The Lake is extinguished, quiet, The Reeds are black, Asleep, Whispering, in a Dream. Montrously stretching across the Land The prostrate Mountains threaten. They don’t rest. They breathe deeply, and they hold Pressed together, one on one. Breathing deeply, Loaded with dull Forces, Unredeemed in consuming Passion.
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Berge in der Nacht
Der See ist erloschen, Schwarz schläft das Ried, Im Traume flüsternd. Ungeheuer ins Land gedehnt Drohen die hingestreckten Berge. Sie ruhen nicht. Sie atmen tief, und sie halten Einer den andern an sich gedrückt. Tief atmend, Mit dumpfen Kräften beladen, Unerlöst in verzehrender Leidenschaft.
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BRIEF NOTES
This poem was written by Herman Hesse (1877 – 1962) in 1905, when he was 28 years old, and published in 1911. Though he is most known for his novels, he also wrote many poems. He won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1946.
This is an unusual poem for Herman Hesse at this point in his life. Hesse was known for being something of a pacifist and a mystic so perhaps this gothic, expressionistic poem, filled with a dark fear of the future, was his poetic intuition sensing what was to come in Europe with the terrifying world wars just barely over the horizon.
I am supposed to tell you, The night is already so late — Do you want to torment me Beautiful Elizabeth?
This is what I am writing about, And you too; My love story, It is this evening and you.
You don’t have to disturb yourself, And push these poems away. Soon you will listen to them, Listen, and not understand.
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Elisabeth
Ich soll erzählen, Die Nacht ist schon spät – Willst du mich quälen, Schöne Elisabeth?
Daran ich dichte Und du dazu, Meine Liebesgeschichte Ist dieser Abend und du.
Du mußt nicht stören, Die Reime verwehn. Bald wirst du sie hören, Hören und nicht verstehn.
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BRIEF NOTES
This poem was written by Herman Hesse (1877 – 1962) in 1902, when he was 25 years old, a young man beginning his career as a writer. Though he is most known for his novels, he also wrote many poems. He won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1946.
Not even the minutiae of replacing a three with a two, not even the empty metaphor that summons an agonizing year and another that emerges, nor the fulfillment of a convoluted astronomical deadline surrounded with cataclysms of clappers and shouts, can undermine this serene midnight plateau, even as they make us wait with a fantastic display of doom and gloom, for the twelve dark chimes. The true cause of our fascination is the universal, fuzzy suspicion of the metaphysical possibilities of Time, it is the bewilderment of the miracle that in spite of such infinite alternatives something may sometimes persist in us motionless.
Ni la minucia guarismal de reemplazar un tres por un dos ni esa metáfora baldía que convoca un año agonizante y otro que surge ni el cumplimiento de un enrevesado plazo astronómico socavan con cataclismos de badajadas y gritos la altiplanicie de la media noche serena y en agorería fantástica nos hacen aguardar las doce campanadas oscuras. La causa verdadera es la sospecha universal y borrosa de las metafísicas posibilidades del Tiempo, es el azoramiento ante el milagro de que a despecho de alternativas tan infinitas pueda persistir algo en nosotros inmóvil.
End Of Year / Final De Año was published in 1923 in a short book of poems, Fervor De Buenos Aires, by Argentine author, Jorge Luis Borges. He was 23 years old when it was published and it was his first work. Through the years, Borges revised the original Fervor De Buenos Aires several times, sometimes with substantial changes, and even left some of the original poems out of these later editions. This poem however, was included, though with revisions, in his later editions.
My post presents the very first original copy, the 1923 version, with my translation, a version that is now somewhat hard to find. With that said, for this poem, the future editions were a bit simplified in terms of the metaphors and the structure, but the basic spirit of the poem remains pretty much the same.
Borges became quite well known and iconic through the years, mostly for his works of fiction, but he always maintained, that although Fervor was a somewhat immature work, from a very young author, the poems did contain the seeds of much of his later works. And indeed Borges throughout his distinguished career returned to the metaphysics of Time, and Eternity, quite often in his writings. This poem is a nice introduction to some of these later works Borges created, in my opinion!
