“I personally learned my own craft of writing poetry through translating poetry… I think one way to deepen the appreciation of poetry is to approach it through translation.”
(Arthur Sze, new U.S. poet laureate)
“Señora de las Cosas Errantes” by Azurea20. (At labancarrotadelcirco.wordpress.com.)
The poems of Azurea20 besides poignant and memorable are irresistibly translatable. For the student of Spanish like me who may read this, I think poems can be excellent language teachers. Poets are consummate grammarians, and their best texts are pristine, compact, brimful of authentic language, and not wedded to pedestrian denotation. Some are even worth committing to memory!
On the flip side, for the reader of poetry and bumptious doggerelist in me, Arthur Sze’s words (above) resonate like a gong.
Here’s my devotedly literal homage in English to Azurea20’s poem (the parenthetical ellipses are the poem’s):
Señora de las Cosas Errantes:
Lady of Errant Things:
Por los que habitan los
For those that inhabit the
márgenes oscuros
edges dark
y profundos del bosque,
and deep of the forest,
por los que transgreden
for those that transgress
las normas de los desfiles,
the norms of the parades,
los puntos suspensivos,
the ellipses,
las comas y las tildes que
the commas and tildes that
rivalizan en altura.
compete in height.
Por los silencios
For the silences
que protegen su grito en la hache muda,
that protect their cry in the mute “h,”
por las mayúsculas del día
for the capital letters of the day
no permitas que mi cansada piel olvide
don’t let my tired skin forget
el llanto de los árboles
the sobbing of the trees.
(…)
Guárdame de los días
Shield me from the days
que solo traen ruido,
that bring only noise,
sin luz que los ilumine
with neither light that brightens them
ni agua que los bendiga.
nor water that blesses them.
Los días en los que la lluvia
Days on which the rain
cae sin pedir permiso.
falls without asking permission.
No permitas que el amor
Do not permit love
colonice ni calcine mi paisaje,
to colonize nor calcify my landscape,
como el yermo de un destierro.
like the wasteland of an exile.
(…)
Ragálame [Regálame] el Sur.
Gift me the South.
El sur de Camarón, de Lorca…
The south of Camarón, of Lorca…
que la alegría y la caricia
let joy and the caress
de la noche entren por mi ventana.
of nighttime enter through my window.
Una mirada bicolor,
A two-tone glance,
un dios que no esté loco,
a god that’s not insane,
una palabra para
a word for
la compasión y la denuncia.
compassion and denunciation.
(…)
Tráeme la libertad del pájaro
Bring me the freedom of the bird
madrugador,
that rises early,
el canto de los juegos del trigo,
the song of the games of wheat,
el baile de las amapolas…
the dance of poppies…
el diálogo de los silencios antiguos,
the dialogue of ancient silences,
el punto donde confluyen todos los acentos.
the point where all the accents converge.
(…)
Protégeme de los dioses
Protect me from gods
que interrumpen el sueño
that interrupt the sleep
de los cien milagros,
of a hundred miracles,
del azúcar amargo, de
from bitter sugar, from
las nieves de agosto
the snows of August
del hilo inútil que impide
from the useless thread keeping
coser la piedra partida en dos.
rock split in two from being sewn.
(…)
Líbrame de las ciudades desflecadas,
Deliver me from frayed cities,
de los polígonos heridos,
from wounded polygons,
de los caminos enredados
from roads tangled
en su congelación de estambre que,
in their congealment of woolen yarn which
alimentan crímenes, volcanes de violencia,
nourish crimes, volcanos of violence,
llagas de desolación y miedo.
lacerations of desolation and fear.
(…)
Permíteme un espacio donde
Permit me a space wherein
colgar mi voz, resonar junto
to hang my voice, to resonate along with
el eco de todos y seguir estremecida
the echo of everyone and continue shaken
por las Heridas del mundo.
by the Wounds of the world.
(…)
Y no olvides mi deseo de un perrito faldero
And don’t forget my yearning for a lapdog
una muñeca que no
a doll that does not
la rompa el llanto, una cuerda
break from weeping, a long
larga para anudar momentos
string with which to tie up moments
con la que fui
with the one I was
y una lupa que pueda
and a magnifying glass that can
mirar sin extrañeza a la que soy.
examine without amazement the one I am.
(…)
Señora de las Cosas Errantes
Lady of Errant Things
por todo lo que nombro
for all that I name
y lo que callo
and that I keep silent
concédeme ser aquella que
grant me this: to be that one who
aceptará su muerte
will accept her death
como aceptó su vida,
as she accepted her life,
sin pedir clemencia, sin alargar la espera.
without seeking clemency, without prolonging the wait.
(c) 2025 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved
A Song Is Worth a Thousand Explanations? Depends on the Singer.
I reproach myself by saying it’s a ludicrous form of callousness to feel personally aggrieved when famous people of the era I live in and whom I admire kill themselves. I mean feeling upset to the extent that I find myself unable (unwilling?) to view or read any work by or about such persons after their death. I didn’t know them personally, they weren’t loved ones, significant others, or the like. They didn’t sin against any God of mine. But I’m pissed that they coldheartedly took themselves out, that they were the architects of their own loss. And mine! Two instances are Robin Williams and Anthony Bourdain.
Cat Stevens didn’t kill himself, but he disappeared from music into Yusuf Islam. Certain of his songs had been high points in my development. They had melodic, rhythmic, lyrical staying power. Epic simplicity, like thunder. His retreat from that art stung me.
Books aren’t songs, but they can be a good vehicle for explaining things. Islam’s memoir, Cat on the Road to Findout,” is out in October. He published another book in 2014, Why I Still Carry a Guitar, described as “his direct explanation to the Muslim community”:
“There were some threats coming from the jurisprudence sections of the Muslim community — ‘It’s dangerous stuff to be out there, boasting of your talents and showing yourself off,’” he said, sighing. “But my art was something much deeper than that.”
I will read his memoir in due time because he’s not dead. Because I want to know more about his spiritual life. Because he’s alive. And he’s singing.
(Grayson Haver Currin, “Yusuf Islam Wants to Explain Himself,” New York Times, 9-15-25)
(c) 2025 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved