Un plato para el obispo, un plato triturado y amargo,
un plato con restos de hierro, con cenizas, con lágrimas,
un plato sumergido, con sollozos y paredes caídas,
un plato para el obispo, un plato de sangre de
Almería.
Un plato para el banquero, un plato con mejillas
de niños del Sur feliz, un plato
con detonaciones, con aguas locas y ruinas y espanto,
un plato con ejes partidos y cabezas pisadas,
un plato negro, un plato de sangre de Almería.
Cada mañana, cada mañana turbia de vuestra vida
lo tendréis humeante y ardiente en vuestra mesa:
lo apartaréis un poco con vuestras suaves manos
para no verlo, para no digerirlo tantas veces:
lo apartaréis un poco entre el pan y las uvas,
a este plato de sangre silenciosa
que estará allí cada mañana, cada
mañana.
Un plato para el Coronel y la esposa del Coronel,
en una fiesta de la guarnición, en cada fiesta,
sobre los juramentos y los escupos, con la luz de vino de la madrugada
para que lo veáis temblando y frío sobre el mundo.
Sí, un plato para todos vosotros, ricos de aquí y de allá,
embajadores, ministros, comensales atroces,
señoras de confortable té y asiento:
un plato destrozado, desbordado, sucio de sangre pobre,
para cada mañana, para cada semana, para siempre jamás,
un plato de sangre de Almería, ante vosotros, siempre.
A dish for the bishop, a crushed and bitter
dish , a plate with traces of iron, with ashes, with tears,
a submerged dish, with sobs and fallen walls,
a dish for the bishop, a dish of blood from
Almería.
A dish for the banker, a plate with
children’s cheeks of the happy South, a dish
with detonations, with crazy waters and ruins and horror,
a dish with split axes and trodden heads,
a black dish, a dish of blood from Almeria.
Every morning, every cloudy morning of your life
you will have it steaming and hot at your table:
you will separate it a little with your soft hands
so as not to see it, so as not to digest it so many times:
you will separate it a little between bread and grapes,
this plate of silent blood
that will be there every morning, every
morning.
A dish for the Colonel and the wife of the Colonel,
in a party of the garrison, in every party,
on oaths and squirts, with the light of early morning wine
so that you can see it trembling and cold on the world.
Yes, a dish for all of you, rich here and there,
ambassadors, ministers, atrocious diners,
ladies with comfortable tea and seats:
a dish smashed, overflowing, dirty with poor blood,
for each morning, for each week, forever never,
a dish of Almeria’s blood, before you, always.
(A translation of this poem by the famous Nany Cunard is available in The Penguin Book of Civil War Verse}
During the Spanish Civil War the city of Almeira was shelled by the German Navy, with news reaching the London and Parisian press about the “criminal bombardment of Almería by German planes”.[6]Almería surrendered in 1939, being the last Andalusian capital city to fall to Francoist forces.
Don’t go far off, not even for a day, because —
because — I don’t know how to say it: a day is long
and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.
Don’t leave me, even for an hour, because
then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
into me, choking my lost heart.
Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don’t leave me for a second, my dearest,
because in that moment you’ll have gone so far
I’ll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?
Pablo Neruda, original name Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto, (born July 12, 1904, Parral, Chile—died September 23, 1973, Santiago), Chilean poet, diplomat, and politician who was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1971. He was perhaps the most important Latin American poet of the 20th century.
Al giardino spettrale al lauro muto
de le verdi ghirlande
a la terra autunnale
un ultimo saluto!
A l’aride pendici
aspre arrossate nell’estremo sole
confusa di rumori rauchi grida la lontana vita:
grida al morente sole
che insanguina le aiole.
S’intende una fanfara
che straziante sale: il fiume spare
ne le arene dorate; nel silenzio
stanno le bianche statue a capo i ponti
volte: e le cose già non sono più.
E dal fondo silenzio come un coro
tenero e grandioso
sorge ed anela in alto al mio balcone:
e in aroma d’alloro,
in aroma d’alloro acre languente,
tra le statue immortali nel tramonto
ella m’appar, presente.
Autumn garden
A last salute to the spooky garden to the silent laurel
of the green garlands
and the autumn land!
At the arid
rugged slopes reddened in the extreme sun,
confused with raucous noises, the distant life
cries : shouts to the dying sun
that bloody the flowerbeds.
It is meant a fanfare
that is excruciating salt: the river spare
and its golden arenas; in silence
are the white statues at the head of the bridges
sometimes: and things are no longer there.
And from the background, silence like a
tender and grandiose chorus
arises and longs up at my balcony:
and in the aroma of laurel,
in the aroma of bitter, acrid laurel,
among the immortal statues in the sunset
she appeared to me, present.
Dino Campana, (born Aug. 20, 1885, Marradi, Italy—died March 1, 1932, Florence), innovative Italian lyric poet who is almost as well known for his tragic, flamboyant personality as for his controversial writings.
