in anything we think.
32
O faith of the meditator!
O faith after the thought!
Only when a heart comes to the world
can your human glass brim and the sea get fat
35
There are two modes of consciousness:
one is light, and the other patience.
One is based on flashing a tiny
beam over the deep sea.
The other is being penitent
with a pole or line, waiting for a bite
like a fisherman. Tell me,
which is better:
the consciousness of a seer
who in a deep aquarium
sees a few live fish squirm
and flee
—you can’t catch them—
or that cursed chore
of tossing dead fishes of the sea
up on a sandy shore?
36
Empirical faith. We’re not nor will be.
All our life is on loan. We brought nothing.
With nothing we leave.
37
You say nothing is created?
Don’t worry. With clay
of the earth make a cup
so your brother can drink.
41
It’s good to know a glass
works well for drinking.
What’s bad is we don’t know
what good is thirst.
42
You say nothing is lost?
If this drinking glass
breaks on me, I’ll never,
never drink in her.
43
You say nothing is lost.
Maybe you say the truth,
but we lose everything
and everything loses us.
44
All passes and all remains,
and ours is to pass by,
to pass by making roads,
roads over the sea.
45
To die. To fall like a drop
of sea into the immense sea?
Or to be what I’ve never been:
one without shadow and dream,
a solitary who is moving on
without a road and mirror?
46
Last night I dreamt I heard
God shouting at me: Take
care! Later, God was sleeping
and I shouted: Awake!
47
A man has four things
that don’t work on the sea:
anchor, rudder and oars,
and fear of drowning.
48
Looking at my skull,
“A new Hamlet?” you ask.
Here’s a charming fossil
of a carnival mask.
49
On my way to growing old,
note that I placed the quicksilver
in the gigantic mirror
where one day I gazed proud.
In the mirror deep in my house
a fatal hand
scratches the silver. All things pass
through it like light through glass.
50
Our Spaniard yawns.
Is it hunger? Dream? Boredom?
Doctor, is his stomach empty?
No, in the head lies the vacuum.
51
Soul light, holy light,
beacon, torch, sun, star.
A man stumbles on a road,
a lantern on his shoulder.
54
Now there is a Spaniard
who wants and starts to live
between a dying Spain
and one that is yawning.
Young Spaniard coming
into the world, God keep you.
One of these Spains
will freeze your heart.
Parábolas
1
Era un niño que soñaba
un caballo de cartón.
Abrió los ojos el niño
y el caballito no vio.
Con un caballito blanco
el niño volvió a soñar;
y por la crin lo cogía...
¡Ahora no te escaparás!
Apenas lo hubo cogido,
el niño se despertó.
Tenía el puño cerrado.
¡El caballito voló!
Quedóse el niño muy serio
pensando que no es verdad
un caballito soñado.
Y ya no volvió a soñar.
Pero el niño se hizo mozo
y el mozo tuvo un amor,
y a su amada le decía:
¿Tú eres de verdad o no?
Cuando el mozo se hizo viejo
pensaba: Todo es soñar,
el caballito soñado
y el caballo de verdad.
Y cuando vino la muerte,
el viejo a su corazón
preguntaba: ¿Tú eres sueño?
Quién sabe si despertó!
2
A D. Vicente Ciurana
Sobre la limpia arena, en el tartesio llano
por donde acaba España y sigue el mar,
hay dos hombres que apoyan la cabeza en la mano;
uno duerme, y el otro parece meditar.
El uno, en la mañana de tibia primavera,
junto a la mar tranquila,
ha puesto entre sus ojos y el mar que reverbera,
los párpados, que borran el mar en la pupila.
Y se ha dormido, y sueña con el pastor Proteo,
que sabe los rebaños del marino guardar;
y sueña que le llaman las hijas de Nereo,
y ha oído a los caballos de Poséidon hablar.
El otro mira al agua. Su pensamiento flota:
hijo del mar, navega—o se pone a volar—.
Su pensamiento tiene un vuelo de gaviota,
que ha visto un pez de plata en el agua saltar.
Y piensa: “Es esta vida una ilusión marina
de un pescador que un día ya no puede pescar.”
El soñador ha visto que el mar se le ilumina,
y sueña que es la muerte una ilusión del mar.
