BLACKWELL FAMILY ALICE STONE BLACKWELL SUBJECT FILE Spanish-American Poems - Printed Translations by Alice S. BlackwellTHE SEA WOLF By Juan B. Delgado, National Librarian of Mexico. Translated from the Spanish by Alice Stone Blackwell. Old Wolf of the ocean, Brave captain and true! Skilled sailor, that often Dost tack and lie to! I envy thy fortune; Thy course thou dost ply Between two immensities, Ocean and sky. The stormy winds toss thee, And hurricanes beat, And the waves, with their white manes Of crystalline sleet. Still, watching the compass, Thou fearless dost sail, And calmly thou bravest The wild southwest gale. Old sea wolf, bold captain, Of fear knowing not, From port to port going, I envy thy lot. On lad there are tempests More dread to confront, More lightnings, more thunders- And we bear their brunt. Deceit lies in wait for us When we are born; Fierce evil to strive with Is fresh every morn. Old sea wolf, thou captain So dauntless and true! With my conflicts the weather Has little to do. Would far from the city My life might glide by, Between two immensities, Ocean and sky. [*Boston Evening Record*] [*April 18, 1919*]MY FOUNTAIN BY LUIS G. ORTIZ Hard by the cottage, innocent and free, Where swayed my cradle - near that hidden cot, It ripples overflowing from their grot, Bursts forth my fountain, lost in greenery. When the new moon was mirrored radiantly On its clear wave in that sequestered spot, How oft I cried, "Oh, happy is their lot Who cross the vast expanses of the sea!" It was God's will that I the deck should tread, And find my wish to full fruition grown Amid the billows of the tossing sea. God in the deep I saw, and bowed my head; And now, upon the sea, I dream alone, My humble, sweet and murmurous fount, of thee! Boston Transcript 324 Washington Street, Boston, Mass. Wednesday, June 19, 1918 SOULS AND BIRDS (From the Spanish of Manuel Gutierrez Najera of Mexico. Translated by Alice Stone Blackwell) Souls take flight, so God has willed it; Yet it is forever true None attain the sky save only Those which travel two by two. Lost in space the others wander. Errant souls, forlorn and dumb. Of those sweethearts white, the lovers, Dead or false, will never come. Seek, then, seek the tender woman Who can heal thy wounded breast, Bringing peace; when thou hast found her, Build a nest! Ah, how very wise the birds are! Swiftly passes laughter vain, And, when laughter light is over, Then how dry our lips remain! Dreams are powerless to soar upward Or to show their glories bright, Saving when two hearts for pinions Bear them onward in their flight. As the beauty seeks a mirror, So the soul with anxious care Seeks another soul beloved, Mild and gentle, dear and fair- And it cannot see its beauty Till it shines reflected there. Restless hunter, roaming ever Where the flowers their fragrance pour, Know that loves are brief and transient, But Love lives forevermore! Lacking it, sad looks the myrtle, On the ground its leaves are shed: But in May thou shalt behold it Clad in clouds of glowing red. Lo, the doves with flight capricious, Over hill and valley roam, Boasting freedom; but at nightfall To the dovecote they come home.[*1935*] [*Woman's Missionary Friend*] [*409*] Thou to the traveller dost announce, O tree, thy gentle presence near, By thy refreshing, far-flung shade, And by thy fragrant atmosphere. So let my presence be revealed, Amid life's fields, where'er I be, By my warm, gentle influence Shed over others silently. O tree, productive ten times o'er- Of rosy fruit thy leaves between, Of wood for building, perfumed airs, And sheltering foliage, dense and green! Thou tree of soothing, healing balms And wondrous resins - gracious tree, Full of wild vines that weigh thee down, And throats athrill with melody! Oh, make me rich in giving forth, To equal thee in fruitfulness! Tree, let my heart my thought, become Wide as the world, to help and bless! *** Thou art a woman's gentle womb, Naught else; they boughs with nests are rife, And every branch, soft swaying, rocks In each light nest a tiny life. Give me a leafage great and thick, To meet the need of all who roam- Who in the human forest vast Have found no branch to be their home! Tree that, where'er thy strong trunk stands, On hill or plain, in every place Takest the selfsame attitude Of sheltering and protective grace! So may my soul, in each estate- Youth, age, joy, grief, whate'er befall- Still hold the selfsame attitude Of love unchanging, love to all! Juana de Ibarbourou, a well-esteemed poetess of Uruguay, writes: THE SWEET MIRACLE Oh, what is this? A miracle! My hands are blossoming! See, roses, roses, roses forth from my fingers spring! My lover kissed my hands, and then a charm wrought silently; Upon them flowers came softly out, as stars do in the sky. And now the people murmur, who behold me as I roam: "Don't you see that she is crazy? Poor woman! Send her home. She says that roses from her