The poem has two sections, each one comprising a seperate sentence.
The first sentence covers the poet’s feelings about the usual hoopla and partying that occurs on New Year’s Eve. I am sure we all have been there. I know as a New Yorker, I had to go to Times Sqaure on New Year’s Eve at least once in my life, a necessary pilgrimage if you will, and I did. Just as an aside, I will always remember how close we all felt, cheering the ball dropping down to signal the New Year, how we all were part of the same tribe, but then within a short time, after the celebration finished, the crowd just dispersed, we all went our seperate ways, the tribe dissipated, and we went back to our own lives.
Well, even though the Times Square ball drop officially began in 1907, Jorge Luis Borges, evidently wanted no part of the celebrations! To him, as expressed in this poem, the celebrations are misguided at best, and even spooky, at worst. The very deadline aspect of New Year’s Eve itself is considered convoluted. Borges wants no part of this craziness. Yet, he still honors this “serene midnight plateau”, in his heart and mind. And he will endure all the foolishness just to get there.
And where does he seek to go? Well the second sentence answers that question.
The true cause of our fascination with the New Year is our fascination with Time itself, and how it affects us and the Universe. Even though we know that everything is always changing, including ourselves, there is the chance that something can remain, something can be immobile, something of value can stay behind, motionless in us, for all of Time.
That is the fascination, the mystery, the miracle.
Maybe we should also consider that this New Year’s Eve, amidst all the happy celebrations.
I live my Life in ever widening Circles, that stretch over the World. I may not complete the last one, but I want to try it.
I am circling around God, the ancient Tower, and I have been circling for millennia; and I don’t know yet: am I a Hawk, a Storm, or maybe a great Song.
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Ich lebe mein Leben in wachsenden Ringen, die sich über die Dinge ziehn. Ich werde den letzten vielleicht nicht vollbringen, aber versuchen will ich ihn.
Ich kreise um Gott, um den uralten Turm, und ich kreise jahrtausendelang; und ich weiß noch nicht: bin ich ein Falke, ein Sturm oder ein großer Gesang.
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BRIEF NOTES
Book Of Hours was published in 1905, and written by Bohemian-Austrian author, Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926). It is celebrated as one of his major early works, and still resonates to this day with many readers, worldwide.
The book is divided into three sections, The Book Of A Monastic Life, The Book Of Pilgramage, and The Book Of Poverty And Death. The individual poems do not have titles, so typically a numbering system is used to point to a specific poem. Here the poem I have is I.2, which signifies, the second poem, in the first section. I have given it the name, Circles And Towers reflecting the subjects of the poem.
The title of the book, Book Of Hours, comes from Medieval times, and refers to prayer books, with illuminations that were created by hand during those ages. They have an obvious spiritual, and theological underpinning. Rilke’s poem follows in those spiritual footsteps, though he is not discussing theology, but rather the mysticism behind belief and life.
This poem is very popular on the Internet. In fact if you type in the first line of the poem (German), and search, you will find many translations and interpretations offered. Indeed, it is an amazing poem, that tries to seek the depths and meannings of our lives in 8 short lines! I think in a way, it may manifest the beginnings of New Age spirituality, but that is just my opinion.
The courtyards of the Spanish Moors, filled with history, beauty, utility, they are deeply rooted in the two most primordial things that exist: the Earth and the Sky. The windows with metal grilles making each street as familiar as a favorite lamp. The obsure, shady crossroads that point in four infinite directions in suburbs of silence and tranquility. The traditional bedrooms where mahagony burns with deep flames and the mirrors, despite the glare, reflect a quiet serenity in the shade. The streets that exalt your beauty … I have named the places where my tenderness is awakened and my heart is at peace with itself.
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CERCANIAS
Los patios agarenos llenos de ancestralidad y eficacia, pues están cimentados en las dos cosas más primordiales que existen: en la tierra y el cielo. Las ventanas con reja desde la cual calle vuélvese familiar como una lámpara. Las encrucijadas oscuras que alancean cuatro infinitas distancias en arrabales hechos de acallamiento y sosiego. Las alcobas profundas donde arde en quieta llama la caoba y el espejo a pesar de resplandores, es una remansada serenidad en la sombra. Las calles que altivece tu hermosura … He nombrado los sitios donde se despamama mi ternura y el corazón está consigo mismo.
