14 August 2011
José Again
(This post is the translation of my previous message. I did not think I would be able to get to this so soon, but work is dreadfully slow tonight.)
Many years ago I came into possession of a book of poems written by José Ángel Buesa y Regato. In fact, I found this book so long ago that I cannot even remember how or when I bought it. In this book, I found a newspaper article written in honor of the author after his death (in 1982). The poems in this book were very beautiful, perfect vehicles for transporting the fantasies of a young dreamer. In addition, the article caught my curiosity about the poet. Each time that I read this book of poetry, my imagination takes flight again; and when I see the article, my curiosity catches fire once more.
Among other things, I am a poet and a photographer. The two are very important in my life; I cannot separate them from who I am. As a good photographer must always see everything with respect to a photograph, being a poet means that you cannot live without thinking about every image, every idea, and every emotion with respect to the imagery of a poem. Buesa lived to write his poems.
José Ángel Buesa is described as ‘the most famous, the most artistic, and the most influential of the contemporary Cuban poets.’ Readers can appreciate that this poet worked hard and with attention on his poems. He did not allow slips and he had a clear concept of his style and his preferred form. He knew the importance of always studying seriously.
Buesa began writing at a very young age. He wrote many poems, and he also wrote other types of literature. His popular radio serials were sold in many American countries. He published nearly two dozen poetry collections and also published books of prose. Buesa was only twenty-two years old when he published his first book of poems, ‘The Flight of the Hours’. His most famous collection of poetry, ‘Oasis,’ has now been published in twenty-six editions.
Buesa spent the last two decades of his life outside his native Cuba. During his exile, his poems lived only in the hearts of his people. Today, this poet has much respect in his country of origin. His legacy influences many of the Hispanic poets writing today.
Buesa wrote of life and romance. In truth, the poems of Buesa still help many men to seduce women. His poems have been musicalized by the composer and pianist Adolfo Guzman. You can listen to them on radio and in nightclubs and in other places.
Now, you can read four short poems… Just bear with my translations, please; poetic language can be a bit trickier than average speech, and my Spanish is extremely rusty.
. . . .
The Old Tree
Good tree that suddenly lost the gifts
of the flower and of the fruit, beneath the cold gust,
your austere sorrow seems like mine,
and so, like your leaves will fly my songs.
.
But, sooner or later, will come the spring,
and, to rejuvenate your aged trunk,
you will have the flower and the fruit, and the foliage, and the nest…
and I, instead, have not even your hope.
.
One hundred times you offered me your shade in the summer;
one hundred times your perfume came to visit my home,
good tree that blossoms while life passes,
perhaps because you are unaware that it never goes in vain.
.
My childhood you remember almost like a friend,
although already has cracked your old age of grandfather.
And today, to see how you still grow toward the sky,
not even the comfort of growing old with you remains to me.
.
Well, even though identical falls oppress us,
over your dry leaves grow lush leaves,
and so, some day, the wind will dishevel my grey hairs,
will carry to me the perfume of your new shoots…
. . . .
The Son of the Dream
A son… Do you know, do you feel what this is?
To see born the life of the depth of a kiss,
by an ineffable miracle of love;
a kiss that fills up the emptied cradle,
and that naively we looked at and smiled:
a kiss made flower…
.
A son… A fragrant, strong and sweet bond!
I seem to see it above your lap already palpitating;
and I look to move it with childish pledge
the small hands of our little one
as if they wanted to hold onto a dream
that comes and goes…
.
In the fresh water of our tenderness
you will moisten the wings of your mischief,
like a dove that learns to fly,
and you will be violent, crazy and odd,
and you will love equally the woman and the wine,
and the sky and the sea…
.
With the bitter thirst of adolescence,
You will drink in the murky spring of science
and, tender singing,
you will leave for the world, with your lyre to the shoulder
leaving a trail of roses of amazement
and a golden splendor…
.
You will cross at a gallop the arid plain,
pallid from daydreaming, crazy from adventure
and drunk on ideals;
and, in your delirium from remote journeys,
you will return one day with the broken oars,
bringing in your lips the taste of salt.
.
Ridiculous wayfarer of lifeless paths,
you will pass your shadow above the deserts,
in an infinite pilgrimage
and your hallucinated nonconforming pupil
you will see in your destiny an enormous
question.