hands are born in wondrous wise, And as she goes she waves them, like flitting butterflies." Ah, foolish, foolish people, with minds too dull and slow To grasp a marvel such as this! Alas, they only know That nowhere save on rosebushes are born red roses sweet, And only in the wheat fields men gather ears of wheat. ***** But let them call me crazy, and shut me in a cell, And lock the door with seven keys, to close it fast and well; And let them set a watch-dog beside the portal, too, A warder rough and savage, a warder tried and true. I still shall sing the same thing: "My hands are blossoming! Sweet roses, roses, roses out of my fingers spring!" And wondrous fragrance through my cell will breathe by night and day, As if 'twere filled with roses fair of France, a vast bouquet! Alfonsia Storni of Argentina strikes a different note in: SHE WHO UNDERSTANDS Her dark head fallen forward in her grief, The beauteous woman kneels, in suppliant fashion - A woman past her youth; - the dying Christ From the stern rood looks on her with compassion. A burden of vast sadness in her eyes, Beneath her heart a child, a burden human, Before the white Christ bleeding there she prays, "Lord, do not let my child be born a woman!" These poets often give us a thought that is like a jewel, such as this from Luis G. Urbina of Mexico: ASCENSION All things climb a starry stair, By a law that no man knows. What was yesterday a thorn Shall tomorrow be a rose. What was once a chrysalid Soon shall soar, free fluttering; What was yesterday a wish Will tomorrow be a wing! We may close with these lines from Francisco A. de Icaza of Mexico. THE SONG BY THE WAY A solitary pilgrim I; Through foreign lands I stray; Yet am I not alone - my song Goes with me all the way. And if the night around me black, I make it bright as day; I sing, and then the song lights up The darkness of the way. [* A song along the way! FRIEND December panish-American country has nd almost all have their poet- ould be pleasant to multiply if space permitted; but enough given to convince the reader, t these poets are well worthy of study. *]The United Approach in Latin America By SAMUEL G. INMAN Secretary of the Committee on Co-operation in Latin America One of the most interesting features of the mission work in Latin America, which the churches are studying this year, is that of its unified approach. Probably no other field has a more closely coördinated program. This is carried forward under the auspices of the Committee on Coöperation in Latin America which acts as a clearing house and board of strategy for thirty mission boards at work in those lands. In the committee, representatives of these boards are brought around a common council table to discuss all the problems connected with this work, keeping a constant circle of helpful contacts and good will going among the boards. The committee pushes coöperative enterprises, maintains broadening contacts with missionaries on the field and saves the boards money by doing for all of them work which individual boards would otherwise have to undertake. It represents the Evangelical Church in many Pan-American movements which might otherwise overlook the importance of the Christian forces. It gives out a large amount of information to the press, schools, business concerns and individuals concerning Latin America, keeping missionary work in these countries in the public mind. It arranges addresses and conducts classes on Latin-American topics in churches, conferences, conventions and educational institutions. It is developing and ever-widening acquaintance with the intellectual leaders in Latin America and undertakes to interpret to them the spirit and purpose of American Christianity. The committee has organized numerous international conferences to consider Christian work in Latin America, the most important among these being the Panama Congress in 1916, the Montevideo Congress in 1925 and the Havana Congress in 1929. The latest of these conferences was held in Mexico City in March, 1934, to face the future of Christian work in that country, in view of the drastic anti-religious laws being increasingly enforced there. The large Christian programs worked out there, when pessimism was turned into new enthusiasm for new types of service entirely within the law, have led some friends to declare that conference the most important contribution the committee has yet made to missionary strategy. Careful surveys of conditions in each of the twenty Latin American countries have been made by the committee and a cooperative program worked out for each section. Boards, members of the committee (including Methodists, North and South, Presbyterians, North and South, Northern Baptists, Disciples, Friends, Congregationalists, etc.) here consult with each other before undertaking any new or major service in Latin America. The committee has found new opportunities in coordinating relations between what was known in the old missionary terminology as "the home" and "the field," but now is better expressed by the "older" and the "younger" churches. Union theological seminaries and union papers have been developed in several fields as well as union educational institutions. 