April, Poetry Month - Excusándose de un Silencio... by Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz

Please, scroll down for the English translation.

Excusándose de un Silencio...

Pedirte, señora, quiero

De mi silencio perdón,

Si lo que ha sido atención,

Le hace parecer grosero.

Y no me podrás culpar

Si hasta aquí mi proceder,

Por ocuparse en querer

Se ha olvidado de explicar.

Que en mi amorosa pasión

No fue descuido ni mengua

Quitar el uso a la lengua

Por dárselo al corazón.

Ni de explicarme dejaba,

Que como la pasión mía

Acá en el alma te hablaba

Y en esta idea notable

Dichosamente vivía;

Porque en mi mano tenía

El fingirte favorable.

Con traza tan peregrina

Vivió mi esperanza vana

Pues te puedo hacer humana

Concibiéndote divina.

¡Oh, cuan loco llegué a verme

en tus dichosos amores,

que aun fingidos tus favores

pudieron enloquecerme!

¡Oh, cómo en tu Sol hermoso

mi ardiente afecto encendido,

por cebarse en lo lúcido,

olvidó lo peligroso!

Perdona, si atrevimiento

Fue atreverme a tu ardor puro;

Que no hay Sagrado seguro

De culpas de pensamiento.

De esta manera engañaba

La loca esperanza mía,

Y dentro de mí tenía

Todo el bien que deseaba.

Mas ya tu precepto grave

Rompe mi silencio mudo;

Que él solamente ser pudo

De mi respeto la llave.

Y aunque el amar tu belleza

Es delito sin disculpa,

Castíguense la culpa

Primero que la tibieza.

No quieras, pues, rigurosa,

Que estando ya declarada,

Sea de veras desdichada

Quien fue de burlas dichosa.

Si culpas mi desacato,

Culpa también tu licencia;

Que si es mala mi obediencia,

No fue justo tu mandato.

Y si es culpable mi intento,

Será mi afecto preciso;

Porque es amarte un delito

De que nunca me arrepiento.

Esto en mis afectos halló,

Y más, que explicar no sé;

Mas tú, de lo que callé,

Inferirás lo que callo.

Taken from Los Poetas

My lady I must implore...

My lady, I must implore

forgiveness for keeping still,

if what I meant as tribute

ran contrary to your will.

Please do not reproach me

if the course I have maintained

in the eagerness of my love

left my silence unexplained.

I love you with so much passion,

neither rudeness nor neglect

can explain why I tied my tongue,

yet left my heart unchecked.

The matter to me was simple:

love for you was so strong,

I could see you in my soul

and talk to you all day long.

With this idea in mind,

I lived in utter delight,

pretending my subterfuge

found favor in your sight.

In this strange, ingenious fashion,

I allowed the hope to be mine

that I still might see as human

what I really conceived as divine.

Oh, how mad I became

in my blissful love of you,

for even though feigned, your favor

made all my madness seem true!

How unwisely my ardent love,

which your glorious sun inflamed,

sought to feed upon your brightness,

though the risk of your fire was plain!

Forgive me if, thus emboldened,

I made bold with that sacred fire:

there's no sanctuary secure

when thought's transgressions conspire.

Thus it was I kept indulging

these foolhardy hopes of mine,

enjoying within myself

a happiness sublime.

But now, at your solemn bidding,

this silence I herewith suspend,

for your summons unlocks in me

a respect no time can end.

And, although loving your beauty

is a crime beyond repair,

rather the crime be chastised

than my fervor cease to dare.

With this confession in hand,

I pray, be less stern with me.

Do not condemn to distress

one who fancied bliss so free.

If you blame me for disrespect,

remember, you gave me leave;

thus, if obedience was wrong,

your commanding must be my reprieve.

Let my love be ever doomed

if guilty in its intent,

for loving you is a crime

of which I will never repent.

This much I descry in my feelings—

and more that I cannot explain;

but you, from what I've not said,

may infer what words won't contain.

Translated by Alan S. Trueblood

Living in a Bilingual World (Recitative)

Traduttore, traditore

Thus goes this old Italian axiom. Translator, traitor. And sometimes I join the chorus of disapproving voices whenever a book or poem I have read in the original language has failed to deliver the same hypnotic feeling in the lingo translated into.