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BRIEF NOTES
This beautiful, nostalgic poem, about returning home, was published in 1923, as part of a collection, Fervor De Buenos Aires, written by noted Argentine author, Jorge Luis Borges, when he was 23 years old.
Borges was born in Buenos Aires in 1899 and spent his much of his early youth there. When he was 14, his family moved to Europe, to seek medical treatment for his Father’s eye problems. Due to the First World War, they stayed in Europe until 1921, when they returned to their ancestral city, Buenos Aires. As a result, young Jorge obtained part of his education in several other countries, besides his country of birth.
The early 20th century was a time of great change in the world, a transition away from a rural, mostly agricultural life, to a more urban, industrialized ecosystem. There were many new opportunities, but also many dislocations. Plus the World War, and the Great Pandemic, reminded folks worldwide, that globalization had its dangers.
This poem is about coming back home, back to his beloved Buenos Aires, back the life he left behind. Other poems in Fervor speak of a more unsettling return, a sense of loss; here, Borges finds comfort in the place of his birth, the place where his family had deep roots.
Throughout his life Borges re-published Fervor a few times, often with many changes to the poems, and even leaving some poems out. This poem was carried forward in all the editions, and there were some changes. Here I have posted the original, with a pretty straightforward translation. Unlike some of his other poems in Fervor, where the Ultrist style could make translation a bit difficult, this poem was written in an almost Romantic style, with relatively smooth transitions between the lines. The profuse metaphors are still there, but they are handled in a more classical manner.
You who are my Brothers, Poor People near and far, In the Galaxies of the Stars You dream of your Sorrows, You who are folded without a word Into the pale, starry Night Holding Slender Hands of tolerance, You who suffer, you who watch, Poor, wandering Community, Sailors without a Star and Luck, Strangers, yet United with me, Send me my Greetings back.
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EINSAME NACHT
Die ihr meine Brüder seid, Arme Menschen nah und ferne, Die ihr im Bezirk der Sterne Tröstung träumet eurem Leid, Die ihr wortelos gefaltet In die blass gestirnte Nacht Schmale Dulderhände haltet, Die ihr leidet, die ihr wacht, Arme, irrende Gemeinde, Schiffer ohne Stern und Glück Fremde, dennoch mir Vereinte, Gebt mir meinen Gruss zurück.
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BRIEF NOTES
This poem was written by Herman Hesse (1877 – 1962) in 1902, when he was 25 years old. Though he is most known for his novels, he also wrote many poems. He won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1946.
This poem expresses a state of mind and spirit that I am sure many of us have also had, most poignantly, perhaps, when we were young. We may be relatively comfortable in our own lives, but we realize there are so many others out there who are not. Folks who are under extreme duress. This poem reaches out to those people and tries to make contact with them. It hopes for a sense of oneness, a shared attachment to a common fate and destiny.
As a pedestrian who travels the coast, marveling at the multitudes by the sea, surrounded by light and lavish spaces, Or, as one who listens and returns to hear a chord, whose vehemence undermines his desirous soul, I was the spectator of your beauty throughout a submissive journey. We said goodbye at dusk, when the fields confess their dejection, and I, in gradual solitude, returning down the streets whose faces still know you, knew my happiness was grieved, thinking that from such a noble collection of memories, only one or two would barely last, to be the lasting decorum of my soul in the immortality of its wandering.
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TROFEO
Como viandante que recorre la costa maravillado de la muchedumbre del mar, albriciado de luz y pródigo espacio o como quien escucha y torna a escuchar un acorde cuya vehemencia le socava el alma deseosa, yo fui el espectador de tu hermosura a lo largo de una sumisa jornada. Nos despedimos al anochecer cuando confiesan su abatimiento los campos y en gradual soledad al volver por la calle cuyos rostros aún te conocen se apesadumbró mi dicha, pensando que de tan noble acopio de memorias perdurarían escasamente una o dos para ser decoro del alma en la inmortalidad de su andanza.