3
Érase de un marinero
que hizo un jardín junto al mar,
y se metió a jardinero.
Estaba el jardín en flor,
y el jardinero se fue
por esos mares de Dios.
4 CONSEJOS
Sabe esperar, aguarda que la marea fluya
—así en la costa un barco—sin que al partir te inquiete.
Todo el que aguarda sabe que la victoria es suya;
porque la vida es larga y el arte es un juguete.
Y si la vida es corta
y no llega la mar a tu galera,
aguarda sin partir y siempre espera,
que el arte es largo y, además, no importa.
5 PROFESIÓN DE FE
Dios no es el mar, está en el mar, riela
como luna en el agua, o aparece
como una blanca vela;
en el mar se despierta o se adormece.
Creó la mar, y nace
de la mar cual la nube y la tormenta;
es el Criador y la criatura lo hace;
su aliento es alma, y por el alma alienta.
Yo he de hacerte, mi Dios, cual tú me hiciste,
y para darte el alma que me diste
en mí te he de crear. Que el puro río
de caridad que fluye eternamente,
fluya en mi corazón. ¡Seca, Dios mío,
de una fe sin amor la turbia fuente!
6
El Dios que todos llevamos,
el Dios que todos hacemos,
el Dios que todos buscamos
y que nunca encontraremos.
Tres dioses o tres personas
del solo Dios verdadero.
7
Dice la razón: Busquemos
la verdad.
Y el corazón: Vanidad.
La
verdad ya la tenemos.
La razón: ¡Ay, quién alcanza
la verdad!
El corazón: Vanidad.
La verdad es la esperanza.
Dice la razón: Tú mientes.
Y contesté el corazón:
Quien miente eres tú, razón,
que dices lo que no sientes.
La razón: Jamás podremos
entendernos, corazón.
El corazón: Lo veremos.
8
Cabeza meditadora,
¡qué lejos se oye el zumbido
de la abeja libadora!
Echaste un velo de sombra
sobre el bello mundo y vas
creyendo ver, porque mides
la sombra con un compás.
Mientras la abeja fabrica,
melifica,
con jugo de campo y sol,
yo voy echando verdades
que nada son, vanidades
al fondo de mi crisol.
De la mar al percepto,
del percepto al concepto,
del concepto a la idea
—¡oh, la linda tarea!—,
de la idea a la mar.
¡Y otra vez a empezar!
Parables
1
There was a child who dreamed
of a cardboard horse.
The boy opened his eyes
and couldn’t see the little horse.
The child had another dream
of a little white horse
and grabbed it by the mane.
“Now you won’t get away!”
Hardly had he caught it
when the boy woke up.
His fist was clenched,
the little horse had flown off.
The boy turned very grave,
thinking a dream pony
cannot be true,
and he never dreamt again.
But the boy became a young man
and the youth fell in love
and asked his lover:
“Are you real or not?”
When the boy grew old
he thought: “All is dream,
the little dream pony
and the real horse.”
And when death came,
the old man spoke to his heart,
asking: “Are you a dream?”
Who knows if he woke up!
2
to Don Vicente Ciurana
On the Tartessos35 plain and its clean sand,
where Spain concludes and seas perpetuate,
there are two men holding their head in hand,
one of them sleeps, the other seems to meditate.
The first, on a morning of tepid spring
beside the tranquil sea,
sets his eyelids between his eyes and the humming
waves to erase the sea in his pupils.
He falls asleep and dreams of Proteus the pastor
artful in looking after marine flocks;
he dreams of being called by Nereid’s daughters
and he has heard the horses of Poseidon talk.
The second looks at water. His thoughts float.
Son of the sea, he sails them, lets them soar,
and there is a plunging sea gull in his thought,
witnessing a silver fish leap before
him. He wonders, “This life is a maritime illusion
of a fisherman who can’t fish any more.”
The dreamer, seeing the sea illumine him,
dreams that death is an illusion of the sea.
3
Once there was a sailor
who made a garden by the sea,
and became a gardener.
The garden bloomed
and the gardener left
for those seas of God.
4 ADVICE
Learn to wait. Wait for the tide to flow,
as a boat on the coast. And don’t worry when it buoys
you out. If you wait, you will know victory,
for life is long and art a toy.
