Song of the Beautiful Trust

Clementina Arderiu
1889 – 1976


I’ve given my lover
all my keys,
and I have got his
and we are at peace.
But there’s one room left
in the deepest lair,
and not for one second
can we enter there.
So many a heavy thought
and secret power
flees into it every
passing hour!
It isn’t worth it
to pry at the lock:
the uproar would blast you
harder than rock.
The echoes and shadows
will do just fine.
Let him keep his accounts
and I’ll keep mine.

Against an Avaricious Judge

Fray Luis de Leon
1527 – 1591


Even if in copious mountains you lift the attained, useless gold;
and even if your possessions you improve with the hurt and tears of others;

And even if, cruel tyrant, you oppress the truth,
and your avarice, dressed in a false name, converts justice to buying and selling;

Even if you fool the eyes of the world that you adore,
it will nonetheless not stop sharp thistles to be born in your heart;

Nor will fear stop sleeping in your bed;
nor will you escape worries and agony, the ultimate spite;

Nor will good hope in pleasure ever cross your threshold;

Nor will la Meguera, with infernal flames, and serpentine whip
in a raised and ferocious skilled arm, leave your bedchamber for a moment;

Nor will you stop the wheel of fortune, despite all you can do,
the hungry and cruel consumer of time is coming with death as a co-conspirator,
to leave you naked of the gold and all that you love most;

And you will be left immersed in interminable harm and oblivion.

Surrender of an Exiled Lover to the Power of His Own Sadness

We present this work in honor of the 375th anniversary of the poet’s death.

Francisco de Quevedo
1580 – 1645


These are now and will be the very last
tears that, with all the strength of living voice,
I shall lose in this fountain’s fleeting stream,
which carries them to slake the thirst of brutes.

I’m fortunate if, on some far-off shore,
while nourishing so much elusive pain,
I find a death that’s merciful, and fells
such flimsy structures built on weakened roots!

A spirit thus stripped bare a lover pure,
upon the sun I’ll burn, and my cold flesh
in dust and earth will keep Love’s memory.

to travellers I’ll be an epitaph,
since my face, lifeless, will declare to them:
“It was Love’s triumph to make war on me.”

To the Sun Because it Rose When He Was With a Woman and He Had to Leave Her

Luis de Góngora
1561 – 1627


Already kissing two crystalline hands,
Already clinging to a white, smooth neck,
Already scattering ‘round it all that hair,
which Love from the gold in its mines had torn;

already breaking on those precious pearls
a thousand sweet words, not deserving it,
already plucking from each lovely lip
crimson roses with no fear of thorns,

was I, oh shimmering and jealous Sun,
when your light, shattering my eyes,
killed my delight and stopped what I’d begun.

If heaven has not yet become too weak,
in order that yours cease to give me pain,
may its rays kill you as they did your son.

The Arrival

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 175th birthday.

Dolors Monserdà
1845 – 1919


Even here from the foot of the rise
I see those stand-out roses all
embroidering with tender branch
along the faces of the wall.
Already I feel those scents of yours
of jasmine and of lemon trees,
the unmistakable scent of home;
confused with another it cannot be.
Now I see my room beloved…
the windows there are open wide
just like dear friends that offer me
a safe and sheltered sleep inside.
I reach the top! And now, I am home
and all around I feel at ease.
Oh, the dear beloved plants
of my garden evergreen!
What splendid bounty of new leaves
the acacias and the almond trees!
And the branches of the pear
above the bench have spread their boughs
and the jasmine with its white flowers
infuse incense into the air.
Worthy of God! And the mimosa?
With what a bloom itself has dressed!
How lovely! there, at the crest of the tree
what seems like a crib yet must be a nest!
And high up in the canopy
a flock of little birds find rest!
Welcome all! for where they nest
is a home, they say, that God will bless.

What Unkempt Beard

We present this work in honor of Galician Literature Day.

Eduardo Pondal
1835 – 1917


What unkempt beard!
What pallid colour!
What vestments soiled
By prolonged ailment!
Perhaps he is a scoundrel,
Perhaps he is a thief…
Dear mother, help me,
Help me for God’s sake;
Perhaps he is some impaired fellow
Who has taken leave of his senses.
O what a wild look
Full of dread and affliction!
I can not tell whether he frightens me,
Whether he moves me to compassion:
He resembles a pine tree thrashed by the wind,
He looks as if he were cast up by the sea of Niñons.