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BRIEF NOTES
Trofeo, The Trophy, is a poem from Fervor De Buenos Aires, written by Argentine author, Jorge Luis Borges, and published in 1923, in an edition of 300 copies. The poem was included in further editions of poetry by the author with revisions, and changes. This copy above is from the original 1923 edition, both in the original Spanish, and my translation.
Borges was in his early twenties when he penned this romantic love poem. He was born in 1899, in Buenos Aires, Argentina, and at the age of 14, his family traveled to Europe, to seek treatment for his Father’s eye disease. Due to the First World War, the family was not able to return to Argentina until 1921. This romantic poem, written in the Ultraist style, reflects an early love of the poet, a love he still misses, deeply and sharply. The beauty of his girlfriend obviously held him captive and still does in these lyrics. Interestingly, though, by the end of the poem, Borges realizes most of his treasured memories, which still can bring happiness, will fade with time, leaving him with only a few precious moments that he will carry with him forever. And this realization, the effect of time, brings him to grief.
My translation follows the language and metaphors fairly closely, which sometimes can be a bit tricky for poems written in the Ultraist style. I did change the flow of the words and sentences just a bit, to achieve a more contemporary poetic rhythm.
The boats are still in the silent waters by the dock. Cranes periodically relax, motionless. The masts are dulled by the shallow sky. A muffled siren pulses its chords in the distance, in vain. The ashes of daring goodbyes, and farewell handkerchiefs, are exhausting everyone in this place. Seagulls with their wings, brush past the crossbeams of the ships’ bows, that cut through the forest of the seas. In an expected miracle, the dawn will roll down the cliffs, from soul to soul.
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ALBA DESDIBUJADA
Se apagaron los barcos en el agua cuadrada de la dársena. Las periódicas grúas relajan sus tendones. Los mástiles se embotan en el cielo playo. Una sirena ahogada pulsa en vano las cuerdas de la distancia. La ceniza de adioses aventados va agostando el paraje y es un pañuelo en despedida la gaviota que pasa rozando con las alas las hachas de las proas que talan la foresta de los mares. En previsto milagro la aurora despeñada rodará de alma en alma.
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BRIEF NOTES
Alba Desdibujada, Foggy, Blurred Dawn, the poet, all alone, walking along the docks, heavy mist, dreamy, lethargic kind of sunrise. It seems as if the whole world is in a state of suspension, waiting for the miraculous sun to finally arise and give everyone a new life.
Here is Alba Desdiburjada, a poem published in 1923, in Fervor De Buenos Aires, written by noted Argentine author, Jorge Luis Borges, when he was 23 years old, his very first published work, released in a run of 300 copies.
Borges would go on to publish a few editions of Fervor through the rest of his life, often with substantial revision, and omissions of some of these earliest poems. This poems was one of those omitted, and is difficult to find anywhere except in the original 1923 edition of Fervor.
That is somewhat unfortunate, in my opinion. These twenty short lines of poetry totally capture that state of ennui, that limbo of inaction, that almost hypnotized, drowsy consciousness that so many of us have experienced, particularly in the modern age, when we seem to be between time zones, caught in the pinchers of history, not knowing which way is forward, and which way is backward.
And it fits in with what was happening in the poet’s life at this time. He grew up in Buenos Aires at the turn of the twentieth century, but when he was 14, his family left for Europe, due to an eye disease that his father had. They ended up staying in Europe for quite some time, until 1921, due to WW I. When they came back, Buenos Aires had changed, and so had the world. Borges in this poem is expressing his sense of dislocation, his sense of what is next. It was a turning point in his life.
With that said, I am very pleased to present this poem to you, both in its original Spanish and my English language translation!
I will have to raise the immense life that even now is your mirror: stone by stone I will have to rebuild it. Since you walked away, how many places have become vain and meaningless, like holiday lights that shine, after the dawn has already brightened the day, how many paths have lost their sweet fragrance! Afternoons that once were niches of your image, music where you always waited for me, words from that time, I will have to break them, with my hands, reluctantly and with pain. The living, immense sky, cries out again and again over your abandonment. In what depths will I hide my soul where I cannot feel your absence, an absence, that like a terrible sun, without setting, still shines, definitive and merciless. Your absence girds my soul like a rope around a neck.
