Selected Poems by Cesar Abraham Vallejo Mendoza, A Third Dimension
by Guillermo Alfonso Calvo-Mahe
Introduction
Contrary to the assertions in his poem “Black Stone on a White Stone”, this year Cesar Vallejo seems more alive than ever with prominent new translations of his literary works offered by Clayton Eshleman (The Complete Poetry of César Vallejo) and Messrs. Michael Smith and Valentino Gianuzzi (The Black Heralds and Other Early Poems). These follow Messrs Smith’s and Gianuzzi’s earlier translation of Trilce and Complete Later Poems 1923-1938, published in 2005, and Selected Poems, published in 2006.
While all of these translations are scholarly, beautiful and extremely worthwhile, the beauty of translation is that it is open to different perspectives and interpretations. This is reflected in this alternative translation of five of Cesar Vallejo poems: Los heraldos negros” from the book of the same name (which has been translated for this article as “Harbingers in Black”); Los dados eternos” from his book Poemas humanos (which has been translated for this article as “The Eternal Die “Piedra negra sobre una piedra blanca” (Black Stone on a White Stone), “La rueda del hambriento” (which has been translated for this article as “Cycle of Hunger”) and, from “España, aparta de mi este cáliz” (“Spain, Take This Cup from Me”), XV. “Niños del Mundo” (“Children of the World”).
Cesar Abraham Vallejo Mendoza was born in Santiago de Chuco, a remote village in the Peruvian Andes, on March 16 1892, the youngest of eleven children. He had an eclectic education which, in addition to attaining a master’s degree in Spanish literature (1915), included work at an “Ingenio” (sugar plantation and processing facility), as a tutor, and as a university professor. He complemented his employment roles with an active social life (not always free of scandal) which eventually led to his emigration to Paris where he died on April 15 1938. Like many poets of his time he was enthralled with the possibilities for social justice that socialism promised and he was an avid supporter of the Republican cause in the Spanish Civil War.
Vallejo’s work and life resonate surprisingly with our times, both in their social concerns and in the strange analogy that Moslem communities see between the Spanish Civil War and the current situation in Iraq, similar enough to make many of us uncomfortable and leading us to wonder about lessons yet unlearned. For those reasons, it is an excellent time to reconsider his works. He is especially meaningful to those of us who share with him the experience of lives lived outside the countries in which we were born and which we continue to love dearly. Cesar Vallejo was, perhaps more than anything else, immersed in contemplation of his fellow men, in their feelings, in their suffering, in the continuing injustices to which they are constantly subjected. His poetry echoes their hopelessness in the hope that hearing those echoes, we will awaken to their plight and perhaps, someday do something about it. His plea is as relevant today as it has ever been.
Translation Challenges
The translation of poetry, along with that of lyrics and comedy, is the most difficult. It involves a process of prioritization. Not all of the myriad elements that go into creating a poem can always be faithfully preserved. In fact, such a feat is rarely if ever accomplished even by the best of translators. One starts with a research project seeking to understand the full meaning of the poem in order to grasp the vision the original poet created. Grasping the layers of meaning below the surface can be extremely challenging and its success can be difficult to gage. Allusions can take the form of deliberate grammatical errors, easy to confuse with poetic license, or just hide behind perfectly logical primary meanings. It’s as though they, along with symbols, are special gifts, puzzles and secret codes shared among the cognezanti; or, perhaps, just traps to test translators’ cultural competence. Of course, such analysis involves a totally subjective exercise as poetry involves a reflection of our own life experiences through a poet’s magic mirror.
The poem lives in a cultural setting created for a particular audience in a particular time and place, with a particular education, with particular sensibilities, an audience which the poet knows intimately. That setting has its unique symbology, its special allusions. That setting can change drastically during the translation process as the translator molds the translation to a new cultural milieu, a process that frequently requires the compromise of fidelity, although it did not in the case of most of Vallejo's poems which deal with universal human themes (unfortunately all too present today). The music of the poem, its rhythm, meter, rhyme, etc., is an extremely difficult component of the original work to duplicate. Like a poem's imagery, symbolism and allusion, a poem’s form involves cultural constructs that change with its geographic, linguistic and temporal settings; consequently, even when reasonable duplication of form is possible it is not always appropriate and a translation might best serve the original poem by placing it in a form with which the new audience is more comfortable or which the new audience more closely associates with other elements of the poem’s message. In the case of Vallejo’s poetry, the issue of form was addressed through compensation rather than through faithful mimicry, principally involving expanded use of alliteration and assonance, as well as alternative rhyme patterns and sequences.