410 WOMAN´S MISSIONARY FRIEND December I do not sign for weariness However far I stray; The heavenly staff of song makes brief The distance of the way. Ah, sad indeed that pilgrim´s lot Who goes alone all day, Nor has, for comrade of his march, A song along the way! Every Spanish-American country has its poets, and almost all have their poetesses. It would be pleasant to multiply quotations if space permitted; but enough have been given to convince the reader, I hope, that these poets are well worthy of study.1935 WOMAN'S MISSIONARY FRIEND 407 Poetry in Spanish America By ALICE STONE BLACKWELL Throughout Spanish America, poets and poetry are held in high honor. When Amado Nervo of Mexico died in Montevideo, Argentina and Uruguay each sent a battleship to convoy his body home, and Cuba sent out a cruiser to join the escort into Vera Cruz. When Ruben Dario of Nicaragua travelled through the Latin-American countries, his journey was like a royal progress. The late George F. Weeks spent many years in Mexico, was a press correspondent during on of the revolutions and later edited the Mexican Review. He said that when great national events were occurring, such as with us would be spread on the front page of every newspaper, the Mexico City papers put them in an inconspicuous place, and gave the first page to the visit of some poet from Spain of South America. He added that after a skirmish in the revolution the defeated party broke and fled, and one of the fugitives climbed a tree. The pursuers came up and levelled their guns at him; but he called out, "Do not shoot me! I am a poet!" Immediately the guns were lowered, and he was allowed to go. The fondness for poetry extends to all classes. When visiting a small town in western Venezuela, Dr. Herbert J. Spinden of the Peabody Museum in Cambridge, Massachusetts, found the men in the barber shop, and even the bootblacks, reciting poetry; and the little local paper, of only four pages, gave a page and a half to poetry. When a distinguished Mexican poet died, a few years ago, his enormous funeral procession included hundreds of illiterate Indians. They could not read, but they knew his most popular poems by heart. Anyone wishing to understand our Spanish-American neighbors should know something of their poetry. Yet few persons in the United States have any idea how much really beautiful poetry has been produced in the republics to the south of us. Amado Nervo is probably the most beloved of the Spanish-American poets, while Ruben Dario is the most admired. Nervo was a sweet-spirited man. The though expressed in the following poem occurs repeatedly in his writings: If A Thorn Wounds Me If a thorn wounds me, I draw back from it; I do not hate the thorn. If, hating me, Some base hand pierces me with malice blind, Silent I turn away, and go to find A purer air of love and charity. Rancor? For what? Has good e'er sprung from it? No wound it stanches, puts no evil right. Scarce has my rose-tree time to bear its flowers; It wastes no vital sap on thorns of spite. And if my foe should near my rose-tree pass, He shall pick from it many a fragrant bud; And if he sees in them a vivid red, The tint will be the redness of my blodd- Blood drawn by his ill will of yesterday, In hatred that it seemed could never cease, And which the rose-tree now in perfume sweet Returns to him, changed to a flower of peace. In the original Spanish this read: Si Una Espina Me Hiere Si una espina me hiere, me aparto de la espina, ...pero no la aborrezco! Cuando la mezquindad envidiosa en mi clava los dardos de su inquina, esquivase en silencio mi planta, y se encamina hacia mas puro ambiente de amor y caridad. !Rencores! !De que sirven! !Que logran los rencores! Ni restanan heridas, ni corrigen el mal. Mi rosal tiene apenas tiempo para dar flores y no prodiga savias en pinchos punzadores: si pasa mi enemigo cerce de mi rosal, Se llevara las rosas de mas sutil esencia, y si notare en ellas algun rojo vivaz, !sera el de aquella sangre que su malevolencia de ayer, vertio, al herirme con encono y violencia y que el rosal devuelve, trocada en flor de paz! Ruben Dario's poems are incomparably musical, a virtue lost in translation. Spanish-American poetry is full of allusions to Don Quixote. Dario's "Sonnet to Cervantes" expresses a widespread feeling: Though heavy hours I pass and mournful days In solitude, Cervantes is to me A faithful friend. He lightens gloom with glee; A restful hand upon my head he lays. Life in the hues of nature he portrays; A golden helmet, jewelled brilliantly, Today all eat the bread his wheat has made. Thou dost not eat it - and he sowed the grain! FRIEND December [?]e daughter and the sister poor - [?]w, always left with child unborn; [?]e mother who of every rag [?]e a flag, when breaks tomorrow's . [?]onsolation, in thy womb thy dead husband thou dost bear. [?]rags - its thoughts are of the sky, [s]ky where tempest fills the air. [?]l be no gentle cherub fair, [?]