.
But your tenacious adventures will be useless,
pursuing a dream that you can never reach…
and it must be so,
because you will find nothing, like me, the goal
of all your uneasiness of man and of poet;
because in the women of your anxious life
you will find no one like yourself…
.
You are the rose of a lonely life,
the rose that no one will see repeated,
because plucking it will shrivel the rosebush
and, as in the world later you will not have that rose,
he will go on his long fruitless search,
in search of an equal!
. . . .
The Insatiable Thirst
To say good-bye… That is life.
And I tell you good-bye, and I go…
To return to love is the prison
of those who love with excess.
.
To love and love all of life,
and to burn and to burn in this flame.
And not to know why we love…
and not to know why we forget…
.
To seize the roses one by one,
to drink one wine and another wine,
and to walk and walk by a road
that does not lead anywhere.
.
To feel more thirst at each fountain
and to see more shadow in each chasm,
in this love that is always the same
but that is always different.
.
Because in the muted disagreement
of the dreamed and the lived,
always, from the bottom of forgetfulness,
is born the death of a memory.
.
And in this unceasing anguish,
that touches the soul and does not touch it,
to kiss the shadow of another mouth
in each mouth that you kiss…
. . . .
Final Poem
Once again your roads carry me toward the dawn,
when now in my smile died the last child.
Once again that arrow is sticking itself in the night,
and the autumn rain to dream with you.
.
Once again these hands are rising up toward the dream,
and these deaf roots thirsty for dew.
And the profound disaster of growing in the shadow,
with closed eyes and vacant arms.
.
Once again that torch that exhausted my blood,
and that dark silence that extends your heartbeat.
—Oh, heart of excitement in the black glade,
dying eternally and eternally alive.
.
Oh, yes, once again and always to die in each star,
and to light that lamp that went out from the cold.
Oh, yes, once again and always, until life dies;
once again toward the dawn, and all the roads!
José Ángel Buesa y Regato
Hoy, quiero hablar de un poeta cubano. Debido a esto, estoy escribiendo en español. Voy a traducir este mensaje más adelante. Lo prometo.
Hace muchos años que entró en posesión de un libro de poesía escrito por José Ángel Buesa y Regato. De hecho, me encontré con este libro hace tanto tiempo que ni siquiera puedo recordar cómo o cuando lo compré. Dentro de este libro descubrí un artículo de periódico escrito en honor del autor después de su muerte (en 1982). Los poemas en este libro fueron muy hermosos, vehículos perfectos para transportar las fantasías de una joven soñadora. Además el artículo capturó mi curiosidad por el poeta. Cada vez que yo leo este poemaria, mi imaginación echa a volar de nuevo; y cada vez que veo al artículo, mi curiosidad se prende fuego una vez más.
Entre otras cosas, soy una poeta y una fotógrafa. Los dos son muy importantes en mi vida; no puedo separarlos de quien soy. Como un buen fotógrafo debe ver siempre a todo el mundo con respeto a una foto, ser un poeta significa que no puede vivir sin pensar en cada imagen, cada idea, y cada emoción con respeto a la imaginería de una poema. Buesa vivió para escribir sus poemas.
José Ángel Buesa está describido como «el más famoso, el más artista y el más influyente de los poetas cubanos contemporáneos.» Los lectores pueden apreciar que este poeta trabajado duro y con cuidado por sus poemas. No permitió deslices y tenía un claro concepto de su estilo y su forma preferida. Él sabía la importancia de estudiando siempre en serio.
Buesa comenzó a escribir a una edad muy temprana. Él escribe muchos poemas, y escribe también por otros tipos de literatura. Sus populares novelas radiales se han vendido en muchos paises de America. Publicó casi dos docenas de poemarias y publicó tambien libros de prosa. Buesa tenía solo veintidós años cuando publicó su primero libro de poemas, «La fuga de las horas.» Su poemaria más famosa, «Oasis», ahora se ha publicado en veintiséis ediciones.
Buesa pasó las últimas dos décadas de su vida fuera de su Cuba natal. Mientras su exilio, sus poemas vivido solo en los corazones de la gente. Hoy este poeta tiene mucho respeto en su país de origen. Su legado influye a muchos de los poetas hispánicos que escribe hoy.
