Last week a friend and I decided to start a Spanish poetry discussion group. Three members and going strong. We had our first meeting this Sunday, at which we cooked delicious chicken tacos and talked about a couple of poems by the Nicaraguan poet Rubén Darío. He was very influential in 20th century Spanish poetry, and as we plan on going through the major figures of last century's Spanish language poetry, he seemed a good poet with which to start. I chose two poems; "Sinfonía en gris mayor" from his 1896 book
Prosas profanas y otros poemas, and "De Otoño" from
Cantos de vida y esperanza published in 1905. The two poems are strikingly different in style and subject, showing the evolution of Darío's poetics from one decade to the next. I've translated the two poems. You can read them below along with the original Spanish. What do you think?
Sinfonía en Gris Mayor
El mar como un vasto cristal azogado
refleja la lámina de un cielo de zinc;
lejanas bandadas de pájaros manchan
el fondo bruñido de pálido gris.
El sol como un vidrio redondo y opaco
con paso de enfermo camina al cenit;
el viento marino descansa en la sombra
teniendo de almohada su negro clarín.
Las ondas que mueven su vientre de plomo
debajo de muelle parecen gemir.
Sentando en un cable, fumando su pipa,
está un viejo marinero pensando en las playas
de un vago, lejano, brumoso país.
Es viejo ese lobo. Tostaron su cara
los rayos de fuego del sol del Brasil;
los recios tifones del mar de la China
le han visto bebiendo su fracaso de gin.
La espuma impregnada de yodo y salitre
ha tiempo conoce su roja nariz,
sus crespos cabellos, sus bíceps de atleta,
su gorra de lona, su blusa de dril.
En medio del humo que forma el tabaco
ve el viejo el lejano, brumoso país,
adonde una tarde caliente y dorada
tendidas las velas partío el bergantín…
La siesta del trópico. El lobo se duerme.
Ya todo lo envuelve la gama del gris.
Parece que un suave y enorme esfumino
del curvo horizonte borrara el confín.
La siesta del trópico. La vieja cigarra
ensaya su ronca guitarra senil,
y el grillo preludia un solo monótono
en la única cuerda que está en su violín.
Symphony in Gray Major
The sea like a vast quicksilver crystal
reflects the sheet of a zinc sky;
distant flocks of birds tarnish
the burnished pale gray background.
The sun like a round and opaque glass
with an ill pace walks to the zenith;
the marine wind rests in the shade
having for a pillow its black bugle.
The waves that move their belly of lead
below the jetty seem to groan.
Sitting on a cable, smoking his pipe,
is an old sailor thinking about the beaches
of a vague, distant, misty country.
This old man is a wolf. His face toasted
by the rays of fire of the Brazil sun;
the harsh typhoons of the sea of China
have seen him drinking his flask of gin.
The impregnated foam of iodine and saltpeter
has long known his red nose,
his frizzy hairs, his athlete biceps,
his canvas hat, his cotton blouse.
In the middle of the tobacco smoke
the old man sees the distant, misty country,
where one hot and golden afternoon
the brig set off with stretched sails...
The siesta of the tropic. The wolf sleeps.
All is now enveloped by the scale of gray.
It looks as if a soft and enormous stump*
of the horizon curve erases the limit.
The siesta of the tropic. The old cicada
rehearses its senile guitar snore,
and the cricket preludes a monotone solo
on the only string that is on his violin.
*The Spanish word is not confusing, just technical. A stump is an art tool, “a cylinder with conical ends made of rolled paper or other soft material, used for softening or blending marks made with a crayon or pencil.”
De otoño
Yo sé que hay quienes dicen: ¿por qué no canta ahora
con aquella locura armoniosa de antaño?
Ésos no ven la obra profunda de la hora,
la labor del minuto y el prodigio del año.
Yo, pobre árbol, produje, al amor de la brisa,
cuando empecé a crecer, un vago y dulce son.
Pasó ya el tiempo de la juvenil sonrisa:
¡Dejad al huracán mover mi corazón!
Of Autumn
I know there are those who say: Why not sing now
with that harmonious madness of long ago?
Those do not see the profound work of the hour,
the labor of the minute and the prodigy of the year.
I, poor tree, produced, for the love of the breeze,
when I began to grow, a vague and sweet sound.
The time has now passed of the youthful smile:
Leave it to the hurricane to move my heart!
