Above the bird sings
and below the water sings.
Above and below
my soul is opening.
The bird shakes the star
and water rocks the flower.
Above and below
my soul is trembling.
translated by Dennis Maloney
20th Century Spanish poetry
Nocturne by Juan Ramon Jimenez
. . .The ship, slow and swift at once, conquers the water
but not the sky.
The blue remains behind, opening into living silver,
and once more is in front.
Fixed, the mast sways, always returning
–like the hour hand turning in even numbers
on the clock face–
to the stars themselves,
hour after hour, black and green.
One’s body, dreaming, returns
to the country it’s from, coming from the world
it does not belong to. One’s soul remains and
continues, always, through its eternal domain.
translated by Dennis Maloney & Clark Zlotchew
Juan Ramon Jimenez on sleep
Sleep is like a bridge
that stretches from today to tomorrow.
Underneath, like a dream,
water flows.
translated by Dennis Maloney
With the Roses by Juan Ramon Jimenez
No, this pleasant afternoon
I cannot stay inside;
this free afternoon
I must go out in the air.
Into the laughing air
opening through the trees,
thousands of loves,
profound and waving.
The roses wait for me
bathing their flesh.
Nothing can keep me here;
I will not stay inside!
translated by Dennis Maloney
To Beloved Old Age by Juan Ramon Jimenez
If only your memory
of me were this blue May
sky, completely filled with
the pure stars of my acts!
If my acts were identical, like them: all pure,
clear, good, tranquil, just like the stars!
Below, I see your smile in dreams
–dreams of your memories of my life!–
translated by Dennis Maloney & Clark Zlotchew
Life by Juan Ramon Jimenez
What I used to regard as a glory shut in my face,
was a door, opening
toward this clarity:
. . . . . . .Country without a name:
Nothing can destroy it,this road
of doors, opening, one after another,
always toward reality:
. . . . . . .Life without calculation!
translated by James Wright
The Boy Unable To Speak by Federico Garcia Lorca
. .The small boy is looking for his voice.
(The King of the Crickets had it.)
The boy was looking
in a drop of water for his voice.
. .I don’t want the voice to speak with;
I will make a ring from it
that my silence will wear
on its little finger.
. .The small boy was looking
in a drop of water for his voice.
. .(Far away the captured voice
was getting dressed up like a cricket.)
translated by Robert Bly
The Unmarried Woman At Mass by Federico Garcia Lorca
. .Beneath the Moses of the incense,
asleep.
. .Eyes of bulls were looking at you.
Your rosary was raining.
. .In that dress of deep silk,
do not move, Virginia.
. .Give the black melons of your breasts
to the whisper of the mass.
translated by Robert Bly
from Our Bread by Cesar Vallejo
And in this frigid hour, when the earth
smells of human dust and is so sad,
I want to knock on every door
and beg forgiveness of I don’t know whom,
and bake bits of fresh bread for him,
here, in the oven of my heart. . .
translated by Rebecca Seiferle
Is my soul asleep? by Antonio Machado
Is my soul asleep?
Have those beehives that work
in the night stopped? And the water-
wheel of thought, is it
going around now, cups
empty, carrying only shadows?
No, my soul is not asleep.
It is awake, wide awake.
It neither sleeps nor dreams, but watches,
its eyes wide open
far-off things, and listens
at the shores of the great silence.
translated by Robert Bly
Leonard Durso 