Like poetry that flows directly from a poet's soul, initial drafts sometimes just pour out; then the reconciliation process starts, a process somewhat reminiscent of a wrestling match with a greased pig, but an extremely educational wrestling match requiring an insight into the poet as singular person, as well as into the poet’s times and background. Translation of poetry is a re-creation, performed as faithfully as one can on the one hand, and as effectively as possible, seeking reproduction of the almost ethereal sensations elicited by the original, on the other. While it is rarely if ever perfect, it is at least as rewarding as it is difficult. Translating Cesar Vallejo was a delight.
The Translator
Guillermo Alfonso Calvo-Mahe was born in Manizales, Colombia but has lived in the United States for most of his life. He graduated from and taught at Eastern Military Academy, from the Citadel, the Military College of South Carolina (BA in Political Science), from St. John's University, School of Law (JD), from the graduate division of New York University School of law (LL.M., in international legal studies) and has a graduate certificate in Translation Studies for the University of Florida. Mr. Calvo has sought spiritual enlightenment throughout his life but has yet to find definitive answers; he has, however, found an ever increasing and worthwhile, series of questions to speculate on. He is dedicated to the Pan Latin American vision of many Latin American authors, past and present, and to serving the ever growing Latin American expatriate community. He currently lives in Ocala, Florida. Significant assistance in the translation process involving cultural and special linguistic aspects was provided by his father, Guillermo Alfonso Calvo-Garavito.
Piedra negra sobre una piedra blanca
Me moriré en París con aguacero, un día del cual tengo ya el recuerdo. Me moriré en París -y no me corro- tal vez un jueves, como es hoy, de otoño.
Jueves será, porque hoy, jueves, que proso estos versos, los húmeros me he puesto a la mala y, jamás como hoy, me he vuelto, con todo mi camino, a verme solo.
César Vallejo ha muerto, le pegaban todos sin que él les haga nada; le daban duro con un palo y duro
también con una soga; son testigos los días jueves y los huesos húmeros, la soledad, la lluvia, los caminos... |
Black Stone on a White Stone
I’ll die in Paris during a squall, on a day I can already recall. I’ll die in Paris, -I’ll not run away-, perhaps on a Thursday like today, in the Fall.
It’ll be Thursday, because today, Thursday, as I write these verses, my humeri I’ve strained, and never, despite all my byways, have I seen myself alone as I do today.
César Vallejo has died; they struck him, all of them did, while he did nothing in return; they gave it to him hard with a club and hard
with a whip as well; there are witnesses: the Thursdays and the humeri bones, the solitude, the rain, the roads … |
Los heraldos negros
Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes ... ¡Yo no sé! Golpes como del odio de Dios; como si ante ellos, la resaca de todo lo sufrido se empozara en el alma... Yo no sé!
Son pocos; pero son... Abren zanjas obscuras en el rostro más fiero y en el lomo más fuerte. Serán talvez los potros de bárbaros atilas; o los heraldos negros que nos manda la Muerte.
Son las caídas hondas de los Cristos del alma, de alguna fe adorable que el Destino blasfema. Esos golpes sangrientos son las crepitaciones de algún pan que en la puerta del horno se nos quema.
Y el hombre... Pobre... pobre! Vuelve los ojos, como cuando por sobre el hombro nos llama una palmada; vuelve los ojos locos, y todo lo vivido se empoza, como charco de culpa, en la mirada.
Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes... Yo no sé! |
Harbingers in Black
Some of life’s blows are so harsh… I just don’t understand! Blows that seem like God’s hatred; as if in their wake, all our suffering is drawn, pooling in our souls… I just don’t understand!
They’re few; but they “are” … Cutting dark grooves in the fiercest face and broadest back. Perhaps they’re the foals of barbarian Huns; or perhaps; Death-sent, they’re its harbingers in black.
They’re profound falls from grace of Christs in our souls, the despair of a worship-worthy faith Fate has cursed. Those bloody blows: the sizzling sounds of our bread, burning on an oven’s grate.