I have already addressed this issue in previous posts (here, here, and here). But whereas before I focused mainly on my own experience as a former translator and interpreter (although every now and then I still dabble in the odd translation, especially if it's well paid), today I would like to concentrate more on the travails a language specialist faces in his or her daily labour.

So, traduttore, traditore?

I don't think so. Or at least not most of the time. A translator is a living bridge that serves as a link, and on occasions as the only link between cultures and therefore the onus on him or her is far too big to think of their work glibly or to dismiss it off-handedly. There are many examples of bad translation and one of them can be found in one of the links I provided above. Yet, the positive case studies far outweigh the negative ones. The translator's job is not just to transpose words, phrases and idioms from one language to another, but to place them ever so carefully in the right order and context so as to make the reader believe that what they are digesting is the real McCoy. And that's artistry at its best.

A few weeks ago the owner of one of the blogs I frequent, Willow from Life in Willow Manor, uploaded a couple of poems by two Italian poets. One of them you can find it here and the other one here. What captivated me from the first moment was not just the beautiful images each work evoked, but the careful and detailed translation. Remember, they were being transposed from a romance language to a Germanic one. And the translator pulled it off, in my humble opinion.

Those two poems also reminded me of the time when I came across a translation of one of my favourite pieces ever by the Mexican nun Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz a few years ago. This was a woman born at a time when Spain still had a strong colonial presence in America, 17th century; when 'to speak too openly was the equivalent of sinning'. Juana Inés de Asbaje y Ramírez de Santillana's talent shone from a very early age and she used it to further women's cultural rights from her ecclesiastic position. It was her achievements in this field that have led academics and scholars alike to name her Latin America's first femininist. And when you read the poem I have selected below you will find out why. And all thanks to the wonderful power of translation.

N.B. (I found this translation online but could not find the author. Please, be aware that no permission has been sought to reproduce the text and should the author want me to remove it, I will comply immediately with her/his request. Also, should the author want me to credit him/her with the translation of the poem, I will update the post accordingly. Thanks)

You Men

Silly, you men
so very adept at wrongly faulting womankind,
not seeing you're alone to blame
for faults you plant in woman's mind.

After you've won by urgent plea
the right to tarnish her good name,
you still expect her to behave
you, that coaxed her into shame.

You batter her resistance down
and then, all righteousness, proclaim
that feminine frivolity,
not your persistence, is to blame.

When it comes to bravely posturing,
your witlessness must take the prize:
you're the child that makes a bogeyman,
and then recoils in fear and cries.

Presumptuous beyond belief,
you'd have the woman you pursue
be Thais when you're courting her,
Lucretia once she falls to you.

For plain default of common sense,
could any action be so queer
as oneself to cloud the mirror,
then complain that it's not clear?

Whether you're favored or disdained,
nothing can leave you satisfied.
You whimper if you're turned away,
you sneer if you've been gratified.

With you, no woman can hope to score;
whichever way, she's bound to lose;
spurning you, she's ungrateful
succumbing, you call her lewd.

Your folly is always the same:
you apply a single rule
to the one you accuse of looseness
and the one you brand as cruel.

What happy mean could there be
for the woman who catches your eye,
if, unresponsive, she offends,
yet whose complaisance you decry?

Still, whether it's torment or anger
and both ways you've yourselves to blame
God bless the woman who won't have you,
no matter how loud you complain.

It's your persistent entreaties
that change her from timid to bold.
Having made her thereby naughty,
you would have her good as gold.

So where does the greater guilt lie
for a passion that should not be:
with the man who pleads out of baseness
or the woman debased by his plea?

Or which is more to be blamed
though both will have cause for chagrin:
the woman who sins for money
or the man who pays money to sin?

So why are you men all so stunned
at the thought you're all guilty alike?
Either like them for what you've made them
or make of them what you can like.

If you'd give up pursuing them,
you'd discover, without a doubt,
you've a stronger case to make
against those who seek you out.

I well know what powerful arms
you wield in pressing for evil:
your arrogance is allied
with the world, the flesh, and the devil!

REDONDILLAS - Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz

Hombres necios que acusáis
a la mujer, sin razón,
sin ver que sois la ocasión
de lo mismo que culpáis;

si con ansia sin igual
solicitáis su desdén,
por qué queréis que obren bien
si las incitáis al mal?

Combatís su resistencia
y luego, con gravedad,
decís que fue liviandad
lo que hizo la diligencia.

