We present this work in honor of Galician Literature Day.
Manuel Curros Enríquez Spanish 1851 – 1908
Once upon a night in the wheat fields By the reflected white light of the bright moon A young girl mourned without pause The disdain of an ungrateful beau.
And between plaints the poor girl said, “I have no one left in the world… I’m going to die and my eyes do not see The dear eyes of my sweet boon.”
Her echoes of melancholy Strolled on the wings of the wind And she kept repeating the lament, “I’m going to die and my boon doesn’t come!”
Far away from her, standing at the stern Of a rogue steamboat slaver, The unfortunate, forlorn lover Emigrates en route to America.
And upon watching the gentle swallows Cross toward the land he leaves behind, “Who could turn back,” he pondered, “Who could fly away with you…!”
But the birds and the vessel sped onward Without hearing his bitter laments, Only the winds kept repeating, “Who could fly away with you…!”
Clear nights of fragrances and moonlight: How much sadness you own since then For those who saw a young girl weeping, For those who saw a ship leave port…
Away from a heavenly, genuine love That is not shown by teardrops alone: A grave on a lookout And a corpse on the ocean floor!
I have a need for your voice, a longing for your company, and an ache of melancholy for the absence of signs of arrival. Patience requires my torment, the urgent need for you, heron of love, your solar mercy for my frozen day, your help, for my wound, I count on. Ah, need, ache and longing! Your kisses of substance, my food, fail me, and I’m dying with the May. I want you to come, the flower of your absence, to calm the brow of thought that ruins me with its eternal lightning.
We present this work in honor of the 105th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Eduardo Pondal Spanish 1835 – 1917
My good friends, liven up! He who shrivels up shatters his spirit; Let whoever wishes to drink drink, Let whoever wishes to live live And drink… and long live Have-a-Drink!
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 185th birthday.
Rosalia de Castro Spanish 1837 – 1885
Good-bye rivers, good-bye fountains; Good-bye, little rills; Good-bye, sight of my eyes: Don’t know when we’ll see each other again. Sod of mine, sod of mine, Sod where I was raised, Small orchard I love so, Dear fig trees that I planted,
Meadows, streams, groves, Stands of pine waved by the wind, Little chirping birds, Darling cottage of my joy,
Mill in the chestnut wood, Clear nights of brilliant moonlight, Cherished ringing bells Of the tiny parish church,
Blackberries in the brambles That I used to give my love, Narrow footpaths through the cornfields, Good-bye, for ever good-bye! Good-bye, heaven! Good-bye, happiness! I leave the house of my birth, I leave the hamlet that I know For a world I haven’t seen! I leave friends for strangers, I leave the lowland for the sea, I leave, in short, what I well love… Would I didn’t have to go! But I’m poor and—base sin!— My sod is not my own For even the shoulder of the road Is loaned out to the wayfarer Who was born star-crossed. I must therefore leave you, Small orchard I loved so, Beloved fireplace of home, Dear trees that I planted, Favourite spring of the livestock. Good-bye, good-bye, I’m leaving, Hallowed blades of grass in the churchyard Where my father lies buried, Saintly blades of grass I kissed so much, Dear land that brought us up. Good-bye Virgin of the Assumption White as a seraph, I carry you in my heart: Plead with God on my behalf, Virgin of the Assumption mine, Far, very far away hear The church bells of Pomar; For hapless me—alas— They shall never ring again. Hear them still farther away Every peal deals out pain, I part alone without a friend… Good-bye land of mine, good-bye! Farewell to you too, little darling…! Farewell forever perhaps…! I send you this farewell crying From the precious coastline. Don’t forget me, little darling, If I should die of loneliness… So many leagues offshore… My dear house! My home!
We present this work in honor of the 160th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Francisco Martínez de la Rosa Spanish 1787 – 1862
Written in London in 1811
I saw upon the shady Thames Unnumber’d ships with riches fraught; I saw the power the nation claims Immense, the greatness it has wrought, And arts that such renown have brought.
But the afflicted mind exhaled A thousand sighs; again to view The flowery banks the wish prevail’d, Where glides the Douro calmly through, Or Henil’s streams their course pursue.
