A poem for Wednesday

(With thanks to Osvaldo for introducing me to this one...it was one of the poems we discussed in our Azul talk last week.)

Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino, y nada más;
caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.
Al andar se hace camino,
y al volver la vista atrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.
Caminante, no hay camino,
sino estelas en la mar.

--Antonio Machado

(Wanderer, your footsteps are
the road, and nothing more;
wanderer, there is no road,
the road is made by walking.
By walking one makes the road,
and upon glancing behind
one sees the path
that never will be trod again.
Wanderer, there is no road--
Only wakes upon the sea.)

(Translation: Betty Jean Craige)

  

Comments

[Steve Layton]

Forget Wednesday, how about one for the whole summer?:

LAS ARMAS DEL VERANO

Oye la palpitación del espacio
son los pasos de la estación en celo
sobre las brasas del año

Rumor de alas y de crótalos
tambores lejanos del chubasco
crepitación y jadeo de la tierra
bajo su vestidura de insectos y raíces

La sed despierta y construye
sus grandes jaulas de vidrio
donde tu desnudez es agua encadenada
agua que canta y se desencadena

Armada con las armas del verano
entras en mi cuarto entras en mi frente
y desatas el río del lenguaje
mírate en esas rápidas palabras

El día se quema poco a poco
sobre el paisaje abolido
tu sombra es un país de pájaros
que el sol disipa con un gesto

-- Octavio Paz

THE ARMS OF SUMMER

Hear the throbbing of space
it is the steps of a season in heat
across the embers of the year

Murmur of wings and rattles
far-off drumbeats of the storm
the crackling and panting of the earth
under its cape of insects and roots

Thirst wakes and builds
great cages of glass
where your nakedness is water in chains
water that sings and breaks loose from its chains

Armed with the arms of summer
you come into my room come into my mind
and untie the river of language
look at yourself in these hurried words

The day burns out little by little
over the erasing landscape
your shadow is a land of birds
that the sun scatters with a wave

(trans. Eliot Weinberger)