Parecer quiere el denuedo
de vuestro parecer loco,
al niño que pone el coco
y luego le tiene miedo.

Queréis, con presunción necia,
hallar a la que buscáis
para prentendida, Thais,
y en la posesión, Lucrecia.

¿Qué humor puede ser más raro
que el que, falto de consejo,
él mismo empaña el espejo
y siente que no esté claro?

Con el favor y el desdén
tenéis condición igual,
quejándoos, si os tratan mal,
burlándoos, si os quieren bien.

Opinión, ninguna gana,
pues la que más se recata,
si no os admite, es ingrata,
y si os admite, es liviana.

Siempre tan necios andáis
que, con desigual nivel,
a una culpáis por cruel
y a otra por fácil culpáis.

¿Pues como ha de estar templada
la que vuestro amor pretende?,
¿si la que es ingrata ofende,
y la que es fácil enfada?

Mas, entre el enfado y la pena
que vuestro gusto refiere,
bien haya la que no os quiere
y quejaos en hora buena.

Dan vuestras amantes penas
a sus libertades alas,
y después de hacerlas malas
las queréis hallar muy buenas.

¿Cuál mayor culpa ha tenido
en una pasión errada:
la que cae de rogada,
o el que ruega de caído?

¿O cuál es de más culpar,
aunque cualquiera mal haga;
la que peca por la paga
o el que paga por pecar?

¿Pues, para qué os espantáis
de la culpa que tenéis?
Queredlas cual las hacéis
o hacedlas cual las buscáis.

Dejad de solicitar,
y después, con más razón,
acusaréis la afición
de la que os fuere a rogar.

Bien con muchas armas fundo
que lidia vuestra arrogancia,
pues en promesa e instancia
juntáis diablo, carne y mundo.

Copyright 2008

National Poetry Day (Moderato)

It's Poetry Day today. I remember when I wrote my first poem. I was about nine years old, inspired by our National Hero José Martí and willing to fill up the page in front of me with metaphores and similes. Alas, the piece had a short life. I tore it up into smithereens because that other me believed that poetry was for gays.


Many years would go by and countless literature lessons assimilated before the full appreciation of verse and rhyme reached me. And it was Benedetti who did the trick. Admittedly, my first love, rock'n'roll, had already contributed to it, what with Queen, The Beatles, Dylan and The Stones, the road to Milton's Paradise Lost had already been well paved.


During my years in college (this is the equivalent of sixth-form in the UK and if you're reading this in the US, they call it high school over there), I became an ardent fan of Mario Benedetti's oeuvre. His conversational style suited my adolescent self and whilst my peers continued to salivate over Pablo Neruda's lyrical exultations to the point where the most common chat-up phrase in those years would start with: Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche (I can write the saddest verses tonight), I always preferred the most direct fashion of the author of 'Hagamos un Trato' (Let's Make a Deal). This was years before the Uruguayan author became trendy, caused mainly by the release of the movie 'El Lado Oscuro del Corazón'.


And as today it's Poetry Day, I wanted to share a couple of poems with you my dear readers, posters and fellow bloggers. The first one is an old favourite 'Táctica y Estrategia' by Mario Benedetti. The second one is by my favourite female poet, the Mexican Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, a nun who has gone down in the Latin American narrative as the first feminist to question the prevailing ecclesiastical view in 17th century Mexico. She's also been hailed as a lesbian icon due to her close relationship with the viceroy's wife, who was in fact the person who encouraged Sor Juana to write in the passionate way she did.


The first poem has no translation and I make no apologies for that. It's hard finding good translations in the vast realm of the internet. The second one has what to me is one of the finest translations I've ever come across and as a language graduate I am very fussy when it comes to linguistics and translations. I also reproduce the original poem for those of you who straddle both ends of the linguistic spectrum. You can draw your own comparisons.


