Yo lo encontré. (I found it.)
Author: Geoff Lemon
Yep. I found it. After much searching far and wide across Argentina. A poem, in Spanish, that is not about love, does not mention love, is not an allegory for love-related matters (I don’t think), and doesn’t contain any references to hearts, souls, or passion(s). What’s more, it’s a poem by Rubén Darío, who is one of the most smoochy flowery over-the-top Spanish-language poets of all. If you shot Rubén Darío in the chest then pastel-coloured kittens carrying flowers would come out singing Celine Dion songs. Then they would sell the flowers to raise money for sick kiddies, before setting up a Free Hugs stall. Yet somehow in this case the man managed to get through an entire eight stanzas – that’s 33 lines – without once giving in to temptation. Go Rubén. Instead, this poem is about a sailor sitting on a beach and smoking a pipe. Admittedly there are some vague references to failings and/or regrets which could in theory be romantically related. But they could just as well be related to a failure to adequately provision the ship with salted pork, so, let’s leave speculation aside.
I’ve included the original poem below, and I’ve done a translation for you. But to help make the original a little more accessible for those who don’t dabble in poetic Spanish, I’ve also included it in audio form. This is a rather lovely reading of the poem by musician Julián Gervasi that I recorded recently in Buenos Aires. If you click the poem title, the recording should play automatically or tell you how to make it play. If that doesn’t work, right-click and download it to your computer via ‘Save Target As’ or equivalent. Hopefully it helps you get a better sense of the Spanish version.
My English version mostly abandons the metre of the original, because keeping it made things sound forced. If anybody reading this speaks better Spanish than me, do let me know about any errors or better alternatives. Some lines aren’t direct translations so much as the best interpretations I could come up with. Or as Winston Churchill would say, the best interpretations up with which I could come.
Much love to all of you.
.
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 del 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
hace 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,
donde una tarde caliente y dorada
tendidas las velas partío el bergantín…
La siesta del trópico. El lobo se aduerme.
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 Grey Major
The sea is a vast restless crystal
reflecting the plate of a zinc sky;
far-off flocks of birds cast stains
along the polished edge of pale grey.
The sun, an opaque glass sphere
limps to its zenith at a nauseous pace;
the sea wind rests in the shadows
holding a black bugle for a pillow.
The waves that shift their lead stomachs
below the jetty seem to moan.
Sitting on a cable, smoking his pipe
is an old sailor, thinking of beaches
on a lazy, distant, misty shore.
He’s old, this wolf. Face toasted by rays
of the fire of the sun of Brazil;
the robust typhoons of the China Sea
have seen him drowning his failure in gin.
Foam pregnant with salt and iodine
over time has soaked the red of his nose
the curls of his hair, the strength of his arms,
his peaked canvas cap and his blouse of drill.
Through the smoke that his tobacco forms
the old man sees the distant country,
where the heat of one gilded afternoon
saw his brig depart with its sails hung high.
The sleep of the tropics. The wolf dozes.
The spectrum of grey envelops everything.
It seems that a vast, soft blur
on the horizon’s curve erases the boundary.
The sleep of the tropics. The old cicada
tries out his senile, snoring guitar,
and the cricket plays one single tone
on the only string of his violin.
Tags: Argentina, love, poetry, Rubén Darío, translation
One Response to “Yo lo encontré. (I found it.)”
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July 5th, 2010 at 11:39 pm
good stuff. makes me want to chomp on a cigar and talk about the war : p the pipe smoking weary sailor – man about the world motif reminds me of bob dylan- all he needs is a harmonica!