And if life is short
and the sea doesn’t reach your galleon, stay
forever waiting in the port,
for art is long, and never matters anyway.
5 PROFESSION OF FAITH
God is not the sea. He is on the sea. He glows pale
like moon on water or seems
like a white sail.
In the sea he wakes or falls asleep.
He created the sea and is born
from the sea like the cloud and the storm.
He is Creator and his creatures make him.
His breath is soul and through the soul he breathes.
I must make you, my God, as you made me,
and to give you the soul you gave me,
I will create you in me. Let the pure river
of kindness that flows eternally
flow in my heart. My God, dry
the muddy fountain of my loveless faith.
6
The God we all cart around,
the God we all make,
the God we all look for
and will never find.
Three gods or three persons
of the only true God.
7
Reason says. Let’s see
if we find truth.
And the heart: Vanity.
We have truth already.
Reason: Oh, who can reach
the truth!
The heart: Vanity.
Truth is hope.
Reason says: You lie.
And the heart replies: Nope,
the liar is you, reason,
for saying what is beyond your feeling.
Reason: We don’t get it, heart. We...
The heart: We will see.
8
Brooding head, how remote
the bumble
and grumble of the sipping bee!
You’ve drawn a veil of shade
over the beautiful world, and go
guessing you see, since you parade
a compass to measure shadow.
While the bee has its industry
of honey,
with the juice of sun and field,
I keep slipping out verities,
pure nothing: pure vanities
from the bottom of my crucible.
From the sea to percept,
from percept to concept,
from conception to notion.
What a cozy commotion!
from notion to the sea.
And we begin again!
35 Tartessos or Tartessus was a Phoenician settlement in southern Spain, and an eponym of the entire country of Spain. It may be the same as biblical Tarshish, which is identified as several places, including Spain.
Mi bufón
El demonio de mis sueños
ríe con sus labios rojos,
sus negros y vivos ojos,
sus dientes finos, pequeños.
Y jovial y picaresco
se lanza a un baile grotesco,
luciendo el cuerpo deforme
y su enorme
joroba. Es feo y barbudo,
y chiquitín y panzudo.
Yo no sé por qué razón,
de mi tragedia, bufón,
te ríes... Mas tú eres vivo
por tu danzar sin motivo.
My Clown
The demon of my dreams
is laughing with his red lips,
his black and shiny eyes
and tiny chiseled teeth.
Cheerful and picaresque
he launches into a grotesque
dance, showing off his deformed
body and an enormous
hump. He is bearded and ugly,
potbellied but like a dwarf.
I don’t know why
at my own tragedy
you laugh, but you are lively and sly
while you dance aimlessly.
Praises / Elogios
A
Don Francisco Giner de los Ríos
Como se fue el maestro,
la luz de esta mañana
me dijo: Van tres días
que mi hermano Francisco no trabaja.
¿Murió?... Sólo sabemos
que se nos fue por una senda clara,
diciéndonos: Hacedme
un duelo de labores y esperanzas.
Sed buenos y no más, sed lo que he sido
entre vosotros: alma.
Vivid, la vida sigue,
los muertos mueren y las sombras pasan,
lleva quien deja y vive el que la vivido.
¡Yunques, sonad; enmudeced, campanas!
Y hacia otra luz más pura
partió el hermano de la luz del alba,
del sol de los talleres,
el viejo alegre de la vida santa.
... ¡Oh, si!, llevad, amigos,
su cuerpo a la montaña,
a los azules montes
del ancho Guadarrama.
Allí hay barrancos hondos
de pinos verdes donde el viento canta.
Su corazón repose
bajo una encina casta,
en tierra de tomillos, donde juegan
mariposas doradas...
Allí el maestro un día
soñaba un nuevo florecer de España.
Baeza, 21 de febrero de 1915
To Don Francisco Giner de los Ríos
Since the master had gone away,
this morning’s light
told me: For three days
my brother Francisco has not worked.
Did he die? We only know
that he left from us by a clear road,
telling us: Mourn me
with work and hope.
Be good and that’s it. Be what I have been
among you: soul.
Live. Life goes on.
The dead die and shadows disappear.
Border of a Dream: Selected Poems of Antonio Machado (Spanish Edition) Page 21