TÁCTICA Y ESTRATEGIA
Mario Benedetti


Mi táctica es
mirarte
aprender como sos
quererte como sos
mi táctica es
hablarte
y escucharte
construir con palabras
un puente indestructible
mi táctica es
quedarme en tu recuerdo
no sé cómo
ni sé
con qué pretexto
pero quedarme en vos
mi táctica es
ser franco
y saber que sos franca
y que no nos vendamos
simulacros
para que entre los dos
no haya telón
ni abismos
mi estrategia es
en cambio
más profunda y más
simple
mi estrategia es
que un día cualquiera
no sé cómo
ni sé
con qué pretexto
por fin
me necesites


REDONDILLAS
Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz

Hombres necios que acusáis
a la mujer, sin razón,
sin ver que sois la ocasión
de lo mismo que culpáis;
si con ansia sin igual
solicitáis su desdén,
por qué queréis que obren bien
si las incitáis al mal?
Combatís su resistenciay luego, con gravedad,
decís que fue liviandad
lo que hizo la diligencia.
Parecer quiere el denuedo
de vuestro parecer loco,
al niño que pone el coco
y luego le tiene miedo.
Queréis, con presunción necia,
hallar a la que buscáis
para prentendida, Thais,
y en la posesión, Lucrecia.
¿Qué humor puede ser más raro
que el que, falto de consejo,
él mismo empaña el espejo
y siente que no esté claro?
Con el favor y el desdén
tenéis condición igual,
quejándoos, si os tratan mal,
burlándoos, si os quieren bien.
Opinión, ninguna gana,
pues la que más se recata,
si no os admite, es ingrata,
y si os admite, es liviana.
Siempre tan necios andáis
que, con desigual nivel,
a una culpáis por cruel
y a otra por fácil culpáis.
¿Pues como ha de estar templada
la que vuestro amor pretende?,
¿si la que es ingrata ofende,
y la que es fácil enfada?
Mas, entre el enfado y la pena
que vuestro gusto refiere,
bien haya la que no os quiere
y quejaos en hora buena.
Dan vuestras amantes penas
a sus libertades alas,
y después de hacerlas malas
las queréis hallar muy buenas.
¿Cuál mayor culpa ha tenido
en una pasión errada:
la que cae de rogada,
o el que ruega de caído?¿
O cuál es de más culpar,
aunque cualquiera mal haga;
la que peca por la paga
o el que paga por pecar?
¿Pues, para qué os espantáis
de la culpa que tenéis?
Queredlas cual las hacéis
o hacedlas cual las buscáis
.Dejad de solicitar,y después, con más razón,
acusaréis la aficiónde la que os fuere a rogar.
Bien con muchas armas fundo
que lidia vuestra arrogancia,
pues en promesa e instancia
juntáis diablo, carne y mundo.


You Men


Silly, you men
so very adept
at wrongly faulting womankind,
not seeing you're alone to blame
for faults you plant in woman's mind.
After you've won by urgent plea
the right to tarnish her good name,
you still expect her to behave
you, that coaxed her into shame.
You batter her resistance down
and then, all righteousness, proclaim
that feminine frivolity,
not your persistence, is to blame.
When it comes to bravely posturing,
your witlessness must take the prize:
you're the child that makes a bogeyman,
and then recoils in fear and cries.
Presumptuous beyond belief,
you'd have the woman you pursue
be Thais when you're courting her,
Lucretia once she falls to you.
For plain default of common sense,
could any action be so queer
as oneself to cloud the mirror,
then complain that it's not clear?
Whether you're favored or disdained,
nothing can leave you satisfied.
You whimper if you're turned away,
you sneer if you've been gratified.
With you, no woman can hope to score;
whichever way, she's bound to lose;
spurning you, she's ungrateful
succumbing, you call her lewd.
Your folly is always the same:
you apply a single ruleto the one you accuse of looseness
and the one you brand as cruel.
What happy mean could there be
for the woman who catches your eye,
if, unresponsive, she offends,
yet whose complaisance you decry?
Still, whether it's torment or anger
and both ways you've yourselves to blame
God bless the woman who won't have you,
no matter how loud you complain.
It's your persistent entreaties
that change her from timid to bold.
Having made her thereby naughty,
you would have her good as gold.
So where does the greater guilt lie
for a passion that should not be:
with the man who pleads out of baseness
or the woman debased by his plea?
Or which is more to be blamed
though both will have cause for chagrin:
the woman who sins for money
or the man who pays money to sin?
So why are you men all so stunned
at the thought you're all guilty alike?
Either like them for what you've made them
or make of them what you can like.
If you'd give up pursuing them,
you'd discover, without a doubt,
you've a stronger case to make
against those who seek you out.
I well know what powerful arms
you wield in pressing for evil:
your arrogance is allied
with the world, the flesh, and the devil!


And as a PS, I did start writing poetry again when I was in Uni, thus challenging my own preconceptions and prejudices.


Chao,


Copyright 2007