Analysis Of The Poem 'Also' By Michael Smith

Rosalía d e Castr o

Also by Michael Smith from Shearsman Books: Poetry
The Purpose of the Gift: Selected Poems

Poetry in Translation
Maldon & Other Translations Gustavo Adolof Bécquer: Collected Poems (Rimas)

Edited & translated with Valentino Gianuzzi:
The Complete Poems of César Vallejo in Three Volumes: The Black Heralds & Other Early Poems Trilce Complete Later Poems 1923-1938 César Vallejo: Selected Poems

Selected Poems

Rosalía de Castro
Edited and translated by Michael Smith

S hear sm an Books Exeter

First published in the United Kingdom in 2007 by Shearsman Books Ltd 58 Velwell Road Exeter EX4 4LD www.shearsman.com ISBN-13 978-1-905700-44-8 ISBN-10 1-905700-44-X Translations copyright © Michael Smith, 2007.
In the Cathedral No Charge Weeping I thought each night Who Does Not Lament? Sea, with your unfathomed waters Dig fast, dig When I think you are gone Happiness is Treacherous Tick-tock, tick-tock, in the silent night Flow, serene crystal waves How placid the sparkling! Padrón! . . . Padrón! from En las orillas del Sar Some, very high You sense the sweet and fragrant Now passions sleep in their tomb A gentle river, a narrow lane Thirsting on the beach, the sands Soul, in fl ight from yourself Along the ancient road Some smeared him with slander In their prison of thorns and roses It was the last night White road, old road It seems that, behind proud Miranda, they still loom The moon, silent and, as always, pale The saddest shadow, indefinable and vague When the harsh Northwind blows Some say plants don’t speak, nor fountains, nor birds Black-winged thoughts! flee, flee in harass-ridden The hearts of some creatures The word and the idea . . . There’s an abyss “The dead go fast” In this world’s
. . ¿qué estridente y mágico alarido la ronca voz de la tormenta trae? Triste . . . vago . . . constante y dolorido, cual fuego ardiente, en mis entrañas cae. Cae y ahuyenta de mi lecho el sueño . . . ¡Ah¡ ¿Cómo he de dormir? . . . Locura fuera, fuera locura y temerario empeño que con gemidos tales me durmiera. ¡Ah¡ ¿Cómo he de dormir? Ese lamento, ese grito de angustia que percibo, esa expresión de amargo sufrimiento no pertenece al mundo en que yo vivo.

VI Donde el ciprés erguido se levanta, allá en lejana habitación sombría, que al más osado de la tierra espanta, sola duerme la dulce madre mía. Más helado es su lecho que la nieve, más negro y hondo que caverna oscura, y el euro altivo que sus antros mueve, sacia su furia en él, con saña dura. ¡Ah!, de dolientes sauces rodeada, de dura hierba y ásperas ortigas, ¡cuál serás, madre, en tu dormir turbada por vaporosas sombras enemigas!

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V But . . . what a strident and magical howl the storm’s raucous voice brings? Sad . . . vague . . . constant and aggrieved, it falls, burning like fire, inside me. It falls and chases sleep far from my bed . . . Ah! How could I sleep? . . . It would be madness, madness and foolhardy to attempt going to sleep amid such shrieks. How, indeed, could I sleep? That lament, that shout of anguish I perceive, that expression of bitter distress does not belong to the world I live