La Mujer ~ Andrés Díaz Marrero
October 21, 2010 § Leave a comment
Tres Arboles / Three Trees
October 21, 2010 § Leave a comment
Tres árbo1es caidos
quedaron en la orilla del sendero.
El lenador los o1vidó, y conversan,
apretados de amor, como tres ciegos.
El sol de ocaso pone
Su sangre viva en los hendidos lenos
¡Y se llevan los vientos la fragancia
de su costado abierto!
Uno, torcido, tiende
Su brazo immenso y de follaje trémulo
Lacia otro, y sus heridas
Como dos ojos son, llenos de reugo.
El lenador los o1vidó. La noche
vendrá. Estaré con ellos.
Recibiré en mi corazón sus mansas
Resinas. Me serán como de fuego.
Y mudos y cenidos
Nos halle el dia en un montón de duelo.
Three trees, struck down, were left by the
edge of the road.
The woodsman forgot them, so, they spoke,
clutching one and other out of love, like three blind men.
The dying sun spills its fiery blood
on the wounded logs,
While the fragrance of their open sides
is lifted away by the winds!
One, twisted, extends its mightly arm
with trembling leaves toward another,
and its wounds beg like
two pleading eyes.
They woodsman forgot them. Night is coming.
I will be one with them. Their mild resins
will flow into my heart. To me they’ll burn like fire.
And—day will find us, silent and clinging
together, in a heap of sorrow.
by Gabriela Mistral. John A. Crow, John T. Reed, John E. Englekirk, Irving A. Leonard, An Anthology of Spanish-American Literature. New York: Meridith Corp., 1968.
Sensemaya
October 21, 2010 § Leave a comment
canto para matar una culebra
¡Mayombe-bombe-mayombé!
¡Mayombe-bombe-mayombé!
¡Mayombe-bombe-mayombé!
La culebra tiene los ojos de vidrio;
la culebra viene y se enreda en un palo;
con sus ojos de vidrio, en un palo;
con sus ojos do vidrio.
La culebra camina sin patas,;
la culebra se esconde en la yerba;
caminando se esconde en la yerba,
caminando sin patas.
¡Mayombe-bombe-mayombe!
¡Mayombe-bombe-mayombé!
¡Mayombe-bombe-mayombé!
Tú le das con el hacha, y se muere:
¡dale ya!
¡No le des con el pie, que te muerde,
no le des con el pie, que se va!
Sensemayá, la culebra,
sensemayá,
Sensemayá, con sus ojos,
sensemaya.
Sensemayá, con su lengua,
sensemayá.
Sensemayá, con su boca,
sensemaya . . .
¡La culebra muerta no puede comer;
la culebra muerta no puede silbar;,
no puede caminar,
no puede correr!
¡La culebra muerta no puede mirar;
la culebra muerta no puede beber;
no puede respirar,
no puede morder!
¡Mayombe-bombe-mayombé!
Sensemayá, la culebra . . .
¡Mayombe-bombe-mayombé!
Sensemayá, no se mueve . . .
¡Mayombe-bombe-mayombé!
Sensemayá, Za culebra . . .
¡Mayombe-bombe-mayombé!
(Chant to kill a snake)
¡Mayombe-bombe-mayombé!
¡Mayombe-bombe-mayombé!
¡Mayombe-bombe-mayombé!
The snake has eyes of glass;,
The snake coils on a stick;,
With his eyes of glass on a stick,
With his eyes of glass.
The snake can move without feet;
The snake can hide in the grass;
Crawling he hides in the grass,
Moving without feet.
¡Mayombe-bombe-mayombe.!
Hit him with an ax and he dies;
Hit him! Go on, hit him!
Don’t hit him with your foot or he’ll bite;,
Don’t hit him with your foot, or he’ll get away.
Sensemayá, the snake,
sensemayá.
Sensemayá, with his eyes,
sensemayá.
Sensemayá, with his tongue,
sensemayá.
Sensemayá, with his mouth,
sensemayá.
The dead snake cannot eat;
the dead snake cannot hiss;
he cannot move,
he cannot run!
The dead snake cannot look;,
the dead snake cannot drink,;
he cannot breathe,
he cannot bite.
¡Mayombe-bombe-mayombé!
Sensemayá, the snake . . .
¡Mayombe-bombe-mayombé!Sensemayá, does not move . . .
¡Mayombe-bombe-mayombé!
Sensemayá, the snake . . .
¡Mayombe-bombe-mayombé!
Sensemayá, he died!
by Nicolás Guillén John A Crow, John T. Reed, John E. Englekirk, lrving A. Leonard, An Anthology of Spanish-American Literature. New York: Meridith Corp., 1968.
Agape
October 21, 2010 § Leave a comment
Hoy no ha venido nadie a preguntar;
ni me han pedido en esta tarde nada.
No he visto ni una flor de cementario
en tan alegre procesión de luces.
En esta tarde todos, todos pasan
sin preguntarme ni pedirme nada.
Y no sé qué se olvidan y se queda
mal en mis manos, como cosa ajena.
He salido a la puerta,
y me da ganas de gritar a todos:
Si echan de menos algo, aqui se queda!
Porque en todas las tardes de esta vida,
yo no sé con qué puertas dan a un rostro,
y algo ajeno se toma el alma mia.
