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
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016
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