We present this work in honor of the 480th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Juan Boscan Almogaver Spanish 1490 – 1542
I am like one who in a desert bides Forgotten by the world and its concerns, By chance encounter suddenly who learns A dear friend lives, whom he supposed had died.
He fears at first this doubtful apparition, But finding it then reliable and assured, Commences to recall his past condition By newly awakened sentiments allured
But when it’s time for friend and friend to part Since to be parted soon he must consent He finds old solitude stamped with new indent.
To mountain grass he must then reconcile, And barren wastes which lack a trace of art, Trembling each time he enters his cave the while.
We present this work in honor of the 95th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Patrocinio de Biedma y la Moneda Spanish 1848 – 1927
I would like to be the ray of the dawn that lights up your forehead in the morning; to be a flower that you admired for its gallantry and give you an intoxicating essence. I would like to be the echo that disgraces her distant music reaches you: the fugitive and vain sweet shadow that you caress in your dreamy soul. But alas! that the sun the aurora fades, the flower dies and is lost in the wind the soft echo that vibrated in calm: I don’t want to be an illusion that disappears… It’s better to occupy your thoughts and be, like today, the soul of your soul.
Not of ladies, love, pageantry of enamored knights do I sing; nor the display, gifts and tenderness of loving affections and cares; but the valor, the deeds, the prowess of those valiant Spaniards who upond the untamed neck of the Araucanian with their sword placed their cruel yoke.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 30th birthday.
Elvira Sastre
Spanish
b. 1992
If you had met me pure, without a bad conscience, without sorrow in my dreams, without bites from others rooted in my shoulders.
Would you have bathed me in the morning light, licked the sleep from my eyes, stroked my insomnia, caressed my wrinkled hands with your teeth?
And if I had dressed up in something to look like you, if I had lied to you telling you my truths, if I had told you that you were the only one and not the first.
Would you have undressed me with your eyes closed and your expert hands, kissed me while I told you about my life, placed your name and mine on a pedestal and made this a love between equals?
And if I had sold myself as the love of your life,
if I had bought you as the love of mine.
Would we have fallen in love like someone who loves herself loving the one she loves?
We present this work in honor of the 180th anniversary of the poet’s death.
José de Espronceda
Spanish
1808 – 1842
The world is mine; I am free as air; Let others work that I may eat; All shall melt at my piteous prayer:— “An alms, for God’s sake, I entreat.”
The cabin, the palace, Are my resort; If the threat of the thunder Shall break from the mountain, Or the torrent’s quick fountain Shall drive me under, Within their shelter The shepherds make place, Lovingly asking me Food to grace; Or by the rich hearthstone I take my ease Fanned by the odors Of burning trees; With the luscious banquet And cushioned store, Upon the couch Of some proud señor.
And I say to myself:— “Let the breezes blow And the tempest rage In the world without: Let the branches crack Where the high winds go, As I slumber with nothing to trouble about. The world is mine; I am free as air!”
All are my patrons, And for all I ask My God as I daily pray; From peasant and noble I get my pay, And I take their favors Both great and small. I never ask them Who they be, Nor stop to task them With thanks for fee. If they desire To give me alms, ‘Tis but their duty To tip my palms. Their wealth is sinful They must see; And a holy state Is my poverty, And he is a miser Who would deny An alms, and a beggar Blest am I.
For I am poor and they grieve to note How I groan beneath my pain; They never see that their wealth is a mine Where I my treasures gain. The world is mine; I am free as air!
A rebel and a discontent Amid my rags am I; To satirise their ease I’m sent And with a sour-set eye I boldly stare at the potentate Who dares to pass me in his state.
The lovely maid Of a thousand scents In her joy arrayed With her love-locks blent— ‘Tis she I follow Till she turns around, And my evil smells Her sense astound. At the feasts and spreads My voice is heard And they bow their heads At my merest word. Their joy and revel I come to stay, At the sight of my rags And my voice’s brags Their music dies away. Showing how near Dwell pain and joy; No joy without tear No pain sans glad alloy. The world is mine; I am free as air!
For me no morrow Nor yesterday; I forget the sorrow And the welladay. There’s nought to trouble Or weary me here,— It’s a palace tomorrow Or a hospital’s cheer. I live a stranger To thoughts of care; Let others seek glory Or riches rare! My one concern Is to pass today; Let the laws prevail Where the monarchs sway! For I am a beggar And a poor man proud; ‘Tis through fear of me There are alms allowed.
A soft asylum Where’er it be, And a hospital bed Will be ready for me; And a cosy ditch Where my bones shall lie Will cover me over When I die.
The world is mine; I am free as air; Let others work that I may eat! All hearts must melt at my piteous prayer:— An alms, for God’s sake, I entreat!”
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!
Poets Corner 