“Simple young girl:
Do not fear me,
I am not a tramp,
I am not a thief.
Daring hieroglyph
Of the dreamy bog
I carry on, and to myself a stranger
Abstruse enigma am I.
If I am crazy perhaps,
Love crazy am I.
That is why the good folk
Wherever I go
Say with admiration
Upon seeing my slovenliness,
‘He resembles a pine tree thrashed by the wind,
He looks as if he were cast up by the sea of Niñons.’

“The noble soul dared
Sleepless thoughts,
Turbulent ambition,
Ironhanded resolutions.
The turbid regiment
Of a thousand profound yearnings
Took away (as it did from Lucifer)
The original splendor.
Wise bards
Whom fateful law birthed
Dreamers and indolent
Partake of his nature.
That is why I do not
Know myself, no,
And the very trails
I tread exclaim:
‘He resembles a pine tree thrashed by the wind,
He looks as if he were cast up by the sea of Niñons.’”

Dramatic Prologue for the Profession of a Nun

We present this work in honor of the poet’s 415th birthday.

Sor Marcela de San Felix
1605 – 1687


Solemn and most enlighted conclave,
in each of whom sense, devotion,
and wisdom dwell in equal measure
(oh, may I steer clear of contention)—
for refreshments, dear nuns, I beseech you,
and I beseech your Reverences
—forgive me that I put you second,
But I have poetic license:
Loquitur cermina
tatius frasis sonat.
—To sum up, I beseech you all
for a minute now to heed me,
and heed a flood of tribulations,
and a reservoir of miseries;
indeed to an ocean of misfortunes
please lend compassionate ears.
I come, good mothers and fine ladies,
with a hurt that grieves me sore,
I suffer a great and mortal anguish
by an unheard-of offense;
never in all your lives have you heard
of a similar disgrace,
nor affliction thus shown abroad,
nor of rot on so many tongues.
Abundantiam malorum,
tacitum numquam.
You all recall that I am a poet
Of the highest—indeed bachelor’s—degree;
well-known as they are, I’ll not rehearse
my talents and qualities.
Elsewhere I’ve told of my lineage,
my descent and ancestry;
of my good father and of my mother’s
great deeds and nobility,
but somehow I forgot to tell—
and it’s certainly a fact
I saw with my own eyes—that they drowned
my old granny in a cask;
but let me get back to the topic at hand,
for such worldly things as these,
though they greatly glorify a man,
are full of vanity.
Vanitas humana,
Pessima infirmitas.
—Well, then, as I say, I told you all
on a certain festive evening,
of how I was a worthy student
suffering poverty.
Necesitas magna
caret lege.
Well, then, my poverty inspired me
to relate all of my needs
in this convent of goodly nuns—
or more aptly put, of beasts
who prove themselves far worse than vipers
in cruel severity.
I shan’t say this is true of all;
with decorum and decency
you’ll hear me speak of all the rest—
just three tormented me:
these were the nuns in charge of stores,
women most bloodthirsty,
they are a squadron of nunnydevils,
the very height of meanness.
I’m not a rash or daring man
and my tongue shall not pronounce
a single word not ministered
by the force of reason;
I’m not permitted to tell this tale
nor the beastly and cruel actions
these women, forged of iron, performed,
by the force of my ire and shame.
If you might have somewhere a drop
your Reverences could share,
then let’s have a sip, for my poor throat
has gone quite dry with rage.
Animum debilem
vinum corroborat.
I knew that, in this very convent,
festivities would be held
for the heavenly wedding feast
of an angel pledged to God;
therefore, because I knew full well
that on occasions like these
the blessed nuns enjoy performing
holy comedies
(I mean, the dialogues divine
in which lately they find some fun),
it seemed to me that I could surely
(given my wit and learning)
By writing a dramatic prologue
Escape from poverty,
And, at the very least could eat
For a day or two or three.
And then I thought the good secretary,
Senor Deficiency,
would be generous in this case and have
the house quite full indeed.
I left for the convent in a trice,
but oh! at the door I met
a lion, a savage Hircanian tiger:
I encounted, in short, a Marcela.
Approaching her ever so carefully,
I said with deference,
“Good mother, it is a happy chance
to run into your Reverence,
“because I have right here for you
just what you need, I know it.
Although my scholar’s hood is ragged,
I fancy myself a poet,
“and proud to be a disciple of
that fertile riberbank, Vega,
the many offspring of whose wit
gave Spain such grand resplendence.
“For you, a prologue I’ve composed
to accompany your fiesta,
and it is my wish that every nun
derive from it great pleasure.”
“Where have you put this prologue, then?”
she rejoined with a mouth of thistles,
all slantymouthed and droughtymouthed
and thornymouthed and splintered.
“Good Mother, I carry it at my breast;