I saw the proud Court’s ladies forth Their wealth and grandeur gaily show; I saw the beauties of the North, Their bright complexions white as snow, Commingling with the rose’s glow.
Their eyes appear’d of heavenly blue, Their tresses of the purest gold; Their stately forms arose to view, Beneath the veil’s transparent fold, As white and lovely to behold.
But what avail the gay brocade, The city’s silks, and jewels’ pride; Or charms in rosy smiles array’d, With brilliant gaiety supplied, That all to beauty are allied?
When but is seen my country girl, Clad in her robe of simple white, Shamed are the needless silk and pearl; And by her pure and blooming light Confused hides beauty at the sight.
Where shall I find in icy clime Her black and beaming eyes of fire? That whether scornfully the time, To look, or kindly they desire, To rob me of my peace conspire?
Where the black hair that may like hers In hue with ebony compare? Where the light foot that never stirs, When bounding o’er the meadows fair, The lowly flowers that blossom there?
Maids of the Henil! dark ye be; But ne’er would I exchanged resign Your charms for all that here I see, Proud Albion shows, of brows that fine Ev’n as the polish’d ivory shine.
O, father Douro! gentle stream, Whose sands a golden store supply, Deign of my heart the wish supreme To hear, thy sacred margins by, That it may be my lot to die!
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 480th birthday.
Juan de la Cruz Spanish 1542 – 1591
I
So I might seize the prey in this divine venture I flew ever higher from sight was forced to stray, yet love so far did fly that though in my flight I faltered in the height I caught the prey on high.
II
As higher I ascended so the hardest conquest came about in darkness, all my sight was dazzled: yet since love was my prey from blind dark a leaper I flew on ever higher till I overtook the prey.
III
In this highest game, the further I ascended the humbler, more subdued more abased I became. ‘None attains it’, I did say. I sank down lower, lower, yet I rose higher, higher and so I took the prey.
IV
My one flight in strange manner surpassed a hundred thousand for the hope of highest heaven attains the end it hopes for: there hope alone did fly unfaltering in the height: hope, seeking in its flight, I caught the prey on high.
Alfonso X, El Sabio, of Castile Spanish 1221 – 1284
1.
Rose of beauty and fine appearance And flower of happiness and pleasure, lady of most merciful bearing, And Lord for relieving all woes and cares; Rose of roses and flower of flowers, Lady of ladies, Lord of lords.
2.
Such a Mistress everybody should love, For she can ward away any evil And she can pardon any sinner To create a better savor in this world. Rose of roses and flower of flowers, Lady of ladies, Lord of lords.
3.
We should love and serve her loyally, For she can guard us from falling; She makes us repent the errors That we have committed as sinners: Rose of roses and flower of flowers Lady of ladies, Lord of lords.
4.
This lady whom I acknowledge as my Master And whose troubadour I’d gladly be, If I could in any way possess her love, I’d give up all my other lovers. Rose of roses and flower of flowers, Lady of ladies, Lord of lords.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 140th birthday.
Juan Ramón Jiménez Spanish 1881 – 1958
The ancient spiders with a flutter spread Their misty marvels through the withered flowers, The windows, by the moonlight pierced, would shed Their trembling garlands pale across the bowers.
The balconies looked over to the South; The night was one immortal and serene; From fields afar the newborn springtime’s mouth Wafted a breath of sweetness o’er the scene.
How silent! Grief had hushed its spectral moan Among the shadowy roses of the sward; Love was a fable—shadows overthrown Trooped back in myriads from oblivion’s ward.
The garden’s voice was all—empires had died— The azure stars in languor having known The sorrows all the centuries provide, With silver crowned me there, remote and lone.
Upon a darkened night on fire with all love’s longing – O joyful flight! – I left, none noticing, my house, in silence, resting.
Secure, devoid of light, by secret stairway, stealing – O joyful flight! – in darkness self-concealing, my house, in silence, resting.
In the joy of night, in secret so none saw me, no object in my sight no other light to guide me, but what burned here inside me.
