I am lost in translation

I’m supposed to translate a few poems into English, and this one was on the list. Even if you don’t know Spanish, I want you to see it first without interruption. When I translate, I always start by reading the poem a hundred times, pulling on the edges, cupping the sounds in my ears, shaping them the best I can. Here’s the poem, and after that is my rather rough draft. I am far from finished, but be patient with me; the final version will be worth the wait.

Dicen que no hablan las plantas, ni las fuentes, ni los pájaros,

Ni el onda con sus rumores, ni con su brillo los astros,

Lo dicen, pero no es cierto, pues siempre cuando yo paso,

De mí murmuran y exclaman:

—Ahí va la loca soñando

Con la eterna primavera de la vida y de los campos,

Y ya bien pronto, bien pronto, tendrá los cabellos canos,

Y ve temblando, aterida, que cubre la escarcha el prado.

—Hay canas en mi cabeza, hay en los prados escarcha,

Mas yo prosigo soñando, pobre, incurable sonámbula,

Con la eterna primavera de la vida que se apaga

Y la perenne frescura de los campos y las almas,

Aunque los unos se agostan y aunque las otras se abrasan.

Astros y fuentes y flores, no murmuréis de mis sueños,

Sin ellos, ¿cómo admiraros ni cómo vivir sin ellos?

From my journal, a draft with variations on the theme:

Dicen que no hablan las plantas, ni las fuentes, ni los pájaros,

They say plants can’t talk, fountains can’t, birds can’t,

They say neither plants nor fountains nor birds can talk,

They say plants, fountains, birds - none of these can speak,

Who are these people and why can’t they hear the voices of nature? Why can’t they or won’t they? I think they’re hard of hearing or maybe they just don’t speak the language. When I go for a walk, I have no problem hearing the running water and the birds. In the case of the plants, sometimes it’s a matter of getting a little closer and looking into their eyes. Haven’t you heard them, the little bristles on their leaves, the pollen dancing on petals. It’s like a symphony.

Ni el onda con sus rumores, ni con su brillo los astros,

Nor can the wave with its murmuring, nor can the stars with their gleam,

It’s so odd that people think this, since waves are never silent. The only question is how loud they are; that can vary with the time of day or night, with how many things there are to compete with the rippling waves. The ones that pound on rocky shores never have much competition.

lo dicen, pero no es cierto, pues siempre cuando yo paso

They say it, but it isn’t true, because when I walk by

They have no idea what I hear or think or know. Do they care, do they want to hurt me, are they simply oblivious to what is really going on in the world? Are they playing deaf, when so much is happening? Why? Is their pain that great? Is their emptiness? They could be different, but do they know that?

de mí murmuran y exclaman:

They whisper about me and declare/call out/cry/exclaim:

They whisper, but I hear everything, even before they say it out loud. Exclamar is an odd verb, and I don’t know how to say it in English without betraying the language or the intention. I hear them, I hear their sound, I listen, and try to understand why they act the way they do.

Ahí va la loca soñando

There goes the madwoman (wrapped) in her dream

Why do they condemn me? Is it because I can hear things that do not reach their (closed) ears? Is it because I know how to dream, how to hope? There is no madness in me, only movement and looking to places they cannot see or imagine. I carry no harm with me in my travels.

con la eterna primavera de la vida y de los campos,

Of the eternal spring of life and fields,

My dream threatens nobody, my life and my travels can continue forever, at least in my mind. Does that make me mad?

That life and fields are the eternal spring,

Or the belief in a world that continues, which is my prized possession. That seems to frighten them, but I must go on, even if I’m alone, even if my journey has no end.

y ya bien pronto, bien pronto, tendrá los cabellos canos,

And now, very, very soon, her hair will be white,

And so very soon her hair will turn white,

Who is saying this? Why are they concerned about the color of my hair? Do they want to brand me as something I have not yet become? Many of us have hair the color of frost, and that means nothing. Nothing at all. Unless they, whoever they are, hope to hinder my happiness. There is no need for that.

y ve temblando, aterida, que cubre la escarcha el prado.

And shivering, chilled to the bone, she will see the meadow covered in frost.

Who says this? Who has decided to condemn me to the cold? There is no need. We all will see frosty meadows someday.

Hay canas en mi cabeza, hay en los prados escarcha,

My hair is turning gray, there’s a frost on the meadows,

I admit they are right, but they have no right to say it.

mas yo prosigo soñando, pobre, incurable sonámbula,

Yet I keep dreaming, I’m just an incurable nightwalker,

I keep going, out of strength, conviction, and my very nature. I have my reasons. This is who I am and what I do.

con la eterna primavera de mi vida que se apaga

About the eternal spring of my life that is dimming/going out

I see what is happening, see the ebbing, the natural process. This is nothing for which I should apologize.

y la perenne frescura de los campos y las almas,

And the everlasting freshness of fields and souls,

I know what will always be there, know it allows us to continue. There is no reason to grow blind to life, no matter how far we have traveled.

aunque los unos se agostan y aunque las otras se abrasan.

Although the first go bone dry and the second burn red-hot

Heat can consume us, but perhaps not, perhaps it is not the end, if we know how to travel. I can be alone, or lonely, but strong.

Astros y fuentes y flores, no murmuréis de mis sueños,

Stars and fountains and flowers, don’t whisper about my dreams,

No need to gossip about me, about how I think, because I know your language, I’ve heard it. Keep talking, telling the world of your presence. My dreams will continue and are harmless. No, they are more than that.

sin ellos, ¿cómo admiraros ni cómo vivir sin ellos?

Without them, how could I care for (or love) you and how could I live without them?

I need my dreams in order to continue living. Leave them here with me so my senses remain alive. They belong to me.

*****

The translator sighed and thought of the Ponte Xirimbao because of course she did. She herself was a bridge, even when some English versions she had to construct managed to fracture the structure and, like with this poem, left her madly swimming to some unknown shore.

Lonely traveler - the figure not quite written but rather configured by the silences, the interstitial bridges. The words. The movement into and through the world.

The speaker in the poem passes by, moves deliberately, maybe oddly, and there is a definite effect of running as the list from nature is reciteed. The strong inclusion of interlocutors - I/you, they - could seem threatening, unless the loca is taken seriously, her madness only seen as an unfair assessment. Plurals. They are important because the I faces them and defines her trajectory as they watch. She is on her own.

Madness? Is that her condition, really? Caused by isolation due to what? Because she communicates with her natural surroundings? Why is that strange if, after all, stars and flowers and waves all can speak?

I am the translator, murmurs a voice. Lost in translation, inside the poem. There is a voice, trapped between two languages or worlds yet not stifled, still alive, waiting to travel. To whom does the voice belong?