If you were at all sensate in the late 60s/early
70s, you heard someone somewhere singing “Guantanamera”. Maybe
starting with Pete Seeger, I disremember at the moment. However, you were
thereby introduced to José Martí.
Martí was a Cuban poet in the latter half of the 19th
Century. His use of language is lyrical, flowing like the tide on a Caribbean
beach. If you’re a high school student, the Spanish is clear and amazingly
easy to absorb.
Today, then, for National Poetry Month, you have
Martí’s “Dos Patrias”. I love the opening line: I have two homelands, Cuba and the night. Damn.
Dos
Patrias
Dos patrias tengo yo: Cuba y la noche.
¿O son una las dos? No bien retira
su majestad el sol, con largos velos
y un clavel en la mano, silenciosa
Cuba cual viuda triste me aparece.
¡Yo sé cuál es ese clavel sangriento
que en la mano le tiembla! Está vacío
mi pecho, destrozado está y vacío
en donde estaba el corazón. Ya es hora
de empezar a morir. La noche es buena
para decir adiós. La luz estorba
y la palabra humana. El universo
habla mejor que el hombre.
Cual bandera
que invita a batallar, la llama roja
de la vela flamea. Las ventanas
abro, ya estrecho en mí. Muda, rompiendo
las hojas del clavel, como una nube
que enturbia el cielo, Cuba, viuda, pasa...
Here’s the English translation (by Mark Weiss):
Two homelands have I, Cuba and the night.
Or are they one? The sun’s
majesty but now withdrawn,
trailing long veils she comes
to me, Cuba, in the guise
of a grieving widow, holding
a carnation. That blood-stained flower
is my shattered breast, the hollow
that held my heart. Now is the hour come
to die. The night is made for parting, light and
speech
a barrier, the universe more eloquent than man.
The red flame of the candle flutters
like a flag summoning to battle.
Clutching it to me I open the window.
Mute as a cloud that hides the sky
the widow passes, scattering flowers.
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