It is a bit of a mystery to me as to why a little country like Chile can produce such damn good poets. Perhaps the soil? The climate? The location? Certainly the educational system in the early part of the last century helped quite a bit. At one time the Chilean educational system was the envy of Latin America. Sadly it has decayed over the last few decades.
Names Like Mistral, Neruda, and Parra are known outside of the Spanish-speaking world for delivering deep sentiments wrapped in lyrical formats that speak not just to the inner recesses of the human soul but to the more superficial and conscious mind.
Below I have translated three poems. I could have chosen to look these up on the internet and just copied them directly but I felt that I had to express what these poems meant to me personally. Maybe I misinterpreted these poems or maybe my translation skills aren’t what I think them to be. So I will add a caveat here. The words belong to the poets, the mistakes belong to me.
The first two poems are by the poet/singer Tito Fernandez. Fernandez came out of the “New Chilean Song” tradition in the 70s. After the military coup of 1973 he began writing songs and poems trying to explain to the world the realities of the Chilean condition. His work is an interwoven mix of spoken word songs and poems. They are best appreciated in person where you can feel the passion in his voice.
The last poem is by Pablo Neruda. From a very young age he was intensely devoted to writing poetry and in describing the human conditions through his poems. Later in life he became very involved in socialist politics and had several appointments as ambassador around the world. He died from cancer shortly after the coup.
“Chile” – Tito Fernandez
Chile begins somewhere. Anywhere.
Perhaps in that place where you once stopped one day
and thought to yourself how wonderful it would be
to stay there forever.
That’s where Chile begins. Where the land sings.
Perhaps in Melipeuco? or Pitrufquen?
in Rio Claro? Sure, why not. In Rio Claro
where the land sings and the bread wakes up each day
hot and fresh.
Rio Claro is a large fiesta
on both sides of the river
it is a brother of Pencahue
and neighbor of Talca, its half cousin.
Everybody is family in Rio Claro
and those that aren’t family are friends.
Everybody shares the bounty of the land
and sings about the sons that work the fields.
The great festival of the year in Rio Claro
begins on this side of the river
or the other. It’s all the same and
everywhere there is happiness and singing
and my heart knows it’s true and sings:
love of my loves
I’m leaving this life singing…
singing…
And we begin this road
over this generous land,
and we are filled with a happiness
that slept within us until now.
Every dawn with its bird singing.
Every poet with his idea of love.
Every heart with its drop of blood.
Every man with his woman sleeping next to him.
Every child with a skinned knee.
Every Christ with a light at his side.
This generous land, it belongs to me
and you, and to whoever walks it.
Where to begin?
in Puerto Octay?
Puren?
in Salamanca?
Why not?
A golden afternoon in Salamanca
is an unforgettable memory of Summer.
Where a ripe lemon or an orange
tastes better than any other place.
Where a wall gives you shade for your siesta
and you bite into a juicy apple.
Where you pick a bunch of grapes
and dreaming of paradise you slowly devour them.
Where the great house of the old widow
who once owned all this land
in a second will dispel any doubts
about the past and origin of this town.
Nevertheless, while passing that house,
where today a factory stands,
the old Salamanca widow will appear
like a phantom summoned from nothingness.
The road and the song.
The song and the road.
One day I decided to sing to the earth
and found that almost all the song begins there.
First as a seed, then a flower
later the fruit, juicy and miraculous
and under it all, the seed, and the land,
are the humble hands of my people singing.
The plow that breaks hope.
The hand that scatters the seeds.
The hawk that pecks at the worm and makes it dance
and my untiring dog chasing hares in the fields.
That’s how the song is born in the earth
any afternoon at work
any morning almost night, lying next to you
and any early evening
listening to the grandfather’s story and resting.
One day I discovered that the song rehashed and cooked in its own ashes
tastes better than any other song
and that the cleanest of smiles
is from a shucked ear of corn
So I decided to begin my
trembling road that morning
when a small sparrow chick was born in my hands just out of the shell.
In my hands it chirped and it warmed me.
And so we were both born with one destiny.
Without a sword or lance or shield.
A small sparrow chick just born
and a poet singer almost naked.
what an immense and tiny treasure
from this adolescent and generous land.
A sparrow chick, almost defenseless
and a guitar that sings lonely and sad songs.
Nevertheless somehow we must begin.
The important part of anything is the beginning.
The sum of the parts is greater than the whole
and this is just the first of a thousand verses.