Hoy no ha venido nadie;
y hoy he muerto qué poco en esta tarde!
Agape
Today no one has come to inquire,
nor have they wanted anything from me this afternoon.
I have not seen a single cemetery flower
in so happy a procession of lights.
Forgive me, Lord! I have died so little!
This afternoon everyone, everyone goes by
without asking or begging me anything.
And I do not know what it is they forget, and it is
heavy in my hands like something stolen.
I have come to the door,
and I want to shout at everyone:
—If you miss something, here it is!
Because in all the afternoons of this life,
I do not know how many doors are slammed on a face,
and my soul takes something that belongs to another.
Today nobody has come;
and today I have died so little in the afternoon!
by Cesar Vallejo. Hortense Carpentier and Janet Brof, Doors and Mirrors: Fiction and Poetry from Spanish America. New York: The Viking Press, 1972.
Sobre La Tierra Amarga / Daydreams Have Endlessly Turning Paths
October 21, 2010 § Leave a comment
Sobre la tierra amarga,
caminos tiene el sueno
laberinticos, sendas tortuosas,
parques en flor y en sombra y en silencio;
criptas hondas, escalas sobre estrellas,
retablos de esperanzas y recuerdos.
Figurillas que pasan y sonrien
—jugetes me1ancó1icos de viejo—;
imágenes amigas,
a la vuelta florida del sendero,
y quimeras rosadas
que hacen camino . . . lejos . . .
Daydreams have endlessly turning
paths going over the bitter
earth, winding roads,
parks flowering, in darkness and in silence;
deep vaults, ladders against the stars;
scenes of hopes and memories.
Tiny figures that walk past and smile
—sad playthings for an old man—;,
friends we think we can see
at the flowery turn in the road
and imaginary creatures
that show us roads . . . far off . . .
by Antonio Machado. Hardie St. Martin, Roots and Wings: Poetry from Spain, 1900- 1975. New York: Harper and Row, 1976
Recuerdo lnfantil / Memory from Childhood
October 21, 2010 § Leave a comment
Una tarde parda y fria
de invierno. Los colegiales
estudian. Monotonia
de lluvia tras los cristales.
Es la clase. En un cartel
se representa a Cain
fugitivo, y muerto Abel,
junto a una mancha carmin.
Con timbre sonoro y hueco
truena el maestro, un anciano
mal vestido, enjuto y seco,
que lleva un libro en la mano.
Y todo un coro infantil
va cantando la lección:
“Mil veces ciento, cien mil,
mil veces mil, un millión.”
Una tarde parda y fr’a
de invierno. Los colegiales
estudianMonoton’a
A chilly and overcast afternoon
in winter. The students
are studying. Steady boredom
of raindrops across the windowpanes.
It is time for class. In a poster
Cain is shown running
away, and Abel dead,
not far from a red spot.
The teacher, with a voice husky and hollow,
is thundering. He is an old man badly dressed
withered and dried up,
who is holding a book in his hand.
And the whole children’s choir
is singing its lesson:
one thousand times one hundred is one hundred thousand
one thousand times one thousand is one million
A chilly and overcast afternoon
in winter. The students
are studying. Steady boredom
of raindrops across the window panes.
by Antonio Machado. Hardie St. Martin, de la lluvia en los cristales. Roots and Wings: Poetry from Spain, 1900-1975. New York: Harper and Row, 1976
Peso Ancestral / Inheritance
October 21, 2010 § Leave a comment
Tú me dijiste: no lloró mi padre,;
tu me dijiste: no lloró me abuelo,;
no han llorado los hombres de mi raza,
eran de acero.
As’ diciendo te brotó una lágrima
ye me cayó en la boca . . . ; más veneno
yo no he bebido nunca en otro vaso asi
pequeño.
Débil mujer, pobre mujer que entiende,
dolor de siglos conoc’ al beberlo.
Oh, el alma mia soportar no puede
todo su peso.
You said to me: “My father did not weep,
Nor my grandfather weep.” I heard you say:
“No man of all my race has ever wept,;
of steel were they.”
And thus upon my trembling mouth I felt
The poison of your bitter teardrop fall,
Worse potion than my lips have ever quaffed
From a cup so small.
Weak woman, born all grief to comprehend,
I drank the pain of ages infinite;
But oh, my wretched soul cannot support
The weight of it!
by Alfonsina Storni. Willis Knapp Jones,
Spanish American Literature in Translation: A Selection of Poetry, Fiction, and Drama since 1888. New York: Frederick Ungar Publishing Co., 1963.
Cuadrados y Angulos / Squares and Angles
October 21, 2010 § Leave a comment
Casas enfiladas, casas enfiladas,
casas enfiladas.
Cuadrados, cuadrados, cuadrados.
Casas enfiladas.
Las gentes ya tienen el alma cuadrada,
ideas enfila
y ángulo en la espalda.
Yo misma he vertido ayer una 1ágrima,
Dios mio, cuadrada.
Houses in a line, in a line,
In a line there,
Squares, squares, squares,
Even people now have square souls,
Ideas in file, I declare,
And on their shoulders, angles wear.
Just yesterday I shed a tear and it
Oh, God, was square!
by Alfonsina Storni. John A. Crow, John T. Reed, John E. Englekirk, Irving A. Leonard, An Anthology of Spanish American Literature. New York: Meridith Corp., 1968.