The Crackling Sun Vicente Aleixandre Selected Poems of the Nobel Prize Recipient 1977 Translated by Louis Bourne

1997 marks the twentieth anniversary of the awarding of the Nobel Prize to Spanish poet Vicente Aleixandre (1898-1984) in 1977. Given that we live in a Sunday newspaper supplement and bestseller world, is there any reason for continuing to read this poet's work? Quite a strong one, perhaps. Outstanding poets do not write for their time only, but project their imagination beyond their life span to search for the essentials of all human life. This is particularly true in the case of Aleixandre whose thirteen books, beginning with Ambito ("Ambit", 1928) and ending with Diálogos del conocimiento ("Dialogues of Knowledge", 1974), range over several poetic generations.

Born in Seville on April 26, 1898, the infant Aleixandre and his family moved to Málaga two years later, the southern seacoast city which filled his childhood memories. In Madrid, he studied law and ended up teaching commercial law, though illness and the removal of a kidney in 1932 confirmed his literary vocation. His early books are influenced by his reading of Rimbaud and Freud and so have a surrealist bent, though they aim to develop a loving vision of nature, notably in La destrucción o el amor (Destruction or Love, 1935) and Sombra del paraíso (Shadow of Paradise, 1944). A transitional period leads to works like Historia del corazón ("History of the Heart", 1954) and En un vasto dominio ("In a vast dominion", 1962) in which the poet develops his view of the social world. This phase coincides with what was called "social poetry" in Spain, an ironic vision of the dour post-Civil War conditions under Franco's regime, but Aleixandre was not interested in criticizing the political circumstances so much as detailing archetypes of human experience. His final two books, Poemas de la consumación ("Poems of Consummation", 1968) and the aforementioned dialogues, are a summation of his reading of the human context and a skillful reworking of earlier themes.

The Crackling Sun (Madrid: Sociedad General Española de Librería, 1981) is a 76 page introduction specifically linked to the selection of 100 translations of poems from all of Aleixandre's work. Published in English by a small Spanish publisher, this paperback volume was not adequately distributed in the English-speaking world, though it was praised in three academic journals in the United States. Manuel Mantero of the University of Georgia wrote in South Atlantic Review (January 1983, Vol. 48, No. 1): [...] "as a translation of Vicente Aleixandre, this book is the best yet published in English." In Hispania 66 (May 1983), Andrea Byrum of Edgewood College, writing of "significant philosophical insights" in the introduction, concludes: "[...] Bourne has unquestionably made a valuable contribution by providing another means for the English-speaking reader to discover the rich world of this Nobel Prize winner [...]" Gloria Castresana of the Society of Basque Studies in America wrote in the Revista de estudios hispánicos (XXVII, 3, October 1983), "[...] Bourne in his translation, The Crackling Sun, gives the reader a cohesion of ideas and concepts on the poetry of Vicente Aleixandre difficult to surpass."

Louis Bourne (Richmond, Virginia, USA, 1942) has lived in Spain for nearly 30 years and published numerous translations of Spanish postwar poets. Apart from publishing three volumes of his own poetry in Spanish as well as poems in English magazines and holding degrees in English (University of North Carolina, Hollins College, Va. and Oxford University) and Spanish (U. of New York), he is completing his PhD at New York University in Spain on the problem of God in Rubén Darío's poetry.

Below are three translations from the book with the original Spanish. The first poem describes a boy trying to come to grips with matter. Remember, Aleixandre once called himself "a mystic of matter", even though his belief in God was not very secure. The second, based on the shipwreck in the second canto of Les Chants de Maldoror (The Cantos of Maldoror, 1868) by Isadore Ducasse (1846-77), alias the Comte de Lautréamont, a fundamental precursor of the French surrealists, though the mating is largely Aleixandre's idea. The third poem, on two planes, describes a couple in a small city with a background of a kind of God as Platonic demiurge meditating on his creation.

Portrait This boy has seen The essence of things Grow tangible One afternoon between his hands. Pressure of those reddened Diamond fingers On grasping the soft Illusion of matter. In his fingertips, there's blood And lymph of a secret Way that opens out Above, in the high tower, Exposed to the open air. His eyes neatly copy earth And wind and water that return The countryside when reflected. His tongue--salt and flesh-- Speaks and is silent. The phrase extends, Expands in scope And now closes round the sense, there on high-- Terrace of his forehead-- Above the living landscape.

Retrato Este muchacho ha visto la esencia de las cosas, una tarde, entre sus manos concretarse. Presión de aquellos dedos enrojecidos, de diamante, al apretar la blanda ilusión de materia. Hay en su yema sangre y linfa de un camino secreto que se abre arriba, en la alta torre, abierto a libre aire. Sus ojos copian tierra y viento y agua, que devuelven, precisos, campo al reflejarse. Su lengua--sal y carne-- dice y calla. La frase se dilata, en ámbito se expande y cierra ya el sentido, allá en lo alto --terraza de su frente--, sobre el vivaz paisaje.