And man… Poor, poor man! He glances back as if on his shoulder he’d been tapped. He turns his mad eyes, and like a puddle of guilt, a lifetime pools in his gaze.
Some of life’s blows are so harsh… I just don’t understand! |
Los dados eternos
Para Manuel Gonzales Prada, esta emoción bravía y selecta, una de las que, con más entusiasmo, me ha aplaudido el gran maestro.
Dios mío, estoy llorando el sér que vivo; me pesa haber tomádote tu pan; pero este pobre barro pensativo no es costra fermentada en tu costado: ¡tú no tienes Marías que se van!
Dios mío, si tú hubieras sido hombre, hoy supieras ser Dios; pero tú, que estuviste siempre bien, no sientes nada de tu creación. ¡Y el hombre sí te sufre: el Dios es él!
Hoy que en mis ojos brujos hay candelas, como en un condenado, Dios mío, prenderás todas tus velas, y jugaremos con el viejo dado. Tal vez ¡oh jugador! al dar la suerte del universo todo, surgirán las ojeras de la Muerte, como dos ases fúnebres de lodo.
Dios míos, y esta noche sorda, obscura, ya no podrás jugar, porque la Tierra es un dado roído y ya redondo a fuerza de rodar a la aventura, que no puede parar sino en un hueco, en el hueco de inmensa sepultura.
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The Eternal Die
These untamed and special thoughts, among those the great teacher most fervently praised, are dedicated to Manuel Gonzales Prada.
My God: I’m mourning the life I live! I regret having accepted your bread; but this poor sentient piece of clay is not a scab, putrid on your side: you don’t have Marias who leave!
My God! If you’d been a man, you’d know how to be Divine today; but you, who’ve always been well, sense nothing of your own creation. But man certainly suffers you: he’s the God!
Today, when there are flames in my sorcerous eyes, as in a man condemned, you’ll light all your candles, my God, and with the ancient dice we’ll play. Oh player, perhaps, risking everything on universal chance, the bags neath Death’s eyes will swell, like two mournful aces of clay.
And on this deaf, dark night, my God, you’ll no longer be able to play, because the Earth is a worthless die, now chipped and rounded by its rolls in quest of fate, rolls that can now stop only in a hole, in the hole of the massive grave.
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La rueda del hambriento
POR entre mis propios dientes salgo humeando, dando voces, pujando, bajándome los pantalones... Váca mi estómago, váca mi yeyuno, la miseria me saca por entre mis propios dientes, cogido con un palito por el puño de la camisa.
Una piedra en que sentarme ¿no habrá ahora para mi? Aún aquella piedra en que tropieza la mujer que ha dado a luz, la madre del cordero, la causa, la raiz, ¿ésa no habrá ahora para mi? ¡Siquiera aquella otra, que ha pasado agachándose por mi alma! Siquiera la calcárida o la mala (humilde océano) o la que ya no sirve ni para ser tirada contra el hombre ésa dádmela ahora para mí!
Siquiera la que hallaren atravesada y sola en un insulto, ésa dádmela ahora para mí! Siquiera la torcida y coronada, en que resuena solamente una vez el andar de las rectas conciencias, o, al menos, esa otra, que arrojada en digna curva, va a caer por sí misma, en profesión de entraña verdadera, ¡ésa dádmela ahora para mí!
Un pedazo de pan, tampoco habrá para mí? Ya no más he de ser lo que siempre he de ser, pero dadme una piedra en que sentarme, pero dadme, por favor, un pedazo de pan en que sentarme, pero dadme en español algo, en fin, de beber, de comer, de vivir, de reposarse y después me iré... Halló una extraña forma, está muy rota y sucia mi camisa y ya no tengo nada, esto es horrendo.
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Cycle of Hunger
I flow out, smoking, through my own teeth, making noises, struggling, lowering my trousers… my stomach empties, my gut empties, misery draws me out through my own teeth, hooked with a stick through the cuff of a shirt.
A stone to sit on, is there none now for me? Even the one on which the woman who’s given life stumbles, the mother of the lamb, the cause, the root, can’t that one be had for me now? Or at least that other stone, the one that’s been stooping for my soul! Or at least the calcareous stone or the river-rock (humble ocean) or the one now so useless it can’t even be thrown at a man, that stone, won’t you give it to me now, for my own!
