Guiomar, Guiomar,
see me punished in you:
guilty of having created you,
now I cannot forget you.
2
All love is fantasy,
inventing the year, the day,
the hour and its melody.
It invents the lover, and even
the beloved. This proves nothing
against love, since the beloved
never existed anyway.
3
I will write on your fan:
I love you to forget you,
to love you I forget you.
4
You will fan yourself
with a madrigal saying,
In love forgetting adds the salt.
5
I will paint you all alone
on an imaginary urn
from an old daguerreotype
or in a mirror’s depths,
cunning and quiet,
forgetting your poet.
6
I will send you my song:
“One sings what is lost,”
and a green parrot
to say it on your balcony.
7
If the ashes of love slightly smolder,
the poet knows his voice is choking
and like a cheap tenor he is strutting
with his grief making his viola mourn;
that if love flashes, only
a perfect stanza sounds,
a mountain brook anonymous and serene.
Below the forgotten blue, nothing sings,
not your name or mine, the holy water.
Shadow has no clean metal
in its disturbing slag. The poet’s voice
carries the hunger of love that engenders it
as a diamond without memory—
a cold diamond—carries a planetary fire
become light in a pristine gem...
8
The rosebush of terrible carrion opens
its blossoming oblivion, and a strange butterfly
lemon yellow and crimson, in unforeseen flight,
is seen soaring up from the bottom of a ditch.
With the terror of a jealous viper
beside a cold lizard,
with the distracted toad before the bluish dragonfly
skimming over the river,
with the mountains of lead and ash,
over the blond earth
that May sun holds spellbound,
a fan of miracles has opened
—the angel of the poem wanted it—
in the creating hand of forgetting...
Miscellaneous Poems54
Poesías sin agrupar
54 The following poems were written at various times during Machado’s life but either were never published in book form or were withdrawn by Machado from later editions of his work.
Apuntes y canciones
1
Como una ballesta,
en el aire azul,
hacia la torre mudéjar...
2
La cigüeña absorta,
sobre su nido de ramas,
mirando la tarde roja.
3
Primavera vino.
Violetas moradas,
almendros floridos.
4
Se abrasó en la llama
de una velita de cera
la mariposilla blanca.
5
¡Noches de Santa Teresa!
Ya no hay quien medita de noche
con las ventanas abiertas.
6
Los cuatro quicios del mundo
tienen ya
estrellitas nuevas
que brillando están.
A nuevas estrellas, otros
barquitos sobre la mar.
Notes and Songs
1
Like a crossbow
in blue wind,
toward the Mudéjar tower.55
2
The stork absorbed
on its nest of branches,
looking at red afternoon.
3
Spring came.
Violet mulberry trees,
blossoming almonds.
4
She hugged the flame
of a little wax candle,
the white tiny butterfly.
5
Nights of Santa Teresa!
Now no one meditates at night
with open windows.
6
The world’s four props
already have
tiny new
glittering stars.
New stars, and other
small boats on the sea.
55 Mudéjar refers to the Moors who stayed in Spain after the Christian reconquest (la reconquista). Here, it refers to the particular Moorish Islamic architecture in Christian Spain, with geometrically decorative and structural qualities that ultimately influenced Christian architecture. Mudéjar also describes the Islamic qualities of other visual arts and crafts.
Apunte de sierra
Abrió la ventana.
Sonaba el planeta.
En la piedra el agua.
Hasta el río llegan
de la sierra fría
las uñas de piedra.
¡A la luna clara,
canchos de granito
donde bate el agua!
¡A la luna clara,
Guadarrama pule
las uñas de piedra!
Por aquí fue España,
llamaban Castilla
a unas tierras altas...
Sierra Note
She opened the window.
The planet sounded.
Water on stone.
Fingernails of stone
reach the river
from the cold sierra.
In bright moon
granite boulders
where water beats!
In bright moon
Guadarrama polishes
the stone’s nails!
