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.
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.
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.
After many years of absence I looked for the primordial home of my infancy, which still preserved its standing as a stranger. My hands caressed the trees like one who kisses a sleeper, I have copied adventures of yesteryear as one who practices a forgotten verse, and I took notice, as the afternoon spilled out the fragile new moon, that came close to the benign protection of the prodigal palm tree with sublime leaves, like a bird welcomed by the brood.
What a multitude of the heavens, they will link the courtyard between the walls! How heroic the western skies, they will serve in the depths of the street! And how brittle the new moon, it will infuse the garden with sweetness, all before the house recognizes me, and becomes a province of my soul again!
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LA VUELTA
Después de muchos años de ausencia busqué la casa primordial de la infancia y aún persevera forastero su ámbito. Mis manos han tanteado los árboles como quien besa a un durmiente y he copiado andanzas de antaño como quien practica un verso olvidado y advertí al desparramarse la tarde la frágil luna nueva que se arrimó al amparo benigno de la palmera pródiga de hojas excelsas, como avecilla que a la nidada se acoje.
¡Qué caterva de cielos vinculará entre sus paredes el patio, cuánto heroico poniente militará en la hondura de la calle y cuánta quebradiza luna nueva infundirá al jardín su dulcedumbre antes que llegue a reconocerme la casa y torne a ser una provincia de mi alma !
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BRIEF NOTES
La Vuelta, The Return, is a poem from Fervor de Buenos Aires, a collection of poetry by noted Argentine author, Jorge Luis Borges, published in 1923 in an edition of 300 copies, when he was 23, his first published work. Borges published a few additional editions through the years, with substantial changes from the original. This particular poem was carried forward and published in later editions, but there were some changes. The poem above is directly from the original!
Borges was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, in 1899, and lived there for 14 years before his family left for Europe, to seek a treatmeant for his father’s eye disease. Due to the First World War, the Borges family did not return until 1921. By that time Buenos Aires, like most of the rest of the world, had changed considerably. Here in this poem, he is discussing his somewhat nostalgic, though also somewhat alienated, homecoming.
At this time in his career, Borges was very much part of the Utraist movement. The turn of the last century, the early 1900’s, saw many different experiments in the arts, throughout the world, and of course, as a young man, Borges was influenced by these developments. Utraism used some very complex metaphors, and poetric structures, to capture the meaning of the poem, and The Return is no different. In my translation I did stick as much as possible to the original, and made some modest changes in the flow of the words, to fit a modern audience.
As always I appreciate your comments on this translation project.
If you would like to purchase the Fervor De Buenos Aires in its 1923 format as originally published, I have an Ebook I created for sale either through me directly or on my Etsy site:
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!