here it is, your Reverence.”
“Show me the Prologue, good fellow; God keep you,
I’m off to chapel for terce.”
“Now, my good Mother,” I made reply,
“I beg you the charity
of giving me something, your Reverence,
for great is my poverty.”
“In Jesus’ name, my friend, see here!
far greater is our own need:
for the persons number forty and two
that this convent must house and feed;
“with a hundred thousand expenses to meet
And the scarcest revenue;
not a single penny do we collect,
and our debts are coming due.”
“I’m sure, good Mother, that it is so,”
I said, “but please see here,
for my poverty and my hunger too
have the very simplest cure:
“Give me no more than a nice broad bowl
of cabbage and lentils, stewed,
and you’ll have fulfilled all I could ask
with a deed most kind and good.”
“It surely would be good, in truth!”
each cabbage costs one whole penny,
six farthings each endive costs at the least,
and every measure of lentils
“—what with prices rising, and carried on up—
why it easily comes to fifty;
and then the grocer’s lds will want
a drink and a bit of luncheon.
“Mariana, is it not just as I say?
Since everything costs us more
than it’s worth, the good Lord Himself only knows
whether in fact God desires
“that nuns should be fed!” These words were said
by the first of her dear companions,
and sisters indeed they might have been,
both miserly and phlegmatic.
But the next nunnyverbiage,
Her second companion dear,
More merciful—though little enough—
Would restrain this sad affair:
“Mariana, please bring this poor lad a bite,
for upon the tablecloth
I left two leeks and most of an egg,
missing nought but its yolk.”
I have kept those for myself,
so I may save on my supper;
your Charity must not give it away—
I am going to close up the cupboard.
“Now I can see how little you know
of costs, your Charity:
with so little caution, oh spendthrift woman!
you give things aways for free.”
This was said by the serpent herself,
That harsh and sour Marclea.
Then I found myself somewhat
emboldened (for
to be right grants some permission),
and I said to her, “Then, Mother mine,
in a fiesta like yours here,
can there be nothing that is left over?
Not even a little pear,
“nor perhaps a morsel of boiled fish,
Nor a crust of bread today?”
“If fish or fruit has been left over,
or such things as you say,
“don’t you see, brother, I still must face
the greater part of Lent?”
And in it the Annunciation occurs;
But first Saint Joseph’s is spent;
“Holy Thursday, obligatory to serve
a good substantial meal;
the Resurrection; a hundred Apostles
from Easter to Christmastide;
the Cross of Mary and Saint Anne’s Day,
but first the Magdalene…”
and if I had not interrupted, she would
have recited the calendar then,
leaving aside neither female nor male,
on earth nor in highest heaven,
whom this stingy woman would fail
to include in her saints’ day planning.
She’d not fail to mention them, I mean;
the refectory they’d not enter,
save in the “Garland of Saints” read aloud,
or some other holy legend.
“But can it be,” was my retort,
“you’ve not even a bit of bread?”
Miss Empty-Pockets answered me,
“And how should we have it, friend?
“You see how expensive bread has become,
and seven whole measures won’t keep
the convent supplied with enough for its use
for even a single week;
“and we are, if indeed you do not know,
Plunged in the direst hardship.”
Then may it not soften (good Saint Bruno give aid)
by so much as a bit of water!
You three most miserable and cruel
and evil-hearted of ladies
that were ever described in bygone tales
or invented in stories:
may God give you a ravening appetite
and never let you fill it;
when you break bread, may every bite
stick fast in your gullet.
And may all the rest of your food
turn either salty or bitter,
may you find a thousand flies in your broth
and in your eggs find chiggers;
may bits of dirt fall from your figs
and a thousand worms from your raisins;
may you have ringworm upon your scalps
and on your hands have scabies;
and in your larders may you find
little mice aplenty.
And lest you take too great a part
in a speech so lengthy,
may not a molar or tooth remain
in the mouth of any nun;
may their bones stick out all over,
may they vomit and never be done,
and have cramps beyond all counting,
and tapeworms, and stitch in the side;
may all of you sicken at water,
so you go through gallons of wine;
may not a one be able to eat
simple olives or greens;
may everything be banished away
that brings you the slightest relief,
may you only digest medicinal jams
and nutmeg and dry biscuit;
and may all the nuns, at the top of their lungs,
shout that you’ve tried to kill them.
And so, were I not such a patient lad,
I’d spout more imprecations,
For a righteous anger requires of me
this impressive demonstration.