Spain passed this way
and these high lands
they called Castilla.
Apuntes, parábolas, provierbos y cantares
1
Si hablo, suena
mi propia voz como un eco,
y está mi canto tan hueco
qu ya ni espanta mi pena.
2
Si me tengo que morir
poco me importa aprender.
Y si no puedo saber,
poco me importa vivir.
3
“¿Qué es amor?”, me preguntaba
una niña. Contesté:
“Verte una vez y pensar
haberte visto otra vez.”
4
Hombre occidental,
tu miedo al Oriente, ¿es miedo
a dormir o a despertar?
5
La ciudad desierta
se sale a los montes
por las siete puertas.
Baeza, January 1912
Notes, Parables, Proverbs and Songs
1
If I speak, my own voice
sounds like an echo
and my song is so hollow
my pain doesn’t terrify.
2
If I must die
I don’t care about learning.
If I can’t know,
I don’t care about living.
3
Hour of the last sun.
The young woman of my dreams
shows up in my heart.
4
You of the West,
your fear of the Orient, is it fear
of sleeping or of waking?56
5
The deserted city
leaves for the mountains
through her seven doors.
Baeza, January 1912
56 Probably omitted from New Songs (1917–1930).
Tres cantares enviados a Unamuno en 1913
1
Señor, me cansa la vida,
&nbs
p; tengo la garganta ronca
de gritar sobre los mares,
la voz de la mar me asorda.
Señor, me cansa la vida
y el universo me ahoga.
Señor, me dejaste solo,
solo, con el mar a solas.
2
O tú y yo jugando estamos
al escondite, Señor,
o la voz con que te llamo
es tu voz.
3
Por todas partes te busco
sin encontrarte jamás,
y en todas partes te encuentro
sólo por irte a buscar.
Three Songs Sent to Unamuno in 1913
1
Lord, life gets me tired,
my throat is sore
from shouting over the seas.
Sea voices deafen me.
Lord, life gets me tired,
the universe drowns me.
Lord, you left me alone,
solitary with the sea.57
2
O you and I are playing
hide-and-seek, Lord,
or the voice I say
to you is your voice.
3
I look for you everywhere
and never find you;
in every place I find you
only to go off and look.
57 As one of “Three songs sent to Miguel de Unamumo in 1913,” we have what appears to be a remarkable version of the previous poem, “Lord, what I loved the most,” one of Machado’s most despairing and indignant quatrains. Earlier or later, “Lord, life gets me tired” has Machado’s crushing whimsy and is of equal, ironic power, followed by two more playful poems, which also carry the dilemmas of God’s existence, which Unamuno develops in poem, story, and essay.
Alboradas
1
En San Millán
a misa de alba
tocando están.
*
Escuchad, señora,
los campaniles del alba,
los faisanes de la aurora.
*
Mal dice el negro atavío,
negro manto y negra toca,
con el carmín de esa boca.
*
Nunca se viera
de misa, tan de mañana,
viudita más casadera.
Dawn songs
1
In San Millán
bells are tolling
mass at dawn.
*
Hear, my lady,
steeple bells of dawn:
pheasants of daybreak.
*
Black dress, black cloak,
and black hood curse
with lipstick on her mouth.
*
Never seen at dead
dawn mass a young widow
so on fire to be wed.
Otoño
1
Hay una mano de niño
dispersa en la tarde gris,
o en la tarde gris se borra
una acuarela infantil.
Otoño tiene en el sueño
un iris de abril.
... no sueñes más, cazador
de escopeta y galgo.
Ya quiebra el albor.
2
Y es una mañana
tan coloradita
como una manzana.
3
En el lagar, rojo vivo;
agua en la pera madura,
oro en los chopos del río.
4
¡Mas... ya seca tos,
y las hojas negras
en el ventarrón!
Autumn
1
A child’s hand is dissolving
into the gray afternoon,
or in gray afternoon
a childhood watercolor fades.
