César Vallejo

Spain – Take this chalice from me

irlandesuk poetry, translation ,

If Spain falls

Children,
sons of warriors, just for now,
hush your voices, since Spain’s energy at this very moment
is being parcelled out among the animal kingdom,
tiny flowers, comets and humankind.
Hush your voices, for she is
close to death, which is very grave, not knowing
where to turn, and there in her hand
the skull spouting words words words
the skull, the braided skull,
the skull, the skull of life!

Hush your voices, I beg you;
Hush your voices, the syllables of song, the weeping
of matter and the slightest murmur from the pyramids, and even
from those temples that walk with two stones!
Hush your breath, and if
your forearm droops,
if the vicious rulers ring out, if it is night,
if the heavens are squeezed between two terrestrial limbos,
if there’s noise in the sound of doors,
if I delay,
if you see no one, if you are afraid
of blunt pencils, if mother
Spain falls — you know, I’m just saying —
go out, children of the earth, go out and find her!

Above is a fragment from a poem by the great, antifascist Peruvian poet, César Vallejo (1892-1938), written during the Spanish Civil War (1936-39). The parallels with the violent Russian assault on Ukraine, which jeopardises the security of the whole of Europe, are all too clear. Translation by John Lyons.

Black stone upon a white stone

irlandesuk poetry, translation

Black stone upon a white stone

I’ll die in Paris when it’s pouring with rain
On a day whose memory I cherish.
I’ll die in Paris (it makes no odds to me),
On maybe a Thursday like today, in autumn.

Yes, a Thursday because today, Thursday
O what dull verse. . . my upper arms won’t respond,
And never like today have I about-faced
To see myself all alone, the years I’ve known.

César Vallejo has died, beaten by
One and all, though he did them no harm.
They beat him hard with a stick
Hard too with a rope: his upper arms;
The Thursdays; the rain and loneliness;
The journeys, all bear witness. . .

César Vallejo (1892-1938)

Translation by John Lyons

Nyctalopia

irlandesuk poetry

Nyctalopia

The energy that runs
           through our veins
what I like to call
           star-blood
and this world
           driven by light
and reality
           weighed down
by time
           and the cities
that rise up
           within us
the rivers
           that rise and fall
and endless words
           beauty and truth
and love
           and César Vallejo
that most human
           of poets
who wrote
           of how much
it costs
           to be poor

John Lyons

“la cantidad enorme que cuesta el ser pobre,” César Vallejo, Los poemas humanos