-cup, no mayflower soft of bloom. [?]other! Lo, thou art the cloud, dost bear the lighting in thy womb! a Mistral is the pen-name of [?]odoy Alcayaza of Chile. She obscure little country school- with a deep heartache from a [?]tment in love. She was too shy [?] any of her poems. Without edge, a friend sent some of them [?]loral Games," a sort of poetical [?]nt that has come down from the [?]ges. They were received with [?]m, and she became famous over [?]oday her poems are known and [?]very Spanish-American country. To The Children [?]ars hence, when I am a little heap of play with me, with the earth of my [?]f my bones! [?]on gathers me up, he will make me [?], and I shall remain fast forever in a hate quiet niches. If they make me prison, I shall grow red with shame a man sob; and if I am a brick in a all still suffer, because I cannot sing [?] the early mornings. ra rather be the dust with which you [?] country roads. Clasp me, for I have unmake me, for I made you; trample [b]ecause I did not give you the whole and the whole of truth! Or only sing [?]ove me, so that I may kiss you [?t}. [?]u hold me in your hands, recite some [?]erse, and I shall rustle with delight [?]ur fingers. I shall rise up to look at [?]g among you the eyes, the hair of [?] I used to teach. [?]n you make any image out of me, ery moment, for every moment the [?]oke me, with tenderness and grief! Hymn To The Tree [?]r tree, fast fixed in earth [?] hooks 'neath the soil that lie, [?]ng thy clean brow aloft [?]ent yearning for the sky! [?]ake me towards the dross Who dark mire feeds me, low and dumb, Yet never let the memory sleep Of that blue land from which I come! 408 WOMAN'S MISSIONARY FRIEND December He gives my dreams, that wander far and free. He suits my moods; he sighs, he laughs, he prays. The Christian and the lover and the knight Speaks like a streamlet clear and crystalline. I love and marvel at his spirit bright, Beholding how, by mystic Fate's design, The whole world now drinks mirth and rich delight From deathless sadness a life divine. José Santos Chocano of Peru, who was lately assassinated, was a powerful writer, and characteristically South American. He devoted much of his poetry to South American scenery, fauna and flora, history and legends. But he wrote also poems of general human interest, like the following: Sun and Moon Between my aged mother's hands gleam bright Her grandson's locks; they seem a handful fair Of wheat, a golden sheaf beyond compare - The sun's gold, stolen from the dawn's clear light. Meanwhile her own white tresses in my sight Shed brightness all around her in the air - Foam of Time's wave, a sacred glory rare, Like spotless eucharistic wafers white. O flood of gold and silver, full and free! You make my heart with gladness overrun. If hatred barks at me, what need I care? To light my days and nights, where'er I be, In my child's curls I always have the sun, The moon in my dear mother's silver hair. Lightning O ragged mother, holding out thy hand Forever at the doors, in sorrow deep, And seeing always bare and empty chests, And human consciences fast locked in sleep! O thou that goest gathering in the bag Of thy sore poverty forevermore Leavings that in the shipwreck of each day Follies and vices cast upon the shore! Daughter art thou to him who went to war, Marched in the ranks and shed his blood unbought, Fell in the conflict, sank to earth and died- And no one now remembers that he fought. Sister art thou to him who fell one day Among machinery's teeth, which crush and kill. The wheels were all indifferent to his fate, And human hearts were more indifferent still. Thou wast the wife of him who at the plow Died, sunstruck, as he labored on the plain. Today all eat the bread his wheat has made. Thou dost not eat it-and he sowed the grain! Thou art the daughter and the sister poor - The widow, always left with child unborn; Thou art the mother who of every rag Will make a flag, when breaks tomorrow's morn. Still, as a consolation, in thy womb A son of thy dead husband thou dost bear. A cloud of rags - its thoughts are of the sky, But of a sky where tempest fills the air. Thy son will be no gentle cherub fair, No honey-cup, no Mayflower soft of bloom. O ragged mother! Lo, thou art the cloud, And thou dost bear the lightning in thy womb! Gabriela Mistral is the pen-name of Lucilla Godoy Alcayaza of Chile. She was an obscure little country school-teacher, with a deep heartache from a disappointment in love. She was too shy to publish any of her poems. Without her knowledge, a friend sent some of them to the "Floral Games," a sort of poetical tournament