Poem
Porfirio Barba Jacob
The Evening Star
A blue mount, a wandering bird,an oak tree, a prairie,
a boy, a song… And, all the same,
my brother, we know nothing now.
Blotted out the paths in the shadows,
the heart of the mount is closed down;
the shepherd’s dog tragically howls
amidst the grass of the sheepfold.
Rest your fatigue on my fatigue
that I may rest my sorrow on your sorrow,
and cry, like me, for the influence
of the evening, translucent and serene.
We will always know nothing…
Who put in our yearning soul,
this vague rumor of foundering seas,
this unbound emotion,
these vain chimeras, this useless ?
In this constant uneasiness, my brother,
we will always know nothing…
In which islands of mysterious caves
did the numens lull you to sleep?
Who gave me the unreal fuel
of my ardent passion, and the resin
that effuses its fragrance in my poems?
What divine anxiety, what soft voice
has in our anxiety its resonance?
All inquiries fail in the void
as the nocturnal fireballs foundered
at the bottom of the sea; all questions
return to us, tremulous and frail
the moment the arrow thrown by the bow
hits against the rough escarpment.
In the rambling impulse, my brother,
we will always know nothing…
And yet…
What mystical influence
pours into our pains a radiant balm?
Who hangs from our shoulders
a royal mantle of glorious purple,
and who comes to our wounds
and anoints them and turns them into roses?
You, who lying on the grass
facing the sky, suddenly say:
“The evening star is lighted”
Avid, my eyes look for its brightness
through the mist, and we ascend
by the thread of light…
A cricket sings
in the regrown moss of the stone hedge
and a conflagration of stars rises
in your breast, calmly facing the evening,
and in my breast, in the evening, appeased…
© Translation: 2006, Nicolás Suescún
La estrella de la tarde
La estrella de la tarde
Un monte azul, un pájaro viajero,un roble, una llanura,
un niño, una canción… Y, sin embargo,
nada sabemos hoy, hermano mío.
Borránse los senderos en la sombra;
el corazón del monte está cerrado;
el perro del pastor trágicamente
aúlla entre las hierbas del vallado.
Apoya tu fatiga en mi fatiga,
que yo mi pena apoyaré en tu pena,
y llora, como yo, por el influjo
de la tarde traslúcida y serena.
Nunca sabremos nada…
¿Quién puso en nuestro espíritu anhelante,
vago rumor de mares en zozobra,
emoción desatada,
quimeras vanas, ilusión sin obra?
Hermano mío, en la inquietud constante,
nunca sabremos nada…
¿En qué grutas de islas misteriosas
arrullaron los Númenes tu sueño?
¿Quién me da los carbones irreales
de mi ardiente pasión, y la resina
que efunde en mis poemas su fragancia?
¿Qué voz suave, qué ansiedad divina
tiene en nuestra ansiedad su resonancia?
Todo inquirir fracasa en el vacío,
cual fracasan los bólidos nocturnos
en el fondo del mar; toda pregunta
vuelve a nosotros trémula y fallida,
como del choque en el cantil fragoso
la flecha por el arco despedida.
Hermano mío, en el impulso errante,
nunca sabremos nada…
Y sin embargo…
¿Qué mística influencia
vierte en nuestros dolores un bálsamo radiante?
¿Quién prende a nuestros hombros
manto real de púrpuras gloriosas,
y quién a nuestras llagas
viene y las unge y las convierte en rosas?
Tú, que sobre las hierbas reposabas
de cara al cielo, dices de repente:
—“La estrella de la tarde está encendida”—.
Ávidos buscan su fulgor mis ojos
a través de la bruma, y ascendemos
por el hilo de luz…
Un grillo canta
en los repuestos musgos del cercado,
y un incendio de estrellas se levanta
en tu pecho, tranquilo ante la tarde,
y en mi pecho en la tarde sosegado…
© 2006, Porfirio Barba Jacob
Poems
Poems of Porfirio Barba Jacob
Close
The Evening Star
A blue mount, a wandering bird,an oak tree, a prairie,
a boy, a song… And, all the same,
my brother, we know nothing now.
Blotted out the paths in the shadows,
the heart of the mount is closed down;
the shepherd’s dog tragically howls
amidst the grass of the sheepfold.
Rest your fatigue on my fatigue
that I may rest my sorrow on your sorrow,
and cry, like me, for the influence
of the evening, translucent and serene.
We will always know nothing…
Who put in our yearning soul,
this vague rumor of foundering seas,
this unbound emotion,
these vain chimeras, this useless ?
In this constant uneasiness, my brother,
we will always know nothing…
In which islands of mysterious caves
did the numens lull you to sleep?
Who gave me the unreal fuel
of my ardent passion, and the resin
that effuses its fragrance in my poems?
What divine anxiety, what soft voice
has in our anxiety its resonance?
All inquiries fail in the void
as the nocturnal fireballs foundered
at the bottom of the sea; all questions
return to us, tremulous and frail
the moment the arrow thrown by the bow
hits against the rough escarpment.
In the rambling impulse, my brother,
we will always know nothing…
And yet…
What mystical influence
pours into our pains a radiant balm?
Who hangs from our shoulders
a royal mantle of glorious purple,
and who comes to our wounds
and anoints them and turns them into roses?
You, who lying on the grass
facing the sky, suddenly say:
“The evening star is lighted”
Avid, my eyes look for its brightness
through the mist, and we ascend
by the thread of light…
A cricket sings
in the regrown moss of the stone hedge
and a conflagration of stars rises
in your breast, calmly facing the evening,
and in my breast, in the evening, appeased…
© 2006, Nicolás Suescún
The Evening Star
A blue mount, a wandering bird,an oak tree, a prairie,
a boy, a song… And, all the same,
my brother, we know nothing now.
Blotted out the paths in the shadows,
the heart of the mount is closed down;
the shepherd’s dog tragically howls
amidst the grass of the sheepfold.
Rest your fatigue on my fatigue
that I may rest my sorrow on your sorrow,
and cry, like me, for the influence
of the evening, translucent and serene.
We will always know nothing…
Who put in our yearning soul,
this vague rumor of foundering seas,
this unbound emotion,
these vain chimeras, this useless ?
In this constant uneasiness, my brother,
we will always know nothing…
In which islands of mysterious caves
did the numens lull you to sleep?
Who gave me the unreal fuel
of my ardent passion, and the resin
that effuses its fragrance in my poems?
What divine anxiety, what soft voice
has in our anxiety its resonance?
All inquiries fail in the void
as the nocturnal fireballs foundered
at the bottom of the sea; all questions
return to us, tremulous and frail
the moment the arrow thrown by the bow
hits against the rough escarpment.
In the rambling impulse, my brother,
we will always know nothing…
And yet…
What mystical influence
pours into our pains a radiant balm?
Who hangs from our shoulders
a royal mantle of glorious purple,
and who comes to our wounds
and anoints them and turns them into roses?
You, who lying on the grass
facing the sky, suddenly say:
“The evening star is lighted”
Avid, my eyes look for its brightness
through the mist, and we ascend
by the thread of light…
A cricket sings
in the regrown moss of the stone hedge
and a conflagration of stars rises
in your breast, calmly facing the evening,
and in my breast, in the evening, appeased…
© 2006, Nicolás Suescún
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