Poem/Translation: Xavier Villaurrutia

I could not possibly post poetry about the night without again posting a poem by Xavier Villarrutia, one of whose poems I translated and posted back in January. Here is another, "Cuando la tarde," which, like all his poems, I enjoy reading aloud in the Spanish and then in the English. The lush sensuality of his poems, his language that approximates touch while also capturing a particularly powerful experience of yearning, is on full display here. The poem's messages are self-evident, but I would only call attention to the final line, where the heart of the matter lies, and, both in his Spanish and the English translation, bursts forth at the end of the line: el deseo. Desire, indeed, rising like that ash, that dust, that smoke, that absence of light, in the night.

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CUANDO LA TARDE

Cuando la tarde cierra sus ventanas remotas,
sus puertas invisibles,
para que el polvo, el humo, la ceniza,
impalpables, oscuros,
lentos como el trabajo de la muerte,
en el cuerpo del niño,
vaya creciendo;
cuando la tarde, al fin, ha recogido
el último destello de luz, la última nube,
el reflejo olvidado y el ruido interrumpido,
la noche surge silenciosamente
de ranuras secretas,
de rincones ocultos,
de bocas entreabiertas,
de ojos insomnes.

La noche surge con el humo denso
del cigarillo y la chimenea.
La noche surge envuelta en su manto de polvo.
El polvo asciende, lento.
Y de un cielo impasible,
cada vez más cercano y más compacto,
lluevo ceniza.

Cuando la noche de humo, de polvo y de ceniza
envuelve la ciudad, los hombres quedan
suspensos un instante,
porque ha nacido en ellos, con la noche, el deseo.

Copyright © Xavier Villarrutia, from Nostalgia de la muerte. Introduction by César Antonio Molina. Madrid: Huerga y Fierro Editores, 1999. All rights reserved.

WHEN EVENING

When evening closes its distant windows,
its invisible doors,
so that the dust, the smoke, the ash,
impalpable, obscure,
slow as the work of death
in the body of a child,
keep growing;
when evening, finally, has recovered
the last glimmer of light, the last cloud,
the forgotten reflection and the interrupted sound,
night surges silently
from secret slots,
from hidden corners,
from half-open mouths,
from sleepless eyes.

Night surges forth with the dense smoke
of cigarette and chimney.
Night surges forth wrapped in its mantle of dust.
The dust rises, slowly.
And from an impassive sky,
each time closer and more compact,
ash rains.

When the night of smoke, of dust and ash
envelops the city, men stay
suspended but an instant,
because in them is born, with the night, desire.

Copyright © Translation by John Keene, 2013. All rights reserved.