that has come down from the Middle Ages. They were received with enthusiasm, and she became famous over night. Today her poems are known and loved in every Spanish-American country. To the Children Many years hence, when I am a little heap of silent dust, play with me, with the earth of my heart and of my bones! If a mason gathers me up, he will make me into a brick, and I shall remain fast forever in a wall; and I hate quiet niches. If they make me a brick in a prison, I shall grow red with shame when I hear a man sob; and if I am a brick in a school, I shall still suffer, because I cannot sing with you in the early mornings. I would rather be the dust with which you play, on the country roads. Clasp me, for I have been yours; unmake me, for I made you; trample upon me, because I did not give you the whole of beauty and the whole of truth! Or only sing and run above me, so that I may kiss your beloved feet. When you hold me in your hands, recite some beautiful verse, and I shall rustle with delight between your fingers. I shall rise up to look at you, seeking among you the eyes, the hair of those whom I used to teach. And when you make any image out of me, break it every moment, for every moment the children broke me, with tenderness and grief! Hymn to the Tree O brother tree, fast fixed in earth By brown hooks 'neath the soil that lie, Yet raising thy clean brown aloft With fervent yearning for the sky! Pitiful make me towards the dross Whose dark mire feeds me, low and dumb, Yet never let the memory sleep Of that blue land from which I come!Página Literaria. El Rayo. Madre haraposa; tú que a las puertas Vas con las manos siempre tendidas, Y ves las arcas siempre desiertas Y las conciencias siempre dormidas; Tú que a la alforja de tu miseria Vas recogiendo los desperdicios Que en el naufragio de cada feria, Sobre las playas echan los vicios; Tú eres la hija del que en la guerra Se armó soldado: vibró su acero, Rodó en las luchas, se hundió en la tierra. . . Y hoy nadie sabe si fué guerrero. Tú eres la hermana del que en los dientes Del engranaje cayera un día: Las ruedas fueron indiferentes; Pero los hombres más todavía. Tú eres la vuida del que, al castigo Del Sol, muriera sobre el arado. Hoy todas comen pan de su trigo; Tú no lo comes. . . ¡y él lo ha sembrado! Tú eres la hija, tú eres la hermana, Tú eres la viuda siempre en trabajo. Tú eres la madre que hará mañana Una bandera de cada andrajo. En las entrañas, como un consuelo, Guardas un hijo del muerto esposo. Nube de harapos; piensa en el cielo; Pero en el cielo más tempestuoso. No será tu hijo tierno querube, Copa de mieles, ni flor de mayo. . . Madre haraposa: tú eres la nube; Y en las entrañas tienes el rayo! JOSE SANTOS CHOCANO (PERU) Lightning. JOSE SANTOS CHOCANO (PERU) O ragged mother, holding out thine hand Forever at the doors, in sorrow deep, And seeing always bare and empty chests, And human consciences fast locked in sleep! O thou that goest gathering in the bag of thy sore poverty forevermore Leavings that in the shipwreck of each day Follies and vices cast upon the shore! Daughter art thou to him who went to war, Marched in the ranks and shed his blood unbought, Fell in the conflict, sank to earth and died -- And no one now remembers that he fought. Sister art thou to him who fell one day Among machinery's teeth, which crush and kill. The wheels were all indifferent to his fate, But human hearts were more indifferent still. Thou wast the [life] wife of him who at the plow Died, sunstruck, as he labored on the plain. Today all eat the bread [thy] his wheat has made, Thou dost not eat it -- and he sowed the grain! Thou are the daughter and the sister poor, -- The widow, always left with child unborn. Thou art the mother who of every rag Will make a flag, when breaks tomorrow's morn. Still, as a consolation, in thy womb A son of thy dead husband thou dost bear. A cloud of rags -- its thoughts are of the sky, But of a sky where tempest fills the air! Thy son will be no gentle cherub [soft] fair, No honey-cup, no [flower of May abloom] Mayflower soft of bloom. O ragged mother! Lo, thou art the cloud, And thou dost [hold] bear the lightning in thy womb! Versión by Alice Stone Blackwell.PAN AMERICAN CULTURE No. 9 1927 THREE POEMS By ENRIQUE GONZALEZ MARTINEZ ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS By ALICE STONE BLACKWELL Reprinted from the March, 1927, issue of the BULLETIN OF THE PAN AMERICAN UNION UNION OF AMERICAN REPUBLICS L.S. ROW : : : : : Director General E. GIL BORGES: : : : : Assistant Director The PAN AMERICAN UNION WASHINGTON, D.C. PAN AMERICAN CULTURE No 11. 1928 GROUP OF TRANSLATIONS OF AMERICAN VERSE (English translations by Alice Stone Blackwell) Reprinted from the February, 1928, issue of the BULLETIN OF THE PAN AMERICAN UNION UNION OF AMERICAN REPUBLICS L.S. ROWE : : : : : Director General E. GIL BORGES : : : : : American Director The PAN AMERICAN UNION WASHINGTON, D.C.