Autumn has an April iris
in its dream...
Stop dreaming, hunter
with shotgun and hound.
Dawn is breaking.
2
A morning
all colored over
like an apple.
3
In the winepress, blazing red.
water on the ripe pear,
gold on the river poplars.
4
But by now a dry cough,
and black leaves
in the gale winds.
Apocryphal Songbook
Cancionera Apócrifo
Doce poetas que pudieron existir
Antonio Machado. —Nació en Sevilla en 1875. Fue profesor en Soria, Baeza, Segovia y Teruel. Murió en Huesca en fecha todavía no precisada. Algunos lo han confundido con el célebre poeta del mismo nombre, autor de Soledades, Campos de Castilla, etc.
Alborada
Como lágrimas de plomo
en mi oído dan,
y en tu sueño, niña, como
copos de nieve serán.
A la hora del rocío
sonando están
las campanitas del alba.
¡Tin tan, tin tan!
¡Quién oyera
las campanitas del alba
sentado a tu cabecera!
¡Tin tan, tin tan!
Las campanitas del alba
sonando están
Soneto
Nunca un amor sin venda ni aventura;
huye del triste amor, de amor pacato
que espera del amor prenda segura
sin locura de amor, ¡el insensato!
Ese que el pecho esquiva al niño ciego,
y blasfema del fuego de la vida,
quiere ceniza que le guarde el fuego
de una brasa pensada y no encendida.
Y ceniza hallará, no de su llama,
cuando descubra el torpe desvarío
que pedía sin flor fruto a la rama.
Con negra llave el aposento frío
de su cuarto abrirá! ¡Oh, desierta cama
y turbio espejo! ¡Y corazón vacío!
El milagro
Andrés Santallana. —Nacío en Madrid en 1899.
En Segovia, una tarde, de paseo
por la alameda que el Eresma baña,
para leer mi Biblia
eché mano al estuche de las gafas
en busca de ese andamio de mis ojos,
mi volado balcón de la mirada.
Abrí el estuche, con el gesto firme
y doctoral de quien se dice: Aguarda,
y ahora verás si veo...
Abrí el estuche, pero dentro: nada;
point de lunettes... ¿Huyeron? Juraría
que algo brilló cuando la negra tapa
abrí del diminuto
ataúd de bolsillo, y que volaban,
huyendo de su encierro,
cual mariposa de cristal, mis gafas.
El libro bajo el brazo
la orfandad de mis ojos pasaeba
pensando: hasta las cosas que dejamos
muertas de risa en casa
tienen su doble donde estar debieran,
o es un acto de fe toda mirada.
Twelve Poets Who Might Have Existed58
Antonio Machado.—Born in Sevilla in 1875. He was a teacher in Soria, Baeza, Segovia and Teruel. He died in Huesca on a date still unknown. Some have confused him with a celebrated poet of the same name, author of Solitudes, Fields of Castilla, etc.
Dawn Song
Like tears of lead
in my ears they ring,
and in your dream, girl, a bed
of snowflakes falling.
In the hour of dew
the tiny bells of dawn
are tinkling through:
Ding-dong, ding-dong!
Whoever hears
the tiny bells of dawn,
lying on the pillow!
Ding-dong, ding-dong!
The tiny bells of dawn
are tinkling through.
Sonnet
Never a love without blindfold or chance.
Forget sad love, or love gentle and kind,
claimi
ng to be the safest circumstance,
free of madness. Whims of a stupid mind!
Whoever hides his heart from a blind child
and blasphemes the exciting fire of life
wants ashes that will shelter him in a mild
dreamt-up ember unlit and without strife.
And he’ll find ash and nothing of its flame
when he comes on the clumsy ecstasy
he chose: some old fruit rotting on a lame
Border of a Dream: Selected Poems of Antonio Machado (Spanish Edition) Page 30