Habré de levantar la vida inmensa que aún ahora es tu espejo:: piedra por piedra habre de reconstruirla. Desde que te alejaste, cuántos parajes se han tornado vanas y sin sentido, iguales a luminarias que arrincona el alba, cuántas sendas perdieron su fragancia! Tardes que fueron nichos de tu imagen, músicas donde siempre me aguardabas, palabras de aquel tiempo, habéis de ser quebradas y a mis manos, reacias y con dolor. El vivo cielo inmenso clama y torna a clamar tu dejamiento. ¿En qué hondonada empozaré mi alma donde no pueda vigilar tu ausencia que como un sol terrible sin ocaso brilla, definitiva e inclemente? . Tu ausencia ciñe el alma como cuerda que abarca una garganta.
Ausencia is a romantic love poem in Fervor De Buenos Aires, written by Jorge Luis Borges, and published in 1923, when the poet was 23 years old. There has been speculation about the subject of the poem, but I will leave that to others. To lose or miss a loved one, particularly at that age, is common enough for all generations, for sure.
Unlike some of the other poems in Fervor, Ausencia was carried over to later editions, with changes, making it a shorter poem. Presented here is the original Spanish language edition, with the full force of emotion, unmitigated by years or memory.
The images here are powerful, the pain comes through, the poem is in the Ultaist style, but before you think the metaphors are over the top, think of the first love you lost. And consider, this is 1923, and as we know, the language of romance changes with each generation.
For my translation I have preserved the stark beauty of the imagery, updating the flow of the words a bit, to fit a more contemporary audience.
For my illustration, I have painted a beautiful red table and chair, on a lovely beach with blue skies. But it is empty. No one is there to enjoy the beauty.
How amazing, that in the midst of so much dejection and reluctance, chance enlisted for my soul, music that is so affectionate and brave, in that raucous Buenos Aires style, that it resolved my grief, scattered it in fact, boastfully, in the same way that the sky yields and embraces in its breath, storms and complaints! I took that music to be the surface of my soul, like someone carrying a flag.
¡Cómo entre tanto abatimiento y desgano el acaso alistó para mi alma esa música tan cariñosa y valiente, esa inconfesable racha porteña que resolvió mi pena desparramada en su alarde de igual manera que el cielo rinde y abarca en su anchura los temporales y las quejas! Yo llevé aquella música a flor de alma como quien lleva una bandera.
Hallazgo is a short poem, published in Fervor De Buenos Aires, in 1923, by Jorge Luis Borges. It contained 45 poems in all, many of them in the Ultraist style he championed at the time, and of course, many also revolve around the Argentine Capital, Buenos Aires, the city Borges was born in, left for Europe at the age of 15, and returned to when he was 21.
Borges made many revisions to these original poems, through the years, in different editions of Fervor De Buenos Aires. He also left out some of these original poems in these later editions and Hallazgo is one of them. It can be a difficult poem to find in English, or Spanish, and even more difficult to find any commentary on it.
I think that is a shame and am very happy to present it here! Borges never considered himself an expert in music, but scattered about in his works are references to music. At one time, a bunch of his poems were set to music in Argentina and became quite popular!
In this poem, the music refered to undoubtedly is the Tango, or the many variations on the Tango, which primarily originated and became famous in Buenos Aires. It certainly is a lively, dramatic music with well defined moves for the dancers. I never have done a Tango but I have watched a few and they are fascinating. I can definitely see how this music could cheer a person up and rescue them from dejection and reluctance.
This poem, was one of the poems in the collection that was written in the Ultraist style. Ultraism favored complex metaphors and little use of articles, among other things, to develop both poem and theme. In this translation I have preserved the metaphors but I have smoothed out some of the phrasing for a contemporary audience.
