Untitled (December 2, 2012)

Sunshine brings new courage
To all who fear the dark.

“Cupid, I shake my fist at you!”  My loud boast 
Rings through the air –

“Demon of darkness, I declare myself free from your service!”

But oh!  Father in Heaven!

Lead me not into a forest of gently falling leaves,

Or near the sound of a stream rippling and gargling,

Or where clouds drift by on a glassy mere.

Eidolons

The cold rain courses gently over my raincoat

And seeps into my soul.  It is a harsh

Reminder that I no longer possess

The impermeability of youth.

Beatrice is gone.

Heartbreak – that’s what they called it.

And I know they were right, because

A piece of my soul was suddenly ripped out,

Leaving an irreparable void.

Sometimes the pain eases to a dull throb –

How I long for those brief, fleeting moments!

But then it comes back twice as strong.

Forgotten those precious lethean minutes

As the love-specter comes.

I reach out to her, but she melts

Into a mist of tears.

Once again, I’ve been tricked by a wisp of a memory,

Spending my days chasing eidolons.

The Lovers: A New Translation of Octavio Paz' "Los Novios"

I first discovered Octavio Paz’s poem “Los Novios” through the music of Eric Whitacre,[1] where it was translated as "A Boy and a Girl."  It quickly became one of my favorite poems, as well as one of my favorite choral works.  I looked up the original text, and while Muriel Rukeyser’s translation is beautiful, I was not quite satisfied that it captured the simplicity of original text.  In particular, the parallelism between the first and the second stanzas seemed to be masked.  I did this more literal translation for fun and (honestly) as a break from studying.

As a side note, the title Los Novios, is very difficult to translate into English without losing something.  The word “novio” means a boyfriend or a romantic partner and comes from the Latin novus, or new.  The feminine form “novia” means the same thing, and in Spanish, if there are multiples in a group consisting of females and males, the plural word takes the masculine plural.  While “los novios” could be translated as “the boyfriends,” context here is clear that it is the sum of a boyfriend and a girlfriend and not some sort of homoerotic message.  Because “The Boyfriend and the Girlfriend” is an awkward title, I took the liberty of translating the title as “The Lovers,” which seems to me to capture the essence of what Paz was trying to convey.

Original poem copyrighted by Octavio Paz.

Tendidos en la yerba 
una muchacha y un muchacho.
Comen[2] naranjas, cambian besos                                  como las olas cambian sus espumas.                                    

Tendido en la playa
una muchacha y un muchacho.
Comen limones, cambian beso
como las nubes cambian espumas.                                    

Tendidos bajo tierra
una muchacha y un muchacho.
No dicen nada, no se besan,
cambian silencio por silencio.         

    

Lying in the grass

a girl and a boy.

Eating oranges, exchanging kisses
like the waves exchanging their foam.

Lying on the beach
a girl and a boy.

Eating limes, exchanging kisses

like the clouds exchanging foam.

Lying underground
a girl and a boy.
Saying nothing, nor kissing
exchanging silence for silence.

---

[1] http://ericwhitacre.com/music-catalog/satb-choral/a-boy-and-a-girl

[2] To eat; double entendre for sexual relations in Mexico (Paz is Mexican).  Although I found it impossible to translate this meaning (and it should in all likelihood be left vague anyways for poetic value), I felt that this note was important for interpretation of a nuance that may have gotten lost in translation.

Jazz

I went to see a jazz concert.

Jazz is rapturous, exciting –

Not like classical music,

Beautiful, sterile, unapproachable.

But jazz is alive!

Life clings to the music

Like coal dust on a miner,

Or the lingering smell of pipe tobacco.

Jazz brings out the reckless joy of lovers

Or their darkest sorrows;

Brings out the mirth, the pain,

The muchness of being, of labor, or life.

The sounds twist and bend

Through the air like incense,

Or rather like the perfume of a beautiful woman.

The notes have a certain shape

As they slide and then dissipate –

It’s obvious now why people call it “blue”.

Jazz brings tears and laughter

And a reminder that the human experience is shared.

There is nothing new under the sun.

Gingko Leaves

Fans to welcome Spring

Now prostrate in golden death.

Gingko leaves falling.

The Bargain

The path of those dedicated to justice

Is long and hard, and leads to many strange places

And deep sacrifices

I remember so well

That day of oath-swearing,

That day of fealty.

Dreamlike, I flew

Into the realm of my lord,

Past hills full of herders leading their cattle

And saw bubbling pits spewing forth alphabets

Into channels of liquid letters, running into the great

Word-forges.  There satyrs hasten busily to keep

The speech vats from overflowing.

Here a pot of “but’s” and “if’s” seethes and nearly

Spills onto the floor. 

Meanwhile, another satyr spun molten letters

Into beautiful words – custom ordered for the best poets!

But my feet hastened onwards despite my lingering gaze,

And I entered the great palace – elysian home

For all departed poets, lawyers, philologists, and misers.

Flitting about ceaselessly in argument, debate, and conversation.

I caught only snatches of their talk

And was suddenly propelled into the presence of Mercury himself.

It all happened so quickly!

The bargain struck, the staff kissed,

And I was on my way home.

How then can I be at a loss for words?

False trickster!  He betrayed me -

I sold him my soul in consideration

Where then is the performance?

Or perhaps I am the betrayer,

Having so long acted the part of slave

To rival Venus.

Lovesick

What is happening to me?

So happy, so sad,

So high, so low,

Trembling, sighing, pacing –

I’ve become utterly useless.

What is happening to me?

A strange urge to carve that sweet name

Into every tree I meet –

There are not enough trees in Arden!

