Satirical Lettrillia IV

We present this work in honor of the 150th anniversary of the poet’s death.

Manuel Bretón de los Herreros
Spanish
1796 – 1873

Whene’er Don Juan has a feast at home,
I am forgotten as if at Rome;
But he will for funerals me invite,
To kill me with the annoyance quite:
Well, so be it!

Celeste, with thousand coy excuses,
Will sing the song that set she chooses,
And all about that her environ,
Though like an owl, call her a Siren:
Well, so be it!

A hundred bees, without reposing,
Work their sweet combs, with skill enclosing;
Alas! for an idle drone they strive,
Who soon will come to devour the hive:
Well, so be it!

Man to his like moves furious war,
As if were not too numerous far
Alone the medical squadrons straight
The world itself to depopulate!
Well, so be it!

There are of usurers heaps in Spain,
Of catchpoles, hucksterers, heaps again,
And of vintners too, yet people still
Are talking of robbers on the hill:
Well, so be it!

In vain may the poor, O Conde! try
Thy door, for the dog makes sole reply;
And yet to spend thou hast extollers,
Over a ball two thousand dollars:
Well, so be it!

Enough today, my pen, this preaching;
A better time we wait for teaching:
If vices in vain I try to brand,
And find I only write upon sand,
Well, so be it!

Translation by James Kennedy

Rouen: Place de la Pucelle

We present this work in honor of the 160th anniversary of the poet’s death.

Here blooms the legend fed with time and chance,
Fresh as the morning, though in centuries old;
The whitest lily in the shield of France,
With heart of virgin gold.

Along this square she moved, sweet Joan of Arc,
With face more pallid than a day-lit star,
Half seen, half doubted, while before her dark
Stretched the array of war.

Swift furled the battle-smoke of lying breath
From off her path, as if a wind had blown,
And showed no faithless king, but righteous death
On the low, wooden throne.

He would reward her; she who meekly wore
Alike her gilded mail and peasant gown,
Meekily recieved once earthly honor more, –
The formless, fiery crown.

A white dove trembled up the heated air,
And in the opening zenith found its goal;
Soft as a downward feather fell a prayer
For each repentant soul.

To My Mother

We present this work in honor of the 130th anniversary of the poet’s death.

More than a mother as a saint to me
You were in truth. You gave me birth and died,
But Oh! my mother when you left my side
God kissed an angel in eternity.
Today when in my dreams methinks I see
Your smiling face, I gaze on you with pride,
And sigh, sweet mother, as I oft have sighed,
While tears I shed when I remember thee.
And should we never, never meet again
How sad ‘twould by, but I shall always keep
Your image in my heart, and not complain;
For something tells me that you lie asleep
Because my suff’ring would have caused you pain—
Because my weeping would have made you weep.

Translation by Jorge Godoy

The Harvest Rain

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 130th birthday.

Shine out once more, thou radiant sun,
With noon-day splendours bright!
Break through the clouds which veil thy beams!
Diffuse thy cheering light!

Creation, deluged, weeps in showers;
The dripping flocks repine;
The birds are silent on the boughs;
Shine out, — all glorious shine!

No more they grind; — the sithe, the rake,
Are laid as useless by,
While many a wistful look is turn’d
Towards the western sky.

Wake from the north, ye slumb’ring wind!
Dispel the thick’ning gloom!
Lighten with smiles the brow of care, —
With all your influence come.

The Force of Fate

My soul trembles like a frenzied moth
throwing itself into the flame,
Every time my gaze lands
In your eyes, O my beloved!
Instead of looking for a shadow to rest
My gaze and flee the devouring fire,
My soul, mad as a moth,
throws itself more deeply into the flame it loves.

Translation by Juliana Brina

Vicious Circle

We present this work in honor of the 115th anniversary of the poet’s death.

The firefly danced in the air impatiently:
“Oh how I wish that I could be that yellow,
That burns in the eternal blue, a candle far!”
And yet the star gazed on the moon with jealousy:

“If only I could copy such transparency,
Which, from the Grecian column to the Gothic sill,
Has contemplated lovers’ faces sighingly!”
And yet the moon gazed on the sun with bitter will:

“Oh misery! If l could be that giant ball,
Immortal clarity, the sum of all that’s light!”
The sun, though, leans his brilliant chaplet o´er the wall:

I’m burdened by this numen’s aureole bright…
Pm wearied by this blue, unbounded parasol…
Why could I not be born a firefly at night?”

Translation by Frederic G. William

In the Light

We present this work in honor of the 90th anniversary of the poet’s death.

We are indeed children of Light. What an endless mart goes on in the Light. In the Light is our sleeping and waking, the play of our life and death.

Beneath one great canopy, in the ray of one great sun, slowly, very slowly, burn the unnumbered lamps of life.

In the midst of this unending Light I lose myself; amidst this intolerable radiance I wander like one blind.

We are indeed children of Light. Why then do we fear when we see the Light? Come, let us look all around and see, here no man hath cause for any fear.

In this boundless ocean of Light, if a tiny lamp goes out, let it go; who can say that it will not burn again?

Hame

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 160th birthday.

God bless our land, our Scotland,
Grey glen an’ misty brae,
The blue heights o’ the Coolins,
The green haughs yont the Spey,
The weary wastes on Solway,
Snell winds blaw owre them a’ —
But aye it’s Hame, lad,
Yours an’ mine, lad,
Shielin’ or ha’.

It’s Hame, it’s Hame for ever,
Let good or ill betide!
The croon o’ some dear river,
The blink o’ ae braeside.

God bless our land; it’s yonder –
Far in the cold North Sea:
But ‘neath the old Saint’s glamour
It’s calling you an’ me:
Your feet tread Libyan deserts,
Mine press the wattle’s bloom,
But to-night we stand together
Among the broom.

It’s Hame, it’s Hame for ever,
Let shore or sea divide!
The croon o’ some dear river,
The blink o’ ae braeside.

God bless our land. We dream o’t —
The days aye brakin’ fine
On the lang, lane glints o’ heather
In the glens we kent langsyne.

Ay, we are Reubens, rovers,
‘Neath mony an alien star,
But flaunt the blue flag o’er us,
Pipe up the ” Braes o’ Mar,”
And steppe and nullah vanish,
And pomp and pelf and fame —
It’s gloamin’ — on a lown hillside,
An’ lads, . . . We’re . . . Hame.

Futile Petition

We present this work in honor of the 125th anniversary of the poet’s death.

Princess! to envy the fate of a Hebe
Who appears on this porcelain cup at a kiss
from your lips,
I enjoy my passion but have no rank
other than priest
And I shall scarcely be shown naked on pottery.
As I am not your furry lapdog,
Neither rouge, nor clever games
And I feel your close glance falling on me,

Blonde whose divine coiffeurs are goldsmiths!
Name us… you whose raspberry laughter
Is joined in a flock of tamed lambs
Grazing on vows and bleating to their
heart’s content,
Name us… so that Love with fanlike wings
Combs me, fingering his flute, as I slumber
in the sheepfold,
Princess, name us shepherd of your smiles.