Like a blind man with ancient, mythical hands that set aside walls and glimpse skies, slowly with embarrassment, on split, uneven nights, I feel the verses come. I have to burn the formidable shadow in the limpid flame: purple words on the flagellated back of time. I must enclose the weeping of the ages in the hard diamond of the poem. It does not matter that my soul walks alone and naked like the wind as long as the universe still spans my life with a glorious kiss and in the quiet stillness, a cry rages.
To sow verses in the night is like a farmer planting the land.
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FORJADURA
Como un ciego de manos precursoras que apartan muros y vislumbran cielos, lento de azoramiento voy palpando por las noches hendidas los versos venideros. He de quermar la sombra formidable en su límpida hoguera: púrpura de palabras sobre la espalda flagelada del tiempo. He de encerrar el llanto de los siglos en el duro diamante del poema. Nada importa que el alma ande sola y desnuda como el viento si el universo de un glorioso beso aún abarca mi vida y en lo callado se embravece un grito.
Para ir sembrando versos la noche es una tierra labrantíia.
A very interesting poem about the process of creating a poem! From the first published work of Argentine author Jorge Luis Borges, Fervor De Buenos Aires, a book of 45 relatively short poems released in 1923, when he was 23 years old.
Interestingly I could not find this poem carried over to later editions of Fervor De Buenos Aires. I did see some online versions from various anthologies, but evidently Borges decided not to include this poem from the original Fervor in the later, much changed, editions. The fact that this is a hard poem to find makes it extra special to me!
And perhaps because I write poems myself, and love poetry of all types from all ages, I also think it is a beautiful, extraordinary work! And so I am altogether thrilled to present it here on my blog!
In this translation, I did take some minor liberties, poetic license you might say! I started reading Borges back when I was a teenager, so the changes I made are small and inline with his general view of the world.
Other than that, the only line that might cause some misunderstanding is “purple words”. There is a phrase from Roman times, “purple prose”, which usually refers to overly ornate language. It may mean that, Borges loves to throw paradoxes and contradictions into his works. Or it might be implying the symbolic meaning behind the color purple which could be wisdom, or intuition, among other things. Or it might be a colloquial expression from his times. Or it could imply all three, multiple implications, something that all poets, not only Borges, may do. I am not sure, so you will have to make your own mind up!
Between my love and I, must rise up, three hundred nights, like three hundred walls, and the sea will be a millennium between us.
Time starts with a hard hand, the streets are tangled in my chest. There will be nothing left but memories. (Oh afternoons of my deserved grief, nights, hoping to look at you, deserted fields, poor, humiliated skies, in the depths of the lake, like a fallen angel … deserted fields, poor, humiliated skies, in the depths of the lake … And your living, that graces my longings, and that neighborhood, carefree and pleasant, today may the light of my love shine forth …)
Definite as a timeless statue, your absence will sadden other places.
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DESPEDIDA
Entre mi amor y yo han de levantarse trescientas noches como trescientas paredes y el mar será un milenio entre nosotros.
El tiempo arrancatá con dura mano las calles enzarzadas en mi pecho. No habrá sino recuerdos. (Oh tardes merecidas de mi pena, noches. eperanzadas de mirarte, campos desalenltados, pobre cielo humillado en la hondura de los charcos como un ángel caildo … campos desalenltados, pobre cielo humillado en la hondura de los charcos … Y tu vivir que agracia mis anhelos y ese barrio dejado y placentero que hoy en luz de mi amor se resplandece … )
Definitiva como una estatua entristecerá tu ausencia otros campos.
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NOTES
This is the last poem in Fervor de Buenos Aires, the first book published by iconic Argentine author, Jorge Luis Borges in 1923. It contains forty-five poems, most relatively short, written in an intense style, with many somewhat complex metaphors. In later editions Borges made substantial changes to most of the poems and even left a few out. He slimmed the poems down, trimmed what he called excesses, made them perhaps more classical, more conversational. Yet he also said, this book of poems in their original form, contained and expressed the central ideas of his life’s work, that later works were really extensions of the ideas and intuitions in this first book of poetry.
