unto the passion half divine
Was joined a human sensuality;
All longing and all ardor, the mere sense
And natural vigor; and without a sign
Of stage effect or literature's pretence-
If there is ever a soul sincere-'tis mine.
The ivory tower awakened my desire;
I longed to enclose myself in selfish bliss,
Yet hungered after space, my thirst on fire
For heaven, from out the shades of my abyss.
As with the sponge the salt sea saturates
Below the oozing wave, so was my heart,-
Tender and soft,-bedrenched with bitter fates
That world and flesh and devil here impart.
But through the grace of God my conscience
Elected unto good its better part;
If there were hardness left in any sense
It melted soft beneath the touch of Art.
My intellect was freed from baser thought,
My soul was bathed in the Castalian flood,
My heart a pilgrim went, and so I caught
The harmony from out the sacred wood.
Oh, sacred wood! Oh, rumor, that profound
Stirs from the sacred woodland's heart divine!
Oh, plenteous fountain in whose power is wound
And overcome our destiny malign!
Grove of ideals, where the real halts,
Where flesh is flame alive, and Psyche floats;
The while the satyr makes his old assaults,
Loose Philomel her azure drunken throats.
Fantastic pearl and music amorous
Adown the green and flowering laurel tops;
Hypsipyle stealthily the rose doth buss;
And the faun's mouth the tender stalking crops.
There were the god pursues the flying maid,
Where springs the reed of Pan from out the mire,
The Life eternal hath its furrows laid,
And wakens the All-Father's mystic choir.
The soul that enters there disrobed should go
A-tremble with desire and longing pure
Over the wounding spine and thorn below,
So should it dream, be stirred, and sing secure.
Life, Light and Truth, as in a triple flame
Produce the inner radiance infinite;
Art, pure as Christ, is heartened to exclaim;
I am indeed the Life, the Truth, the Light!
The Life is mystery; the Light is blind;
The Truth beyond our reach both daunts and fades;
The sheer perfection nowhere do we find;
The ideal sleeps, a secret, in the shades.
Therefore to be sincere is to be strong.
Bare as it is, what glimmer hath the star;
The water tells the fountain's soul in song
And voice of crystal flowing out afar.
Such my intent was,-of my spirit pure
To make a star, a fountain music-drawn,
With horror of the thing called literature-
And mad with madness of the gloam and dawn.
Of the blue twilight, such as gives the world
Which the celestial ecstasies inspires,
The haze and minor chord,-let flutes be heard!
Aurora, daughter of the Sun,-sound, lyres!
Let pass the stone if any use the sling;
Let pass, should hands of violence point the dart.
The stone from out the sling is for the waves a thing;
Hate's arrow of the idle wind is part.
Virtue is with the tranquil and the braves;
The fire interior burneth well and high;
Triumphant over rancor and the grave,
Toward Bethlehem-the caravan goes by!
The Three Wise Kings
My name is Kaspar. I the incense bear.
The glamour of the Star has made me wise.
I say that love is vaster than the skies.
And God exits. And Life is pure and fair.
-My name is Melchior. And my myrrh scents all.
There is God. He is the light of morn.
The fairest blossoms from the dust are born,
And joy is shadowed by a threatful pall.
-My name is Balthasar. I bring a wreath
Of Orient gold, my gift. I come to say
That God exists. I know all by the ray
Of starry light upon the crown of Death.
-Balthasar, Melchior, Kaspar, be ye still.
Love triumphs and has bid you to his feast.
Radiance has filled the void, the night has ceased:
Wearing Life's crown, Christ comes to work His Will!
Los Tres Reyes Magos
Y o soy Gaspar. Aquí traigo el incienso.
Vengo a decir: La vida es pura y bella.
Existe Dios. El amor es inmenso.
Todo lo sé por la divina Estrella!
-Yo soy Melchor. Mi mirra aroma todo.
Existe Dios. El es la luz del día.
La blanca flor tiene sus pies en lodo
y en el placer hay la melancolía!
-Soy Baltasar. Traigo el oro. Aseguro
que existe Dios. El es el grande y fuerte.
Todo lo sé por el lucero puro
que brilla en la diadema de la Muerte.
-Gaspar, Melchor y Baltasar, callaos.
Triunfa el amor y a su fiesta os convida.
Cristo resurge, hace la luz del caos
y tiene la corona de la Vida!
Song of Hope
Vultures a-wing have sullied the glory of the sky;
The winds bear on their pinions the horror of Death's
cry;
Assassining one another, men rage and fall and die.
Has Antichrist arisen whom John at Patmos saw?
