Tired of waiting

I’m looking at the items left in my house by Lavinia and find one of them especially interesting. As you may recall, Lavinia Rivers is a former faculty member in library science and gender studies. She wandered away from academics while carrying out sabbatical research on American photographer Ruth Matilda Anderson who worked for the Hispanic Society of America. I say wandered away, because the research project gradually became a personal navigation through Galician culture and as a result, university life just slipped out of the picture.

You may recall that Lavinia discovered a lost journal of the major Galician writer Rosalía de Castro (1837-1885) while helping a friend - a distant relative of Rosalía’s - move to another residence. I still do not know for sure why the journal and some notes by Lavinia concerning its contents were left in my house, even finding it mysterious as to motive. Was the portfolio left inadvertently or was it meant to be discovered? Is she planning on returning for it?

The section I’m looking at now is intriguing: there is a poem by Rosalía, some comments about it by the author, then Lavinia has included translations and personal observations. I’m going to describe what has come into my possession.

[From Rosalía’s lost journal]

I’ve no idea where this poem came from, but as I reread it before publication, it makes me shiver. I know what I was trying to express in these few lines, but few people will understand.

Ya que de la esperanza, para la vida mía,

triste y descolorido ha llegado el ocaso,

a mi morada oscura, desmantelada y fría,

tornemos paso a paso,

porque con su alegría no aumente mi amargura

la blanca luz del día.

Contenta el negro nido busca el ave agorera;

bien reposa la fiera en el antro escondido,

en su sepulcro el muerto, el triste en el olvido

y mi alma en su desierto.

I’ve lost nearly all hope of reaching my goal, I gave it everything and failed. I feel so alone, but despite it all, feel I still have work to do. I am not alone. Tornemos a mi morada, let’s go back home. I will figure out what to do.

[Lavinia’s observations]

I know this poem seems to be about the end of life, but that’s not the reason it’s able to incapacitate me for an hour every time I come across it. All I can do is read and reread. I’ve decided to try an English version:

Since the sad, faded sunset of hope

has arrived for my life,

let us return, one step at a time,

to my home, unkempt and cold,

so that the day’s white light

won’t increase my bitterness with its joy.

The harbinger bird happily seeks its black nest;

the beast rests well in its hidden cave,

the dead man is in his tomb, the sad one in oblivion

and my soul in its desert.

This needs work, but I’d also like to see what English versions are available. I’d love to find the one by Michelle Geoffrion-Vinci that she calls a feminist translation, but it’s too expensive. I know S.G. Morley did the first translation, so he’s also important. Should I worry about all the others in between? Maybe.

[My response]

I’m not sure I care much about the myriad translations of this poem and am more interested in what I feel as I read it. Except I’m confused, or anxious. What is the poem really about and why is it unclear? Why does the old Kinks song keep coming to mind? Why does it feel like the poem is not easily explained as an expression of impending doom?

[Chorus]

So tired, tired of waiting

Tired of waiting for you

So tired, tired of waiting

Tired of waiting for you

[Verse]

I was a lonely soul

I had nobody 'til I met you

But you keep-a me waiting

All of the time, what can I do?

[Pre-Chorus]

It's your life

And you can do what you want

Do what you like

But please don't keep-a me waiting

Please don't keep-a me waiting

I think the Kinks are haunting me now is because Rosalía’s poem is not so much about waiting for death - an easy explanation - as it is about identifying things - a bird, a beast, a dead man, a sad person, and putting them in their proper places. Sure, they are not elements of a particularly pleasant perspective, but they are all where they should be: in a nest, a grave, in oblivion. All have their rightful place. As each is assigned the proper place, we assume that’s a bad thing. All I see see are things that know where they’re supposed to be. What’s wrong with that? A bird flies home to its nest. If the nest is black, is that bad? A dead man is in his grave. Where else would you have him be?

Perhaps it is harder to understand why the sad person is relegated to oblivion, and in fact that is the most difficult image of the whole poem. Should sadness lead us to be forgotten? Sadness, the stone over the heart, the reason for being lost to the world. It seems so unfair.

Everything in the poem is in its place, reminding me of a table properly set for dinner. There is an observation that hope has come to an end, but something remains. The speaker chooses to return home, to wait for something. Light is not a welcome companion, but it can be avoided. Silence is everywhere as the stage is placed before our eyes that expect to witness some event that never happens.

As I continue to search for a meaning for this poem, I realize I’m holding out, hoping for a meaning I can live with. I understand the sadness of the dark, messy home, but maybe that can be remedied. We are invited to accompany the speaker, which is a gesture that seems to accept our company.

What I’d really like to know is how the soul, having been summoned to return home, is suddenly thrust into a desert. Galicia has no such thing, the speaker is alive and observing what is going on around her.

What is a desert, after all?

I can only wait and consider the soul’s options. A desert might not be such a bad thing after all. Better than a grave?