Summer
by César Vallejo
translated from the Spanish by Yvette Siegert
Summer, I am leaving. And how they pain me,
These meek hands of your afternoons.
You arrive devout; you arrive old; and now
You will find my soul with no one in it.
Oh, summer. You pass through my balconies
With your great rosary of amethyst and gold
Like a tragic bishop who travels far
To find and bless the broken
Rings of two dead lovers.
Summer, I am leaving. And there in September,
You will find a rose I’ve left especially in your care,
For you to tend to with holy water
On all the days of sin and tombs.
If, from all the sobbing, the mausoleum
Should spread its marble wings in the light of faith,
Lift up your voice and pray to God
The light stays dead forever.
Everything is late already.
You will find my soul with no one in it.
There now, summer, no more sobbing. The rose in
That furrow will die but bloom and bloom again.
(I am including this link to a short bio of Vallejo at The Poetry Foundation.)
Sunday's poem was a love poem to so many things. This poem, by the Peruvian poet who suffered throughout his life, is--by comparison--not exactly a hate poem, but a poem filled with sadness (with a wee bit of hope--is it hope?--at the end.)
I love the religious symbols and metaphors throughout the poem. They are many and consistent, but are not overdone. Like Vallejo, I am a lapsed Catholic, and I know that Catholic iconograpgy stays with you and easily slips into poems.
The repetition of "You will find my soul with no one in it" is not only a clue (THIS IS SUPER IMPORTANT) but also a paradox and is the opposite of what many people believe. Our bodies contain our souls, many think, but here Vallejo is saying that death with find a person-less soul. Is this because the human had no religion?
So, I do not "get" every meaning from this poem, and that's okay. The images are stunning. The tone is clear. When you read poetry, it is okay to not "get" everything and to be thrilled with what is apparent to you. I say this because I know this idea of having to "get" poetry keeps a lot of people from it.
"Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood."--T. S. Eliot
To end, let's give it up for translators. I am hopeless with languages other than my own, although I am valiantly trying to learn Spanish. I am in awe of people who can speak more than one language, and to translate poetry . . . ? Absolutely gobsmacked.
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