Jueves Santo
Te ofrezco
el lucero del crepúsculo
Arcturus, guardián del oso
Te ofrezco este silencio
Te ofrezco esta noche
Aquí
espero contigo
*
Desvelándome, hora tras hora
ineludible
Los cu-cur-ru, cu-cur-ru de las palomas de repente
se agudizan en lamentos de madres perdidas
un diluvio de susurros tristes
torrente de suspiros moribundos que vienen
y van, aparecen y desaparecen sin
decir de donde vienen
o a donde van
Paso a paso
el peso del silencio implacable
No hay voz de pájaro
ni de grillo, ni de coquí
Sólo la estela temerosa de una brisa lenta
Desde las colinas dormidas
la noche taína clandestinamente se revela
el pergamino secreto de las estrellas
Rayas de meteoros
++++dardos de fuego
++++dejando estelas de ceniza, de obsidiana
*
Murciélagos
+++++temores revoloteando
+++++en la oscuridad
La decadencia fragante de los árboles viejos
*
Llegan los tambores de lluvia
en el techo de zinc
uno por uno, silbidos y pequeñas voces se agitan
se alzan en una tormenta de gritos
un réquiem enorme de coquíes
*
Luciérnagas de la memoria
semillas frágiles del sol, letras flotantes
que forman palabras
un idioma desconocido se enciende
‘posible, posible’
*
Piel delicada de la noche
humo del amor
aroma de lirio y jazmín
La neblina desciende
como una tristeza luminosa
*
Querido silencio
Querida noche
Querido coro de coquíes
Aquí estamos, a punto de
lo que podemos creer
de lo que nos espera
Jueves Santo
I offer you
Arcturus, Guardian of the Bear
I offer you this silence
I offer you this night
Here
I wait with you
*
Awake marking hour after hour
inescapable
The doves’ cu-cur-ru, cu-cur-ru, suddenly
sharpens into lamentations of mothers
a deluge of whispers
streams of sighs that come
and go, appear and disappear without
saying where they come from
or where they are going
Step by step, the weight of
the quiet
There is no voice of a bird
nor cricket, nor coquí
Just the wake of a slow breeze
The Taíno night reveals itself
scroll of stars opening
over the recumbent hills
Meteor streaks —
+++a flock of fire darts
+++leaving ash, obsidian stelae
*
Bats — fluttering fears
++++++in the dark
The fragrant decay of trees
*
Rain drumming on zinc
one by one, whistles and small voices stir
into a storm of cries
a vast requiem of coquíes
*
Fireflies
fragile seeds of the sun, floating letters
that form words
an unknown language lighting up
‘posible, posible’
*
Delicate skin of the night
love-smoke
scent of lily and jasmine
Neblina settles in
luminous as sadness
*
Dear silence
Dear night
Dear choir of coquíes
Here we are, on the verge of
what we can believe
of what awaits us
Utuado, Puerto Rico
Click here to read David Green on the origin of the poem.
Image: Puerto Rico by Erik Cooper, licensed under CC 2.0.
David Green:
Jueves Santo– translation, Holy Thursday
Utuado –- A mountain town in western Puerto Rico named after the Taíno word, otoao an approximate translation of “between two mountains”, and two Caciques [chiefs] identified with that location.
Arcturus –- A yellow star, one of the brightest stars in the sky at twilight in the constellation of Boötes. It is called the Guardian of the Bear because it is located at the tail of the Big Dipper [Ursa Major]
Coquí — A tiny tree frog endemic to Puerto Rico, quiet in dry weather, very loud after rainfall
Obsidian –- Ancient indigenous cultures such as the Mayans described meteors as fire darts – the explanation of the origin of obsidian used for weapons and arrowheads, was that it was formed wherever the meteors / fire darts hit the earth
Neblina –- translation, Mist
This poem was prompted by an experience on Holy Thursday when I left the urban clinic where I worked, for the first night of a stay in a mountain retreat in Utuado, Puerto Rico. It was the Thursday of Holy Week. During the night I was awakened by the pervasive sound of a sea of sorrowful voices in distress and mourning. Coming awake, I heard the sounds become the fluttering and clucking of hens across the road… but thereafter in the liminal return to sleep, the sound of collective mourning returned, and the transient thought, ‘This is Jueves Santo.’
This poem was originally written entirely in Spanish in the weeks following my stay. I decided to try translating it into English, and realized as I did so, that the English version was a different poem. The voice or style that was unremarkable in Spanish, when translated literally, appeared excessive, verbose, sentimental. The original felt affectively more true and available, but the English rendition with revision became more quiet, the language more lean, restrained. What felt and sounded to me more incantatory in Spanish, was still reflectively vivid in English, but felt like it had lost its heartful sound and rhythm.
A generic persistent and unintended consequence of writing / translating this poem, was that now when I am writing a poem in English, if I have a place or phrase when I get stuck, I will translate the stanza into Spanish, explore Spanish synonyms and meanings, generate a new line or stanza in Spanish, then translate that back into English. Perhaps this is common for bilingual or bicultural writers in many languages, but it was new for me, and has continued to be very helpful.
David Green is a clinician working at a community health center in Boston, MA with Spanish-speaking people from the Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico. Born in Detroit, he was seven when his family moved to Venezuela. This was coincident with the beginning of the Jimenez dictatorship, 1952-1958, and he remained in Venezuela until age 26. When writing poems, he sometimes composes in either Spanish or English. His writing reflects the duality of his multi-lingual thinking and speaking. His previously published poems have appeared in the Lyric Review, Bellevue Literary Review, and Pangyrus.
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