The Most Beautiful Love Faraway day before yesterday. One very distant day I met the glass I had never seen, A butterfly made of tongue, That quivering escaped from where it was tightly held. I had wept ten centuries Like ten melted drops And, watching the speed of the express, I had felt endowed with the beauty of what never slips away. But I understood that everything was false. False the manner of the cow dreaming Of being a pretty little budding virgin. False the case of the false teacher who hoped, In the end, to understand his nakedness. False even the simple way girls At night hang up their untouched breasts. But I met a shark in the shape of affection; No, no: in the shape of beloved shark, Pure dogfish, expandable heart, passion or crime, Delightful possession composed of sea. Tortured clouds, in the end, become cheeks, Storms gone blue on which one gets tired out by loving, Soft slimy embrace of what's biggest and blackest, That commanding shape, tasting like slippery infinity. Such is that bloody mating, never-ending, silent, Breathing a thick ink over everything; The kisses are the stains, the spreading stains That the most delicate hands cannot snatch from me. A huge mouth like bestial fruit, Like, from the sand, a dagger threatening love, A bite that could engorge all the water or the night, A name echoing like a rolling bellow, Everything mumbled by some lips that I adore. Tell me, tell me the secret of your awaited softness, Of that skin guarding its truth like a systole; Sleep within my arms like a conquered walnut, Like a tiny creature forgetting its upheavals. You are only a period, a comma or eyelash, Your are the greatest monster of the one ocean, You are that mountain which, sailing on, fills up The bottom of the seas like a flooding heart. I enter you, growing quiet, while I shout or tear, While my screams make music or dreams, Because I kiss walls, those that will never have eyes, And I kiss that fleshy tip easily as sensitive as a feather. The truth, the truth, the truth is what I am telling, That huge pistol lying in the road, That silence--the very one--finally remaining When, with a primal broom, I sweep away the paths.

El Mas Bello Amor Anteayer distante. Un día muy remoto me encontré con el vidrio nunca visto, con una mariposa de lengua, con esa vibración escapada de donde estaba bien sujeta. Yo había llorado diez siglos como diez gotas fundidas y me había sentido con la belleza de lo intranscurrido contemplando la velocidad del expreso. Pero comprendí que todo era falso. Falsa la forma de la vaca que sueña con ser una linda doncellita incipiente. Falso lo del falso profesor que ha esperado al cabo comprender su desnudo. Falsa hasta la sencilla manera con que las muchachas cuelgan de noche su pechos que no están tocados. Pero me encontré un tiburón en forma de cariño; no, no: en forma de tiburón amado; escualo limpio, corazón extensible, ardor o crimen, deliciosa posesión que consiste en el mar. Nubes atormentadas al cabo convertidas en mejillas, tempestades hechas azul sobre el que fatigarse queriéndose, dulce abrazo viscoso de lo más grande y más negro, esa forma imperiosa que sabe a resbaladizo infinito. Así, sin acabarse mudo ese acoplamiento sangriento, respirando sobre todo una tinta espesa, los besos son las manchas, las extensibles manchas que no me podrán arrancar las manos más delicadas. Una boca imponente como una fruta bestial, como un puñal que de la arena amenaza el amor, un mordisco que abarcase toda el agua o la noche, un nombre que resuena como un bramido rodante, todo lo que musitan unos labios que adoro. Dime, dime el secreto de tu dulzura esperada, de esa piel que reserva su verdad como sístole; duérmete entre mis brazos como una nuez vencida, como un mínimo ser que olvida sus cataclismos. Tú eres un punto solo, una coma o pestaña; eres el mayor monstruo del océano único, eres esa montaña que navegando ocupa el fondo de los mares como un corazón desbordante. Te penetro callando mientras grito o desgarro, mientras mis alaridos hacen música o sueño, porque beso murallas, las que nunca tendrán ojos, y beso esa yema fácil sensible como la pluma. La verdad, la verdad, la verdad es esta que digo, esa inmensa pistola que yace sobre el camino, ese silencio--el mismo--que finalmente queda cuando con una escoba primera aparto los senderos.