At least the one that might be found, crossed and alone in an insult, that stone, won’t you give it to me now, for my own! Or at least the twisted and tonsured one in which the path of a clean conscience resonates but once, or, at least, this other stone, which, thrown in the proper arc, will fall on its own, professing its true essence, that stone, won’t you give it to me now, for my own!
A piece of bread, will that be denied me as well? I can no longer be anything but what I’ve always been, but, won’t you give me a stone on which I can sit, won’t you please, give me a piece of bread on which I can sit, won’t you give me something in Spanish then, to drink, to eat, to live, to rest and then I’ll go… I find a strange shape; my shirt is very torn and dirty and now I have nothing. This is dreadful!
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España, aparta de mi este cáliz XV. “Niños del mundo
Niños del mundo, si cae España -digo, es un decir- si cae del cielo abajo su antebrazo que asen, en cabestro, dos láminas terrestres; niños, ¡qué edad la de las sienes cóncavas! ¡qué temprano en el sol lo que os decía! ¡qué pronto en vuestro pecho el ruido anciano! ¡qué viejo vuestro 2 en el cuaderno!
¡Niños del mundo, está la madre España con su vientre a cuestas; está nuestra maestra con sus férulas, está madre y maestra, cruz y madera, porque os dio la altura, vértigo y división y suma, niños; está con ella, padres procesales!
Si cae -digo, es un decir- si cae España, de la tierra para abajo, niños, ¡cómo vais a cesar de crecer! ¡cómo va a castigar el año al mes! ¡cómo van a quedarse en diez los dientes, en palote el diptongo, la medalla en llanto! ¡Cómo va el corderillo a continuar atado por la pata al gran tintero! ¡Cómo vais a bajar las gradas del alfabeto hasta la letra en que nació la pena!
Niños, hijos de los guerreros, entre tanto, bajad la voz, que España está ahora mismo repartiendo la energía entre el reino animal, las florecillas, los cometas y los hombres. ¡Bajad la voz, que está con su rigor, que es grande, sin saber qué hacer, y está en su mano la calavera hablando y habla y habla, la calavera, aquélla de la trenza, la calavera , aquélla de la vida!
¡Bajad la voz, os digo; bajad la voz, el canto de las sílabas, el llanto de la materia y el rumor menor de las pirámides, y aún el de las sienes que andan con dos piedras! ¡Bajad el aliento, y si el antebrazo baja, si las férulas suenan, si es la noche, si el cielo cabe en dos limbos terrestres, si hay ruido en el sonido de las puertas, si tardo, si no veis a nadie, si os asustan los lápices sin punta, si la madre España cae -digo, es un decir- salid, niños del mundo; id a buscarla!... |
Spain, Take this Cup from Me XV. “Children of the World”
Children of the world, I say, If Spain should fall (it’s an aphorism), if from the sky below her tethered forearm, two terrestrial engravings should fall; children: how old are the hollows that nestle the brow, how early on in the sun that which I was telling you, how soon the ancient sound in your breast, how old your 2 in the notebook!
Children of the world, mother Spain is hauling her womb behind her; she’s our teacher, with her own birch rods, she’s both mother and guide, cross and wood, because she gave you the height, vertigo, division and addition; luminary guides, by her side!
If Spain should fall, I say (it’s an aphorism), if Spain should fall, sink from the earth; children: how will you stop yourselves from growing, how will the year punish the month, how will your teeth be limited to ten; how will the diphthong become the pothook, the medal a sob, how will the lamb remain tied by the foot to the great inkwell! How will you descend the tiers of the alphabet to reach the letter in which sorrow was born!
Children, offspring of warriors, in the meantime, lower your voice. Right now Spain is dividing its energy among the animal kingdom, blooming flowers, comets and men. Lower your voice, which, in its rigor is immense without knowing what to do and in its hand the skull is talking and it talks and talks, the skull, the one which wore the braid; the skull, the one that once held life!
Lower your voice, I tell you; lower your voice, lower the chant of the syllables, the cry of matter, the lesser rumor of the pyramids, and even that of the brow’s temples which walk with two stones! Lower your breath, and if the forearm descends, if the birch rods whistle, if it‘s night, if the sky fits on two terrestrial limbs, if there is noise within the sound of the doors, if I delay, if you don’t see anyone, if pointless pencils frighten you, if mother Spain should fall, I say (it’s an aphorism): Leave, children of the world, go and seek her! … |