Secret Energy

Lupe Gómez
b. 1972



You gave birth to me. I bore wings.
The blood of the dead was kept
in the trough.
It was Entroido, Carnival. I believed in the open sincerity of accordions.

There’s snow, so much snow in the fields and in the language I speak,
inside the political stomach of cows.


You gave birth to me striking softly
in the difficult percussion of my body.
The theatrical walls of the wellsprings burst
in the crystal of night.

I took flight.


You had four children, and forty years.
You gave birth in the kitchen of a dirt-floored house.
My blood was a knot in your domed belly.


You danced, and brought in the harvest.
I had whooping cough and
was expiring in your arms.


“I’ve two godmothers. Two meadows. Two pasts. Two trains. I’m two women, two sisters, two neighbour ladies, two wee boats.”


“There at that baptism, in 1972, was my godmother Marisol who wanted to name me for a tiny Virgin revered in that dark, chilly, lovely church. Also there /present and absent / were my godmother Virtudes and godfather Antonio. They lived in Germany, in the emigration of flowers. Virtudes’s eyes are wide-open blue camellias. Antonio was a decent and elegant man from Hermida. Though he’s dead, he keeps giving me gifts.”

Night is memory . . .


Mother camouflaged. Nest for birds.
Cuddle. Linguistic embraces.

I went hunting for birds.


I love you, with my mute fingers.
With butterflies of air I make you tatted lace.
With the blind power of my sad eyes
I rehearse a work of theatre for you.

With my love I make you
a forest.
I learn to listen to clouds, to work earth and to read heaven, in your lap.


“You gave birth to me, and your man looked on in silence, bursting with happiness and trees. I brought electric shadows.”


You screamed,
ate sops,
sipped Sanson fortified wine.


From your body mine was born,
as if you were sharing
the mystery of magpies.


You had no dreams
because village women don’t dream.

The economic backwardness of Galicia
was a form of artistic avant-garde.


Jorge Manrique
1440 – 1479


Oh! Let the soul its slumber break,
Arouse its senses and awake,
To see how soon
Life, with its glory, glides away,
And the stern footsteps of decay
Come rolling on.

And while we eye the rolling tide
Down which our flowing minutes glide
Away so fast,
Let us the present hour employ,
And dream each future dream of joy
Already past.

Let no vain hope deceive the mind;
No happier let us hope to find
Tomorrow than today.
Our golden dreams of yore were bright:
Like them, the present shall delight;
Like them, decay.

Our lives like hasting streams must be,
That into one engulfing sea
Are doomed to fall,—
The sea of death, whose waves roll on
O’er king and kingdom, crown and throne,
And swallow all.

Alike the river’s lordly tide,
Alike the humble rivulet’s glide,
To that sad wave;
Death levels poverty and pride,
And rich and poor sleep side by side
Within the grave;

Our birth is but the starting-place,
Life is the running of the race,
And death the goal;
There all those glittering toys are brought:
The path alone of all unsought
Is found of all.

Say, then, how poor and little worth
Are all those glittering toys of earth
That lure us here!
Dreams of a sleep that death must break:
Alas! before it bids us wake,
Ye disappear!

Sonnet LXI

Joan Boscà Almogàver
1490 – 1542


Sweet dream it was and also sweet affliction,
when I was dreaming that it was a dream;
a sweet delight I’d take in what deceived me,
if only that deception longer seemed;
a sweet not being in myself, I saw
every good thing I’d ever want to see;
a sweet pleasure it was, though so intense
that sometimes it would just awaken me:

oh sleep, how much more gentle and delightful
you’d be if you would come so heavily
that with more calm you’d set on me your weight!

For while I slept, in short, I was in bliss,
and it is right that one be blessed in lies
who’s always been in truth unfortunate.