The Couple I Oh yes, look at the still couple There in the window of the small city. Trees, carriages, wheels, like a faithful noria, Peacefully turn in that little square, A pure, blessed noria drawing up clean water For all the lips of those children who play In the city of children and go on playing forever. There is love in the window of the young couple. Below, the children play, women, and old men too. The slow horse of that peaceful carriage plays. And the clean water plays as it rolls toward someone's lips. The outlines of a few men barely stand out and disappear. The couple loving each other above the windowsill laughs. Nothing is heard. Their mute laughter is sketched Against a purest background of utter silence.   II But everything travels on slowly, making no sound. Everybody talks and speaks with the purest silence. The lovers, the mothers, the sleeping people, the rough men: All talk and shout above a whisper of dreams. What a silence of never, lived against a never! What gestures, what kisses, what sorrows and wounds. A whole river flowing on, falling silent in shadows. Men, children, startled moments in the small city. In the big city, they wake up, gather, Are born or sleep, rise up, glance at one another, and say good-bye. Everyone wounds or kisses, lashes out or embraces one another. Or suddenly, so quiet, unaware of each other, they go walking on. Ah, the shadow in the merciful night that quiets them, Whose utter silence shrouds the people--smoke, Making them one with a kiss on the forehead, Tucking up the children. "See you tomorrow." Never.   III Oh yes, never. In the night, the tiny, naked City offers only its moonscape edges. Empty, it turns and turns, weightless among the shadows. Above are the heavens; a mind controls them Behind a tired, painful and confused frown. There the Idea of the universe revolves and only Appears in the eyes with a faint glimmer. A huge, round tear contains it With an iris at the edge, ready to roll down and be blown away. But kept there with its sleepless sorrow In the finite eye, for a moment it still survives. In the lordless shadow, the head has turned. It gazes into an empty depth of thought. All The mind's stars exist in the tear. An existing universe that for a moment shone Dimly and now rolls down, dries and disappears.   IV The couple in the shadow laughs and laughs at the windowsill. Their uneventful laughter is heard crystalline. Against a purest background of utter silence, Here they are or were being, or will be or were, The couple in the night.

La Pareja I Oh sí, mirad a la pareja inmóvil, ahí en esa ventana de la ciudad pequeña. árboles, coches, ruedas, por esa plaza chiquita giran tranquilamente cual noria confiada, bendita noria pura que extrae un agua limpia para todos los labios de esos niños que juegan en la ciudad de niños, y siempre siguen jugando. Amor en la ventana de la pareja joven. Abajo juegan niños, juegan viejos, mujeres. Juega el caballo lento de ese coche tranquilo. Y juega el agua limpia que rueda hacia unos labios. Unos hombres, apenas, se recortan, deshacen. La pareja está amándose sobre el alféizar, ríe. Nada se oye. Mudo su reír se dibuja sobre un fondo purísimo de silencio absoluto.   II Pero todo camina despacio, mudamente. Todos hablan y dicen con silencio purísimo. Los amantes, las madres, los dormidos, los duros: todos hablan y gritan sobre un rumor de sueño. ¡Qué silencio de nunca sobre un nunca vivido! Qué ademanes, qué besos, qué dolores, qué heridas. Todo un río que marcha callando entre las sombras. Hombres, niños, espantos, en la ciudad pequeña. En la ciudad inmensa, se despiertan, se agrupan, nacen o duermen, yérguense, se asoman, se despiden. Todos hieren o besan, o se azotan o enlazan. O de pronto mudísimos se ignoran, van pasando. Oh, la sombra en la noche piadosa que los calla, que verazmente muda cubre las gentes--humo--, que así los unifica con un beso en la frente y a los niños arropa. Y, "hasta mañana". Y nunca.   III Oh, sí, nunca. En la noche, la ciudad diminuta desnuda ofrece sólo sus aristas lunares. Vacía gira y gira, sin peso, entre las sombras. Arriba están los cielos; una mente los lleva tras un ceño confuso, doloroso y cansado. Allí voltea la Idea del universo y sólo trasparece en los ojos con escasa vislumbre. Una lágrima grande la contiene redonda con un iris al borde, presta a rodar, volarse. Pero allí retenida, con su dolor insomne en el ojo finito pervive aún un instante. En la sombra sin dueño la cabeza ha girado. Mira a un fondo vacío de pensamiento. Todas las estrellas mentales en la lágrima existen. Universo existido que un momento ha brillado turbiamente, y ya rueda. Y se enjuga, evapora.   IV La pareja en la sombra ríe y ríe. El alféizar. Cristalino se escucha su reír sin suceso. Sobre un fondo purísimo de silencio absoluto, la pareja en la noche, aquí está o aquí estaba, o estará o aquí estuvo.

© Vicente Aleixandre, Louis M. Bourne and SGEL SA for the English edition.
ISBN 84-7143-227-7

For more information, contact:
Louis M. Bourne
louisbourne@geocities.com
Menéndez Pelayo 47, 5° dcha
28009 Madrid
Spain

---

This Poetry Webring site owned by Louis Bourne.
[Previous 5 Sites | Random Site | Site Edit | List Sites | Next | Next 5 Sites]

---

You are visitor number since March 17th, 1997.

---

Page designed, created and maintained by
Luigino il Pazzo

---

This page hosted by Get your own Free Home Page