Portents are seen and marvels that fill the world with awe,
And Christ's return seems pressing, come to fulfill the Law.
The ancient Earth is pregnant with so profound a smart,
The royal dreamer, musing, silent and sad apart,
Grieves with the heavy anguish that rends the world's great
heart.
Slaughterers of ideals with the violence of fate
Have cast man in the darkness of labyrinths intricate
To be the prey and carnage of hounds of war and hate.
Lord Christ! for what art waiting to come in all Thy might
And stretch Thy hands of radiance over these wolves of
night,
And spread on high Thy banners and lave the world with
light?
Swiftly arise and pour Life's essence lavishly
On souls that crazed with hunger, or sad, or maddened be,
Who tread the paths of blindness forgetting the dawn
and Thee.
Come Lord, to make Thy glory, with lightnings on Thy
Brow!
With trembling stars around Thee and cataclysmal woe,
And bring Thy gifts of justice and peace and love below!
Let the dread horse John visioned devouring stars, pass by;
And angels sound the clarion of Judgment from on high.
My heart shall be an ember and in thy censer lie.
Canto de Esperanza
Un gran vuelo de cuervos mancha el azul celeste.
Un soplo milenario trae amagos de peste.
Se asesinan los hombres en el extremo Este.
!Ha nacido el apocalíptico Anticristo?
Se han sabido presagios y prodigios se han visto
y parece inminente el retorno de Cristo.
La tierra está preñada de dolor tan profundo
que el soñador imperial, meditabundo,
sufre con las angustias del corazón del mundo.
Verdugos de ideales afligieron la tierra:
en un pozo de sombra la humanidad se encierra
con los rudos molosos del odio y de la guerra.
¡Oh, Señor Jesucristo! ¿Por qué tardas,
qué esperas
para tender tu mano de la luz sobre las fieras
y hacer brillar al sol tus divinas banderas?
Surge de pronto y vierte la esencia de la vida
sobre tanta alma loca, triste o emperdernida
que, amante de tinieblas, tu dulce aurora olvida.
Vén, Señor, para hacer la gloria de ti mismo.
Vén con temblor de estrellas y horror de cataclismo,
vén a traer amor y paz sobre el abismo.
Y tu caballo blanco, que miró el visionario,
pase. Y suene el divino clarín extraordinario.
Mi corazón será brasa de tu incensario.
Poets! Towers of God
Poets! Towers of God
Made to resist the fury of the storms
Like cliffs beside the ocean
Or clouded, savage peaks!
Masters of lightning!
Breakwaters of eternity!
Hope, magic-voiced, foretells the day
When on the rock of harmony
The Siren traitorous shall die and pass away,
And there shall only be
The full, frank-billowed music of the sea.
Be hopeful still,
Though bestial elements yet turn
From Song with rancorous ill-will
And blinded races one another spurn!
Perversity debased
Among the high her rebel cry has raised.
The cannibal still lusts after the raw,
Knife-toothed and gory-faced.
Towers, your laughing banners now unfold.
Against all hatreds and all envious lies
Upraise the protest of the breeze, half-told,
And the proud quietness of sea and skies….
¡Torres de Dios Poetas!
(Versos escritos en el ejemplar de Prosas profanas
enviado al poeta Juan R. Jiménez.)
Torres de Dios Poetas!
Pararrayos celestes,
que resistís las duras tempestades,
como crestas escuetas,
como picos agrestes,
rompeolas de las eternidades!
La mágica Esperanza anuncia el día
en que sobre la roca de armonía
expirará la pérfida sirena.
Esperad, esperemos todavía!
Esperad todavía.
El bestial elemento se alza
En el odio a la sacra prosa,
y se arroja baldón de raza a raza.
La insurrección de abajo
tiende a los Excelentes.
El caníbal codicia su tasajo
con roja encía y afilado dientes.
Torres, poned al paredón sonrisa.
Poned ante ese mal y ese recelo,
una soberbia insinuación de brisa
y una tranquilidad de mar y cielo….
A Sonnet on Cervantes
In all my days of troubled loneliness
And fretted grief Cervantes is to me
A faithful friend, and none so true as he,
That brings me precious gifts of quietness.
All nature his, and life. Of his largesse
My dreams, that are knight-errants bold and free,
Have golden casques to crown them gloriously.
He is, for me: sigh, prayer, joyousness.
He speaks as runs a brook, so amorous
And very gentle is this Christian knight,
Even undaunted. And I love him thus,
Beholding how the world, by fate's design,
Reaps, from his deathless sorrow, rich delight,
And laughter from a madness so divine!