For my translations I use the original text. There are plenty of excellent translations of the revised texts, but few if any, of the original. I do of course, look at the later versions, sometimes to get a better idea of the meanning behind the original poems. At the beginning of Borges’s career he was very into a movement called Ultraism, which focused heavily on complex metaphors as a means of writing poetry. And indeed, some of his metaphors in these early poems can be quite a bit obscure. They almost remind me of some of the poetry of the British Metaphysical poets from the 17th century. But behind this obscurity and complexity is a very rich imagination grappling with complex ideas, emotions, and situations stemming from the changing times in the world of the early 20th century. A world of wars, pandemics, shifting populations, and new technologies, among other things.
This is a pretty straightforward poem in terms of the topic, about parting from a loved one. Borges spent his early life living in different continents, South America and Europe. On coming back home to Argentina, after spending many years with his family in Europe, studying and earning degrees, he no doubt had to leave behind loved ones.
What makes this poem different from a poem you might read today, is the use of metaphors, and phrasing. Three hundred nights, fires in the lake (perhaps Lucifer), hard hands of a clock, deserted fields, etc. Indeed the last revised version Borges wrote, in the late 1960s, reads as if it might be a poem today on Twitter, or Instagram, or WordPress! It is straightforward, conversational, trimmed. But here in 1923, the young poet is the Ultraist without apology!
What I love about this poem is that through it all, the love that was shared and now left behind, still shines through. There is a loss but also a gain. That manifests an ultimate faith in life, a fire that carries through in other works, and make Borges such a great writer.
The streets of Buenos Aires they are the entry to my soul. Not the bustling streets of the city, filled with hustle and commerce, but the sweet streets of the suburbs, filled with trees and sunsets, and those streets even further out, beyond the sheltering woodlands, where austere little houses barely venture, profoundly hindered by immortal distances, they will never get lost in that deep vision made up of a great plain and even greater sky. They are for all the greedy souls a promise of fortune, for under their protection many lives are joined ending the seclusion of houses, and through them with the heroic will of deception, walks our hope.
Towards the four cardinal points the streets are unfolding like buckets I hope in my verses those flags are flying upright.
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Las Calles
Las calles de Buenos Aires ya son la entraña de mi alma. No las calles enérgicas molestades de prisas y ajetreos, sino la dulce calle de arrabal enternecida de árboles y ocasos y aquellas màs afuera ajenas de piadošos arbolados donde austeras casitas apenas se aventuran hostilizadas por immortales distancias a entrometerse en la honda visión hecha de gran llanura y mayor cielo. Son todas ellas para el codieiosode almas una promesa de ventura pues a su amparo hermánanse tantas vidas desunindiendo la reclusión de las casas y por ellas con voluntad heroica de engaño anda nuestre esperanza.
Hacia los cuatro puntos cardinales se van desplegando como bauderas las calles ojalá en mis verses enhiestos vuelen esas banderas.
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Two Thousand Twenty-Three, marks the 100 year anniversary of the publication of the first published work by the iconic Argentine author, Jorge Luis Borges! In Nineteen Twenty-Three, he published 300 copies of a small volume of poetry called Fervor De Buenos Aires, containing 46 poems and 60 pages.The very first peom in that collection, Las Calles, is presented here in my post.
Interestingly enough in Nineteen Sixty-Nine he published a new version with substantial changes, additions and subtractions. I may refer to newer versions, but I am sticking with the original because I am very fond of the first works of subsequently accomplished authors.
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Las Calles is a beautiful short poem in my opinion and a great keynote for the rest of the volume. I actually prefer this version over the revised version published in Nineteen Sixty-Nine. I think it accurately reflects the world of the poet when he returned to Argentina in Nineteen Twenty-One, at the age of 22, after having spent the previous 7 years abroad. He grew up in Buenos Aires spending his first 14 years there. This volume is his return song, and this poem sounds the first opening notes.
The poem flows through four stages, movements if you will. The poet conveniently divides them into four sentences, three of the sentences grouped together, the final sentence, seperated, serving as a coda.
The opening couplet states quite clearly, this is where the poet belongs, the streets are part of him, implicitly, he is happy to return.