Which solely was my guide, more surely than noon-glow, to where he does abide, one whom I deeply know, a place where none did show.
O night, my guide! O night, far kinder than the dawn! O night that tied the lover to the loved, the loved in the lover there transformed!
On my flowering breast, that breast I kept for him alone, there he took his rest while I regaled my own, in lulling breezes from the cedars blown.
The breeze, from off the tower, as I sieved through its windings with calm hands, that hour, my neck, in wounding, left all my senses hanging.
Self abandoned, self forgot, my face inclined to the beloved one: all ceased, and I was not, my cares now left behind, and gone: there among the lilies all forgotten.
We present this work in honor of the 485th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Garcilaso de la Vega Spanish 1501 – 1536
I Had I the sweet resounding lyre Whose voice could in a moment chain The howling wind’s ungoverned ire, And movement of the raging main; On savage hills the leopard rein,
II The lion’s fiery soul entrance, And lead along with golden tones The fascinated trees and stones In voluntary dance, Think not, think not, fair Flower of Gnide,
III It e’er should celebrate the scars, Dust raised, bloodshed, or laurels dyed Beneath the gonfalon of Mars; Or borne sublime on festal cars, The chiefs who to submission sank
IV The rebel German’s soul of soul, And forged the chains that now control The frenzy of the Frank. No, no! its harmonies should ring In vaunt of glories all thine own,
V A discord sometimes from the string Struck forth to make thy harshness known; The fingered chords should speak alone Of Beauty’s triumphs, Love’s alarms, And one who, made by thy disdain
VI Pale as a lily dipt in twain, Bewails thy fatal charms. Of that poor captive, too, contemned, I speak, his doom you might deploreIn Venus’ galliot-shell condemned
VII To strain for life the heavy oar. Through thee no longer as of yore He tames the unmanageable steed, With curb of gold his pride restrains, Or with pressed spurs and shaken reins
VIII Torments him into speed. Not now he wields for thy sweet sake The sword in his accomplished hand, Nor grapples like a poisonous snake, The wrestler on the yellow sand;
IX The old heroic harp his hand Consults not now, it can but kiss The amorous lute’s dissolving strings, Which murmur forth a thousand things Of banishment from bliss.
X Through thee, my dearest friend and best Grows harsh, importunate, and grave; Myself have been his port of rest From shipwreck and the yawning wave; Yet now so high his passions rave
XI Above lost reason ‘s conquered laws, That not the traveller ere he slays The asp, its sting, as he my face So dreads, or so abhors. In snows on rocks, sweet Flower of Gnide,
XII Thou wert not cradled, wert not born, She who has no fault beside Should ne’er be signalized for scorn; Else, tremble at the fate forlorn Of Anaxarete, who spurned
XIII The weeping Iphis from her gate, Who, scoffing long, relenting late, Was to a statue turned. Whilst yet soft pity she repelled, Whilst yet she steeled her heart in pride,
XIV From her friezed window she beheld Aghast, the lifeless suicide; Around his lily neck was tied What freed his spirit from her chains, And purchased with a few short sighs
XV For her immortal agonies, Imperishable pains. Then first she felt her bosom bleed With love and pity; vain distress! Oh what deep rigors must succeed
XVI This first sole touch of tenderness! Her eyes grow glazed and motionless, Nailed on his wavering corse, each bone Hardening in growth, invades her flesh, Which, late so rosy, warm, and fresh,
XVII Now stagnates into stone. From limb to limb the frost aspire, Her vitals curdle with the cold; The blood forgets its crimson fire, The veins that e’er its motion rolled;
XVIII Till now the virgin’s glorious mould Was wholly into marble changed, On which the Salaminians gazed, Less at the prodigy amazed, Than of the crime avenged.
XIX Then tempt not thou Fate’s angry arms, By cruel frown or icy taunt; But let thy perfect deeds and charms To poets’ harps, Divinest, grant Themes worthy their immortal vaunt;
XX Else must our weeping strings presume To celebrate in strains of woe, The justice of some signal blow That strikes thee to the tomb.
Poets Corner 