Soneto a Cervantes
Horas de pesadumbre y de tristeza
paso en mi soledad. Pero Cervantes
es buen amigo. Endulza mis instantes
ásperos, y reposa mi cabeza.
El es la vida y la naturaleza:
Regala un yelmo de oro y de diamantes
A mis sueños errantes.
Es para mí: suspira, ríe y reza.
Cristiano y amoroso caballero
parla como un arroyo cristalino.
Así le admiro y quiero,
viendo cómo el destino
hace que regocije al mundo entero
la tristeza inmortal de ser divino!
On the Death of a Poet
Only the Swans that day
Saw the high maker of our thoughts embark
And o the Lake Mysterious fade away
In the black ship that crosses to the dark.
The poet's robe was his,
Embroidered with illustrious fleurs-de-lys;
And laurel leaf and thorn
His sad prefigured forehead did adorn.
Afar God's City rose,
Where everlasting Peace her throne has reared
Above the poppy-meadows of repose;
And as the coat of his desire he neared,
He proved divine delight, knew grace untold,
Beheld the Cross uplifted and, before
That sacred Conqueror,
The fallen Sphinx, a corpse already cold.
En la muerte de un poeta
(Rafael Núñez)
El pensador llegó a la barca negra:
y le vieron hundirse
en las brumas del lago del Misterio,
los ojos de los Cisnes.
Su manto de poeta
reconocieron los ilustres lises,
y el laurel y la espina entremezclados
sobre la frente triste.
A lo lejos alzábanse los muros
de la ciudad teológica en que vive
la sempiterna Paz. La negra barca
llegó a la ansiada costa y el sublime
espíritu gozó la suma gracia:
y vió la cruz erguirse,
y halló al pie de la sacra Vencedora
el helado cadáver de la Esfinge.
Antonio Machado
Wrapped in silence, secret-shy,
Once and again he wandered by.
From such depth his glances came
One could hardly see them flame.
When he spoke his accent would express
Timidity and haughtiness,
And nearly always one could see
His thoughts shining radiantly.
His faith was rooted on firm ground;
He used to be luminous and profound.
In the same flock shepherded
Lambs and lions he might have led;
He could have driven rambling gales,
Or brought honeycombs of tales.
The wonders of love and life and pleasure
Were his to sing in a magic measure,-
In verses whose meaning was hidden deep,
Whose secret lay in his soul's keep.
He mounted a rare wing's hose one day
I pray to my Gods for Antonio:
May they keep him from all woe.
Amen.
Oración por Antonio Machado
Misterioso y silencioso
iba una y otra vez.
Su mirada era tan profunda
que apenas se podía ver.
Cuando hablaba tenía un dejo
de timidez y de altivez,
y la luz de sus pensamientos
casi siempre se veía arder.
Era luminoso y profundo
como hombre de buena fe.
Fuera pastor de mil leones
y de corderos a la vez.
Conduciría tempestades
o traería un panal de miel.
Las maravillas de la vida
y del amor y del placer
cantaba en versos profundo
cuyo secreto era de él.
Montado en un raro Pegaso
un día al imposible fué.
Ruego por Antonio a mis dioses.
Ellos le salven siempre. Amén.
Bagpipes of Spain
Bagpipes of Spain, ye that can sing
That which is sweetest to us in the Spring!
You first sing of gladness and then sing of pain
As deep and as bitter as the billowed main.
Sing. 'Tis the season! As glad as the rain
My verses shall trip ye a jig or a fling.
Ecclesiastes said it again and again,
All things have their season, O bagpipes of Spain!-
A season to plant, a season to reap:
A season to sew, a season to tear;
A season to laugh, a season to weep;
Seasons for to hope and for to despair;
A season to love, a season to mate;
A season of birth, a season of Fate….
Gaita Galaica
Gaita galaica, que sabes cantar
lo que profundo y dulce nos es.
Dices de amor, y dices después
de un amargor como el de la mar.
Canta. Es el tiempo. Haremos danzar
al fino verso de rítmicos pies.
Ya nos lo dijo el Eclesiastés:
tiempo hay de todo; hay tiempo para amar;
tiempo de ganar, tiempo de perder,
tiempo de plantar, tiempo de coger,
tiempo de llorar, tiempo de reír,
tiempo de rasgar, tiempo de coser,
tiempo de esparcir y de recoger,
tiempo de nacer, tiempo de morir….
from Eleven Poems of Rubén Darío
G.P. Putnanm's Sons, New York and London, 1916