In the next movement, the poem makes quite clear, the streets that Borges loves are not the busy, bustling commercial streets we think of today as city life, but the streets a bit further from the city, the suburbs he calls them. And even the ones further out, under open skies, that many city dwellers might never venture out to see. To me this represents the poet’s imagination, his vision, his willingness to go beyond his normal borders. And we have to remember at the beginning of the 20th century the outskirts of many cities, including those in America, often still had some remaining farmlands, open spaces and meadows, before they became developed and filled with city streets and avenues.
The third and final movement of this section is somewhat more complex. They are for the greedy souls, the poet writes, those looking for a fortune. Perhaps that would be us dreaming of becoming a rock star or a billionaire. For he goes on to say, he realizes these are deceptions but they also are a source of hope that helps to keep us going. Dreams don’t have to be realistic to be inspiring.
The last segment, the coda, the wrap up, helps to explain the contradictions and negativity of the third sentence. Here we see the poet reassert his true dream, his true hopes, to become an artist, an author, whose visions are straight and true. It frames the greed and false hopes of youth into a true calling, one that stands up straight on all points of the compass.
This is what Jorge Luis Borges wrote when he was about twenty three years old, on returning to his homeland, his place of birth. And as the rest of his life demonstrated, he lived up to that hope and fulfilled his true dream.
That is what I love about this first poem, from this first published work, in its original, unchanged format! I hope you enjoy it as much as I have! I personally found it to be inspiring.
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In the days and weeks ahead I intend to publish more of these wonderful poems with translations and illustrations. Eventually I will publish a small Ebook, probably with a selection of 20-25 of the original poems from 1923, some with comments as above, some with just illustrations and the translation. I am very excited about this project becasue while there are excellent translations of the 1969 revised edition, there are no translations I could find of the original. So I think it will be well worth the effort!
Stay tuned! And thanks for your continued support!
III Pues tu cólera estalla, justo es que ordenes hoy ¡oh Padre Eterno! una edición de lujo del infierno digna del guante y frac de la canalla.
III – Traditional Because your anger is exploding, Oh Eternal Father, You are justified in ordering today, a luxury version of Hell, worthy of a rogue with gloves and a tailcoat.
III – Alternative Because the cholera is exploding, Oh Eternal Father, You are justified in ordering today, a luxury version of Hell, worthy of a rogue with gloves and a tailcoat.
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Notes
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The translation today is for the third poem in Abrojos (Thistles), by Ruben Dario.
This third poem in Abrojos is a complete departure from the first two. They were focused entirely on young, teenage romance and love. This poem focuses on anger among other things and in my opinion has a complexity which is difficult to translate.
It begins with the very first line and the word “cólera”. This word in Spanish can be translated as either “anger” or “cholera”, quite a difference. It depends on the context. If it is anger, then the article would be feminine, “la cólera”. If it is masculine, “el cólera” then it would be cholera. Here the preposition “tu” is used which refers to a person. The problem is if the “tu” in line one refers to the Eternal Father, than it should be capitalized, which it is not!
Also, it seems a bit out of context to picture the Eternal Father as exploding with anger.
My own reading is that the poet is working on multiple levels here. The word “cólera” is two-sided, embracing both anger and cholera. The terrible disease of cholera exploded across the world in the 19th century and it effected all of the continents. There is no doubt Ruben Dario was well aware of this pandemic. The effects of anger and cholera are similar. They explode all over us, they distort our thoughts, our lives, our spirits.
The “tu” also works on multiple levels. It could refer to a person, your anger, your cholera. Again the two references. Cholera and Anger put us in Hell, though we may very well not deserve the full treatment. Hence Our Eternal Father orders up a luxury version worthy of a rogue, rather than a malicious criminal.
Another issue when translating a poem over 100 years old, without any substantial reference material, is that some of these phrases may have been colloquial expressions and the exact meanings of those colloquial expressions may be lost. That is one of the reasons why I am undertaking this project. This first book of poems by Ruben Dario definitely deserves more attention, in my opinion.
Enjoy!
Comments and suggests are always welcome!
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Below is a link to the home page for my upcoming Ebook which will feature translations and illustrations for the first book of poetry, Abrojos, written by poet Ruben Dario, published when he was twenty.