T Wignesan Poet Quatrain

Hay Un Dia Feliz By Nicanor Parra, Translated By T Wignesan

       Hay un dia feliz by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T. Wignesan

      To come by a happy day

(In this poem, Parra maintains lines of twelve to thirteen syllables with every other line ending almost in a mono-rhyme: “a”; I prefer not to follow the same pattern, for I cannot quite see the virtue in forcing the translation into something sounding rather artificially humdrum, given its length.)

Soliloquio del Individuo by Nicanor Parra, Translated by T Wignesan 

(Homage to Nicanor PARRA, 1914-2018, the Chilean ANTI-POET, winner of the "Cervantes Prize" (the highest literary honour for writers in Spanish), four times nominated for the Nobel Prize, studied Physics (Brown University), Cosmology (Oxford University) and taught maths and physics for some 40 years, but styles himself as the Poet who writes "Anti-Poems" - a fresh 
chastising wind to debunk self-styled poets hardly born to the métier but drunk with their own effete and ephemeral voices. T. Wignesan, Paris, 2016.) 

I dedicated this afternoon to combing
   the solitary streets of my village
with for company good ol’ twilight
   who’s the only friend I have left.

Everything was exactly as earlier on, autumn
   and its diffused light (reflected) by snow
just that the weather had invaded everything
   with its pale-looking cloak of sadness.

Never thought, believe me, for an instant
   that I’d see again this beloved land,
now that I have returned, don’t know 
    how I could have kept myself away from its portals.

Nothing has changed, not even the white houses
   nor its aged wooden gates.
Everything was in its place, the swallows
   in the tower taller than that of the church;
the snail in the garden; and the moss
   in the wet grasp of stones.
In no way one can doubt, this’s the kingdom
   of the blue sky and of green leaves
where each and every thing has
   its singular and placid legend:
even in my own shadow I recognize
   the heavenly looks of my grandmother.

Those were the memorable facts
   which my early youthful days brought up,
the post office in the corner of the square  
   and the dampness in the aging walls.

O! My God! Good thing! Never thought
   that one can appreciate such a truth,
when we imagine that to be yet far away   
   is just when it feels even closer.

For the life of me! For the life of me! Something tells me
   that life is nothing more than a chimera
an illusion, a dream without end,
   a small cloud on the wing.

After all, at times, I don’t know quite what I say
   my emotions get the better of me.
Since the time to keep silent has chimed
   when I embarked on my singular enterprise 
one after the other in muted waves,
   returned the sheep to the stable.
I greeted them all in person
   and when I was standing opposite the grove
which entertains the ears of the traveller
   with its ineffably secret music 
I remembered the sea and counted the leaves
   in homage to my departed brothers.

Perfectly well, I continued my voyage
   like one who has nothing to look forward to in life.
I passed in front of the wheel of the mill,
   I stood for a while facing a shop:
the odour of coffee is always the same,
   always the same moon in my mind;
between the river of yore and that of the present
   I am not able to make out any difference.

I recognize it well, this’s the tree
   my father planted in front of the door
(illustrious father who in his best moments
   was better than an open window).

I dare affirm that his behaviour
   was a faithful copy of the Middle Ages
when the dog was sweetly sleeping
   under the right angle of a star.

At such heights I feel I’m enveloped
   by the delicate odours of violets
that my loving mother cultivated
   in order to cure cough and sadness.

How much time has passed since then
  I would not be able to say with certainty;
nothing really matters, of course,
   with wine and the nightingale on the table,
my younger brothers at this hour
   must be returning from school:
only that time has erased all things
   like a white tempest of sand!

© T. Wignesan – Paris,  2016

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