What is happening to me?

Pulling, twisting,

Like some internal rack,

Torturing my sleepless nights.

What is happening to me?

I have seen Beatrice.

I have seen Beatrice,

And she doesn’t even know it.

Untitled (November 7, 2012)

Twilight falls.  And Autumn falls.

Winter’s grasping fingers

Stretch back from tomorrow

To scrape the air of today.

A cold breeze softly shudders through dying leaves,

And though I’m safe inside –

No cold wind can touch me here!

I still feel the chill shudder through my heart.

Septimana

My weak, creaking voice can only sing:

“Je ne dois pas plus voir ce que j'aime,

Je ne veux plus souffrir le jour.”

As tears flow endlessly down my face.

This was my picture – Foolish romantic!

But the truth is different,

And far more surprising.

Surprised to find sorrow,

Seelenschmerz so deep

That I could never have imagined it

Darkness, weeping, dread – no!

It is unwise to dwell on the horrors of the past,

But it is enough to say

I have seen immense depths,

And now truly understand things

I thought I understood before.

Surprised to find joy.

I have done what I thought unthinkable.

Where I thought music would be gone,

I have sung.

Where I thought pleasure would be gone,

I have laughed and enjoyed life.

Where I thought my faith would depart,

I have felt the hand

Of the Almighty upholding me,

And heard His sweet voice

Whispering comfort to my heart.

Surprised to find change,

Everything is tinged with a sort of dull gray throb.

My deceiver-heart traps me so easily into overconfidence –

“I’m just fine.” –

Merely to undo me

At the sight of a sunset, a pumpkin, a cat.

Or the sound of a sad song.

That deceiver then makes me forget the reason,

And wish only to weep in her arms to comfort my sorrow.

But that can never again be.

Never!

Never is such a harsh word,

Filled with finality and tragedy.

But a word I must slowly learn to accept,

Since never again will I bask in her love,

See her eyes shining at me, feel her hand in mine,

Hear her voice gently whispering words of affection.

Never, never, never, never.

I keep saying the words, but they don’t get easier,

They don’t get more understandable.

Surprised by sameness,

That everything goes on as before.

Don’t they know that the world has ended?

But it hasn’t ended, and I still like things I liked before:

Clouds, cold-crisp winds,

Music, talking with friends, reading.

I had thought these delights would fail me,

And pleasure would be gone,

But life keeps going on.

I am full of questions and few answers.

Will I be damaged forever?

Will I be able to love again, or will I be forever destined

To harm and distrust?

How can Fall still enchant my heart?

Time reveals much, and some things I will perhaps never know,

But I have known love,

And it is enough.

And I have learned that sadness and happiness can be wrapped together,

Like ice and fire united, neither burning nor extinguishing the other.

And I have learned that while love may fade, Love never will.

Cursed

Foul Curse!

Cursing myself, cursing my Curse

Can I have hurt my dearest?

She whom I would not hurt above all in the world,

I am doomed to harm.

Adam!  How often have I

In anger spat out your name.

Father !  King!  You are not worthy of these!

You gave your children

Scorpions, snakes, stones,

By your thoughtless deed

Condemning us to hurt

Ourselves, our loves, our God.

And yet, in my heart I know

That this anger is yet another scapegoat,

A feeble attempt to hide my own guilt,

Far greater than the Adamite sin,

I have sinned time and time and time again,

Heaping just wrath on myself.

Alone.  I stand condemned

And have no right to blame my ancient Sire.

Foul Curse!

No, I must cry against myself.

Because a mighty Hero has freed me

But I so often pretend

That he has not.

And yet, can I have hurt my dearest?

This is bitter indeed – what do I gain

By playing at slavery?

If by chance, by pretending to have nothing,

I should lose all.

But the Highest King has refused to abandon me,

And does not receive back what he has once given.

And demands only these words:

Mea culpa.

Keen of Hamar

Towering cliffs rise in miniature,
Surrounded by a wasteland
Dotted here and there by
Tiny specks of flowers -
A solitary pink Courage against a world of brown.
In the distance, the chirping of a bird,
And then nothing but the wind.
Nothing and silence.

This world is altogether alien,
And surely has nothing to do with mankind.
I feel like an honored guest,
Allowed to peek into a silent shrine.

I rise to leave, and step quietly
Fearful lest I should interrupt
The reverie of rocks.

Arctic Moon

I drift in a sleepless dream
Too tired to sleep;
Too alert to stay awake.
When into the corners of my dream,
A light slowly seeps.
Just a little at first,
As it comes in the cracks,
Then suddenly I jump awake -
The wall awash with light.
I fumble to open the window
And am instantly dazed with wonder
At the beauty of the moon.

She glows with a regal splendour,
Surveying sleeping clouds,
As they float along the sky-currents.
Below them, cold, unseen,
The merciless Mere grudgingly obeys.
Little frostlings dance on my window before their queen,
Rejoicing in the cold crystalline air.
And Luna smiles over her dominion,
And the brightness hurts my eyes.

There, off the coast of Greenland,
I saw what ancient man held in high reverence.
Suspended twixt earth and sky,
I have walked on the verge of Heaven,
And there is no going back.

Fairy Tales

It’s over now; the destination reached.

“The End”.  Those magic words

Cause such a pleasure-pain of joy, sadness, nostalgia, and…

I close the book with hushed reverie.

Something about stories

Is a straight road to the soul-core.

It’s as if a hand reached right out of Faerie

And warmed my heart with its icy finger.

A tear falls on my cheek, and

I know I’ll never be the same.