There is a dark blue in the sky
and I would like to paint it in my notebook.
But I can’t paint and it doesn’t matter.
Somewhere out there is a poet-painter
and he will put that dark blue where I want it.
And it’s all the same.
The singer and the painter.
The heart and the road
from word to word.
It’s dawn in the north and the light peeks out.
It shines over the hills.
You can hear the cooing of the doves
inverted in the rocks by the wind.
Solitude is the mistress of silence
of the little bit of blue, of the wind,
of the shadow of the old prospector
who walks with his burro into nothingness.
There is a little grain of sadness in everything
that can be pondered and almost touched.
It results in painful truths
such as this morning in this dusty desert plain.
A town. There ahead of us
always towards the Sun, Huara,
and a song born in the shadows of its walls.
near Huara, I don’t know if its north or south.
So hard to orient oneself in this flat plain.
You can see dusty towns
that rise up to the sun like phantoms
Ghost towns without even a child.
They have been there since time immemorial.
They are miraculous to the sleepy eye
of a traveler from some big city.
Did someone live behind that dried up wall?
Did someone sleep here under the stars?
Was a race born here? Or died in child-birth?
Drowned by the salt that they call earth here.
The questions linger but there are no answers.
Somewhere the story is written down.
Meanwhile they pose and pose in the market square,
taking the stupid photos of the tourists.
Near Huara. I don’t know whether north or south.
So hard to orient oneself in this desert,
there are lonely crosses showing
that indeed someone did live here once
The salt plains:
Coya sur,
Tocopilla port,
Maria Elena, named after a woman
Humberstone, museum of iron, rust and time
Pedro de Valdivia
Victoria
Offices is what they call
the towns in the northern desert plains.
Offices through which I have passed
curious to know so many secrets.
Silicosis, the disease that attacks
the mining men of the salt flats.
Silicosis, from which there is no escape
not even in the dreams that we left one day.
Mule, is what they call the engine
that pull the ore carts to the grinding mill.
Where the giants rip and tear apart
the past and present of the children.
In Pedro de Valdivia proper
there is a poem that says:
in Pedro de Valdivia, miracles,
are what we call the miners of the plains
Chile begins somewhere
and it is flat next to the sea.
But from there rises to the blue
from ridge to ridge.
Climbing from Arica to the east
you can know the high plains.
Where live the different Chileans
that dress and talk like Bolivians.
It’s a long and difficult road.
There is a train that takes most of the day
to take us to our destination
on the border very far away.
From sea level like a fly,
the train sticks to the tracks.
I will try to describe some things
so as to not waste the trip.
We begin the climb in Lluta,
the green valley of which so many speak of.
Every turn taking us higher
and the valley farther behind us.
Quebrada honda, and we stop a moment
a Llama comes near my window and examines me.
Doesn’t appear to like what it sees, spits and retires.
Pampa ossa, and some houses.
The puna is bothering my head.
These 3700 meters I have climbed
as if tied up and forced.
Putre,
Alcerreca,
Humapalca,
Villa industrial and then Chislluma.
How many more kilometers more of
abyss, rocks, mountains, and puna.
General Lagos, 4300 meters and we arrive in Visviri.
I feel the coldest wind in my life.
One more step and here ends Chile.
One more step and we’re in Bolivia.
This mountain range called the Andes.
The backbone of our America.
Somewhere these mountains begin
and they end in Patagonia
with their tips worn away by the wind.
Between sea and plains without frontiers
we find Punta Delgada.
The extreme end of the Andes.
Farther away is nothing.
We arrive at night and its a shame.
We can’t see the town.
We can’t analyze what they are thinking.
The wind carries it all away.
All I know is that there is oil and more oil
carried by an endless pipeline
that we just joined in San Gregorio
and accompanied us all afternoon.
Between sea and plains without frontiers
we find Punta delgada.
The extreme end of the Andes.
Farther away is nothing.
The road sings about the love that never ends.
In the straits of Magellan I thought to myself:
‘The world ends on the other side’
And that thought frightened me
and I soon felt very weary.
There on the other side
a bonfire told me of things past,
and I did not understand this bonfire
nor what I would find there.
In the straits of Magellan I thought
‘I have ten minutes left of life’
and I confess I was terrorized
by the idea of crossing to the other side.
Posesion, Manantiales, Puerto Percy,
and Cerro Sombrero. All snow-covered.
There is a century of life against the sky
on the Patagonian plains. Men and silence.