I am finding this an excellent read and an interesting and moving cultural experience. Having just seen “Ladybird” which moved me to both tears and laughter, this story is broadly a similar coming of age story. I suppose it could be termed a Bildungsroman but that is a weighty term for the evocative and indeed provocative text which is ideal for someone wanting to learn German. Essentially it is a prose poem in German about a 13 year old girl coming from Poland to Coventry.
Geisha
Though the partition opens at a touch
She makes a pin-hole and watches people
Watching the sky where a heavy bomber
Journeys to her mirror and jar of rouge.
Geisha
ObwohldiePartitionöffnetsich aufeinenHauch
SiemachteinPin–Lochund sehenMenschen an
Beobachten den Himmel, wo ein schwerer Bomber
Reisen zu ihrem Spiegel und einem Topf Rouge.
Another friend to whomI am indebted alternatively translates:-
Obwohl die Trennwand sich auf Berührung öffnet, macht sie ein stecknadelgroßes Loch und beobachtet den Himmel, wo sich ein schwerer Bomber auf ihren Spiegel und einen Topf Rouge zubewegt..
Geisha (芸者) geiko (芸子), or geigi (芸妓) are traditional Japanese female entertainers who act as hostesses. Their wide skills include performing various arts such as Japanese classical music and traditional dance, witty games and conversation, traditionally to entertain male customers, but also female customers today.
We always had a holly tree at Christmas decorated with fairy lights in little copper lanterns made by my Father. These contained rice paper to diffuse the light and the same rice paper was used as a base for the coconut macaroons that my Mother made as part of the preparations for Christmas.
The Holly Tree is referred to in this beautiful poem by R.S.Hawker.
With prune-dark eyes, thick lips, jostling each other
These, disinterred from Europe, throng the deck
To watch their hope heave up in steel and concrete
Powerful but delicate as a swan’s neck,
Thinking, each of them, the worst is over
And we do not want any more to be prominent or rich,
Only to be ourselves, to be unmolested
And make ends meet–an ideal surely which
Here if anywhere is feasible. Their glances
Like wavering antennae feel
Around the sliding limber towers of Wall Street
And count the numbered docks and gingerly steal
Into the hinterland of their own future
Behind this excessive annunciation of towers,
Tracking their future selves through a continent of strangeness.
The liner moves to the magnet; the quay flowers
With faces of people’s friends. But these are mostly
Friendless and all they look to meet
Is a secretary who holds his levée among ledgers,
Tells them to take a chair and wait…
And meanwhile the city will go on, regardless
Of any new arrival, trains like prayers
Radiating from stations haughty as cathedrals,
Tableaux of spring in milliners’ windows, great affairs
Being endorsed on a vulcanite table, lines of washing
Feebly garish among grimy brick and dour
Iron fire-escapes; barrows of cement are rumbling
Up airy planks; a florist adds a flower
To a bouquet that is bound for somebody’s beloved
Or for someone ill; in a sombre board-room great
Problems wait to be solved or shelved. The city
Goes on but you, you will probably find, must wait
Till something or other turns up. Something-or-Other
Becomes an unexpected angel from the sky;
But do not trust the sky, that blue that looks so candid
Is non-committal, frigid as a harlot’s eye.
Gangways – the handclasp of the land. The resurrected,
The brisk or resigned Lazaruses, who want
Another chance, go trooping ashore. But chances
Are dubious. Fate is stingy, recalcitrant.
And officialdom greets them blankly as they fumble
Their foreign-looking baggage; they still feel
The movement of the ship while through their imagination
The known and the unheard-of constellations wheel.
This poem appeared just about a year after MacNeice visited America where he met Auden and Isherwood amongst other prominent figures during a short lecture tour. It appeared at a time of extreme danger for Britain:- Dunkirk was a recent event and The Blitz too was starting. I am of the opinion that Auden and Isherwood need little justification for having left the country. They had worked bravely on “Journey to War” in Manchuria and Isherwood’s novels gave a clear insight into the rise of the Nazis and the persecution of leftists, Jewish people and so on. That is by the way, since although this poem could be considered in some ways slight, it has interesting parallels with the comparable plight of refugees today. Given Trump, entering America has become extremely difficult in the past year. In addition, it gives an insight into the New York seascape and skyline which I seem to remember has been written about movingly by two Jewish exiles, Rose Ausländer (Januar in New York) and I think, Mischa Kalako.
The poem itself is obviously of it’s time and the first line is rather brutal on facial characteristics. There are some interesting words like ‘milliner’ and ‘vulcanite’ that have dropped out of common parlance rather. I particularly like-‘Into the hinterland of their own future’ which suggests the confusion of trying to find in a new environment some reference to the land left behind. It also contains, I think, perhaps unconsciously, reference to MacNeice’s hinterland as an Irish born poet as well as much effective and ambivalent use of religious imagery. His father became a bishop of the Anglican Church of Ireland.
Under Benito’s Hat –King’s Cross
penwithlit 