By Antonio Machado, Willis Barnstone
Antonio Machado (1875–1939) is Spain’s grasp poet, the explorer of dream and panorama, and of cognizance under language. broadly considered as the best 20th century poet who wrote in Spanish, Machado—like his modern Rilke—is intensely introspective and meditative. during this assortment, the unprecedented translator Willis Barnstone, returns to the poet with whom he first all started his unique occupation, providing a brand new bilingual version which supplies a sweeping review of Machado’s paintings. furthermore, Border of a Dream incorporates a memory via Nobel Laureate Juan Ramón Jiménez and a foreword via John Dos Passos.
from "Proverbs and Songs"
Absolute religion. We neither are nor will be.
Our entire existence is borrowed
We introduced not anything. With not anything we leave.
*
You say not anything is created?
Don’t fear. With clay
of the earth make a cup
so your brother can drink.
Born close to Seville, Spain, Antonio Machado turned to a occupation in writing and translating that allows you to support aid his relatives after the loss of life of his father in 1893. His turning out to be recognition as a poet resulted in instructing posts in a number of towns in Spain and, finally, he back to complete his measure from the collage of Madrid in 1918. He remained in Madrid after the outbreak of civil warfare, dedicated to the Republican reason, however the violence ultimately compelled him to escape. He died an exile in France.
Willis Barnstone is considered one of America’s preferable translator-poets, bringing into English a unprecedented variety of labor, from Mao Tse-tung to the hot Testament.
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Additional resources for Border of a Dream: Selected Poems of Antonio Machado
Silently and and not using a look demise once more crossed prior to me. What have you ever performed? demise didn’t solution. My baby was once quiet, my center in soreness. Oh, what demise broke used to be a thread among us! “Al borrarse l. a. nieve” Al borrarse los angeles nieve, se alejaron los montes de los angeles sierra. l. a. vega ha verdecido al sol de abril, l. a. vega tiene los angeles verde llama, l. a. vida, que no pesa; y piensa el alma en una mariposa, atlas del mundo, y sueña. Con el ciruelo en flor y el campo verde, con el glauco vapor de l. a. ribera, en torno de las ramas, con las primeras zarzas que blanquean, con este dulce soplo que triunfa de l. a. muerte y de l. a. piedra, esta amargura que me ahoga fluye en esperanza de Ella... “As snow used to be melting” As snow was once melting, the mountains of the sierra drew away. The meadow greened within the April solar. The meadow has its eco-friendly flames and lifestyles with no fear. And the soul thinks of a butterfly, a map of the realm, and goals. With the plum tree in flower and the fairway fields, with glaucous mist alongside the river shore, with this tender gust that triumphs over dying and stone, this rancor drowning me flows in desire of Her. “En estos campos de l. a. tierra mía” En estos campos de l. a. tierra mía, y extranjero en los campos de mi tierra —yo tuve patria donde corre el Duero por entre grises peñas, y fantasmas de viejos encinares, allá en Castilla, mística y guerrera, Castilla l. a. gentil, humilde y brava, Castilla del desdén y de los angeles fuerza—, en estos campos de mi Andalucía, �oh tierra en que nací! , cantar quisiera. Tengo recuerdos de mi infancia, tengo imágenes de luz y de palmeras, y en una gloria de oro, de lueñes campanarios con cigüeñas, de ciudades con calles sin mujeres bajo un cielo de añil, plazas desiertas donde crecen naranjos encendidos con sus frutas redondas y bermejas; y en un huerto sombrío, el limonero de ramas polvorientas y pálidos limones amarillos, que el agua clara de los angeles fuente espeja, un aroma de nardos y claveles y un fuerte olor de albahaca y hierbabuena, imágenes de grises olivares bajo un tórrido sol que aturde y ciega, y azules y dispersas serranías con arreboles de una tarde inmensa; mas falta el hilo que el recuerdo anuda al corazón, el ancla en su ribera, o estas memorias no son alma. Tienen, en sus abigarradas vestimentas, señal de ser despojos del recuerdo, l. a. carga bruta que el recuerdo lleva. Un día tornarán, con luz del fondo ungidos, los cuerpos virginales a los angeles orilla vieja. Lora del Río, four de abril de 1913 “Here within the fields of my place of birth” the following within the fields of my fatherland and a stranger in those fields of the South —I came upon my place of birth the place the Duero flows among grey cliffs and phantoms of outdated black oaks, up there in Castilla mystic and warlike, Castilla the genteel, humble and courageous, Castilla of vanity and tool— i would like to sing those meadows of my Andalucía the place i used to be born! i've got stories of youth, i've got pictures of sunshine and palm bushes, and, in a ask yourself of gold, distant bell towers with storks, towns with womenless streets under an indigo sky, abandoned squares the place orange timber on fireplace ripen with their around vermilion fruit.