A worker approaches me. He has been looking for me
and he shakes my hand in respect.
“Welcome!” he says excitedly
and I feel small in front of this gesture.
Goodbye silence!
Welcome time of singing
Goodbye silence!
Welcome time of singing
Love of my loves
this land is mine
this land is mine
From Puerto Montt it’s one more step to Chiloe.
The big island of men, fish, and boats.
One cant paint Chiloe
nor sing of it here on the continent.
You have to be there on some canal
where you lost your love that will never return.
The song and the road,
the road and the song.
Chile has a sadness
and a hope of songs without end
tomorrow perhaps…
tomorrow perhaps…
tomorrow perhaps..
tomorrow…
Couplets from some Woman – tito fernandez
This couplet I sing today
was given to me by a woman
from Antofagasta north,
I think it was.
And since the couplet has
life and vibrancy, gentlemen.
I thought you should hear it.
At least the singers out there
Last night I heard you sing
about what was in my blood.
I watched you quietly
and applauded like the devil.
I am one of those many women
that pass through life
fighting every moment
like a wounded lioness.
I have never been ashamed
of standing in front of an artist
and telling them “Thank you
for knowing who to sing to”
There is a need here
for more voices that make you jump and dance
and break up that road
going nowhere.
Last night I saw you my friend
and almost silently
two tear drops
rolled down my cheek.
Who am I? A teacher
full of love and passion.
Love, for the little child
trying to learn his words.
I survive my friend because
I leave every morning
and say “Today I will see that little boy
with the pale face
or that little girl with the scared hands
or that young mother who seems more
like a ghost than alive.”
I survive my friend
because I am a teacher at heart
with my feet firmly on the ground and
my head raised high.
When some kids come
and chat with me
I tell them “Sing to the land.
Leave all your foolishness behind,
come and sing with the guitar and leave
the posturing to roosters without spurs.”
I am not a teacher that puts
up with lies to my face.
I am surrounded by kids
In between cursing and playing,
I am the mistress of my class.
Both mother and father.
No one yells at me!
And so I am respected
A pair of girls I have
know every escapade
and get me through life with
anger and smiles.
Fuck it’s hard to be alone
and put up a fight every day!
But from my old man
I got what I needed.
If you face life head on
you need never fear it.
From my mother I learned
how women left alone
fight for their homes
and keep them from falling apart.
From having many things
I went to having almost nothing.
Barely an old bed,
barely a couple of blankets.
But I have a pair of daughters
that refresh my soul
and sweeten my life
every once in a while.
Lovers? Sure. Once in a while.
But I have to keep going and
open new windows for myself.
By night I write poems.
By day I invent dances.
And I work at this school
earning almost nothing.
I am a teacher
“the surly cop” they call me.
Who dances with 30 devils
on Saturday night to songs
that come from the land.
Little kids, six, ten, twelve
fifteen and even eighteen
year-olds keep me company
breaking the night like a clear star.
Everything is hard for us.
I am the old lady that commands,
that yells out a curse,
or soothes with words
The one that cares for her kids
as if their thirty little faces
were thirty apparitions
that cost me my soul.
Here in the north life
starts each morning with
verses I write, dances, lessons
life, and love.
Last night I heard you sing, my friend.
Sower of hope.
How many seeds did you sow last night
along with tears?
I know you my friend.
Poet of the dawn.
To hell with heartache
if someone sings like you!
Until you return my friend.
I am sure it will be tomorrow
Even though it will be another voice
or another face.
I will tell the seagulls your words
and you will see how beautiful
they sound on their wings.
This couplet I have sung
lacks a few verses
that I have kept for myself
for reasons that only I understand.
“20” – Pablo Neruda
This night I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example,”The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.”
The night wind sweeps through the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
On nights like this I held her in my arms
and kissed her again and again under an infinite sky.
She loved me and sometimes I loved her too.
How could you not have loved her great blue eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night made even more immense without her.
And the verse falls over my soul like morning dew falls over the grass.
What matters is that my love could not hold her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone sings. In the distance.
My soul is not happy that I have lost her.
My eyes search for her as though that will bring her back.
My heart searches for her, and she is not with me.
The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that’s certain, but oh how I once loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her ears.
Another’s. She will be another’s. Like she was before my kisses.
Her voice. Her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I do love her.
Love is so short and forgetting takes so long.
Because on nights like this one I once held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that I have lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.
Recent Comments