Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer
Here is an old blog entry from 2005, which I salvaged from my Myspace profile, that I no longer use…
“Hello my friends, just thought I’d share something with you all. Back in the 80’s, when I was in High School, in Mexico City (no, I am not Mexican, I just lived there for 4 years; I am actually a mixture of Puerto Rican and Spanish, and I understand that somewhere down the line is some French blood as well), I took an Intermediate Spanish course. During that course, we read a bunch of Spanish language authors, most of whom were 20th century Latin American authors writing in the Realismo Magico genre. The majority of this stuff was too political and too culturally foreign for me to really relate to; however, there was one author whom we spent some time on that, although I had a hard time understanding some of the language he used, I enjoyed the Gothic Romanticism of his work, which harkened to the likes of Poe, yet still keeping a genuine Spanish flavor. That author was Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer (1836-1870), a young man from Sevilla, who wrote some amazing short tales and poems before dying of tuberculosis in his 30’s.
Recently, at work, I came across a dual-language book of Spanish Poetry by Dover, which contained several selections from Becquer (as well as Cervantes, Lorca, etc.) in both English and Spanish. This is notable because up until now, I have only been able to find books in the original Spanish. This is fine for me, but makes it difficult to share with most of my friends. Now I can though, and there is one poem in particular that will appeal to anyone who has a taste for the Romanti-Goth. It comes from his “Rimas” (or “Rhymes”) and doesn’t have a specific title, but is rather identified by it’s opening line, which is “Cerraron sus ojos…”, “They closed her eyes…”. I shall transcribe it soon as a blog entry, so keep an eye out for it. Enjoy, and let me know what you think.”
Of course, I did the transcription for my next entry and it goes like this:
This poem was written by Spanish poet, Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer (1836-70), and translated by Muriel Kittel. I changed a few words here and there to better suit the original intent of the poet, as the Kittel translation is a bit loose and overly Anglacized.
They closed her eyes
They closed her eyes
That she still kept open;
They covered her head
With a white linen cloth;
Then some with sobs,
Others in silence,
One and all left
The sorrowful room.
The light in a glass
Burned on the floor;
It cast on the wall
The shadow of the bed;
And within that shadow,
Intermittently seen,
Was stiffly outlined
The shape of the body.
Day was awakening,
And at its first dawning,
With a thousand noises
The village was waking.
Faced with that contrast
Of life and mysteries,
Of light and darkness,
I thought for a moment:
“How lonely, my God,
Do we leave the dead!”
From the house, on their shoulders,
They carried her to church,
And in a chapel
They set down the bier.
There they surrounded
Her pale remains
With yellow candles
And black draperies.
As the bells at sunset
Pealed their last chime,
An old woman ended
Her final prayers;
She crossed the narrow nave,
The doors groaned,
And the holy alcove
Was left deserted.
The measured pendulum
Of a clock was heard,
And the sputtering
Of a few candles.
So terrible and sad,
So gloomy and stiff
Was everything there…
That I thought for a moment:
“How lonely, my God,
Do we leave the dead!”
From the lofty belfry
The iron clapper
Whirled and rang out
Its sad farewell.
Mourning on thier dress,
Friends and kindred
Passed in procession
Forming the cortege.
For her last refuge,
Narrow and dark,
The pickax opened
The niche at one end.
They laid her there,
Quickly walled it up,
And with a bow
The rites were ended.
Pickax on shoulder,
The gravedigger,
Singing between his teeth,
Was lost in the distance.
Night was approaching,
Silence reigned;
Lost in shadows
I thought for a moment:
“How lonely, my God,
Do we leave the dead!”
During the long nights
Of icy winter,
When timbers creek
Under the wind
And fierce showers
Lash the windowpanes,
Alone, I remember
The poor young girl.
There falls the rain
With eternal sound;
There struggles with it
The north wind’s blast.
Laid in that hole
In the damp wall,
Perhaps her bones
Freeze with cold!…
Does dust turn to dust?
Does the soul fly to heaven?
Is all vile matter,
putrefaction and filth?
I know not: but there’s something
That I cannot explain,
Something that fills us
With repugnance and sorrow
At leaving so sad,
And lonely, the dead.
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