Buesa escribió de la vida y del romance. De veras, los poemas de Buesa aún ayudan a muchos hombres a seducir a las mujeres. Tambien, sus poemas habían sido musicalizados por el compositor y pianista Adolfo Guzman. Puede oírlos en la radio y en los clubes nocturnos y en varios lugares.
Ahora, puede leer cuatros poemas cortos…
. . . .
El árbol viejo
Buen árbol que perdiste bruscamente los dones
de la flor y del fruto, bajo la racha fría:
tu pesadumbre austera se parece a la mía,
y así, como tus hojas, volarán mis canciones.
.
Pero, tarde o temprano, vendrá la primavera,
y, al rejuvenecerse tu tronco envejecido,
tendrás la flor y el fruto, y el follaje, y el nido…
Y yo, en cambio, no tengo tu esperanza siquiera.
.
Cien veces me ofreciste tu sombra en el verano;
cien veces tu perfume fue a visitar mi casa,
buen árbol que floreces mientras la vida pasa,
acaso porque ignoras que nunca pasa en vano.
.
Mi niñez te recuerda casi como un amigo,
aunque ya se agrietaba tu ancianidad de abuelo.
Y hoy, al ver cómo creces todavía hacia el cielo,
ni aun me queda el consuelo de envejecer contigo.
.
Pues, aunque nos agobian idénticos otoños,
sobre tus hojas secas crecen hojas lozanas,
y así, algún día, el viento despeinará mis canas,
trayéndome el perfume de tus nuevos retoños…
. . . .
El hijo del sueño
Un hijo… ¿Tú sabes, tú sientes qué es eso?
Ver nacer la vida del fondo de un beso,
por un inefable milagro de amor;
un beso que llene la cuna vacía,
y que ingenuamente nos mire y sonría:
un beso hecho flor…
.
Un hijo… ¡Un fragante, fuerte y dulce lazo!
Me parece verlo sobre tu regazo palpitando ya;
y miro moverse con pueril empeño
las pequeñas manos de nuestro pequeño,
como si quisieran sujetar un sueño
que llega y se va…
.
En el agua fresca de nuestras ternuras
mojará las alas de sus travesuras,
como una paloma que aprende a volar;
y será violento, loco y peregrino,
y amará igualmente la mujer y el vino,
y el cielo y el mar…
.
Con la sed amarga de la adolescencia,
beberá en la fuente turia de la ciencia;
y, tierno cantor,
irá por el mundo, con su lira al hombro,
dejando un reguero de rosas de asombro
y un áureo fulgor…
.
Cruzará al galope la árida llanura,
pálido de ensueño, loco de aventura
y ebrio de ideal;
y, en su desvario de viajes remotos,
volverá algún día con los remos rotos,
trayendo en los labios un sabor de sal.
.
Caminante absurdo de caminos muertos,
pasará su sombro sobre los desiertos,
en una infinita peregrinación;
y su alcinada pupila inconforme
verá en su destino grabada una enorme
interrogación.
.
Pero será inútil su tenaz andanza,
persiguiendo un sueño que jamás se alcanza…
Y ha de ser así,
pues no hallará nunca, como yo, la meta
de todas sus ansias de hombre y de poeta;
porque en las mujeres de su vida inquieta
no hallará ninguna parecida a ti…
.
Que tú eres la rosa de una sola vida,
la rosa que nadie verá repetida,
porque al deshojarse secará el rosal;
y, como en el mundo ya no habrá esa rosa,
¡él irá en su larga búsqueda infructuosa,
en pos de una igual!
. . . .
La sed insaciable
Decir adiós… La vida es eso.
Y yo te digo adiós, y sigo…
Volver a amar es el castigo
de los que amaron con exceso.
.
Amar y amar toda la vida,
y arder y arder en esa llama.
Y no saber por qué se ama…
Y no saber por qué se olvida…
.
Coger las rosas una a una,
beber un vino y otro vino,
y andar y andar por un camino
que no conduce a parte alguna.
.
Sentir más sed en cada fuente
y ver más sombra en cada abismo,
en este amor que es siempre el mismo
pero que siempre es diferente.
.
Porque en el sordo desacuerdo
de lo soñado y lo vivido,
siempre, del fondo del olvido,
nace la muerte de un recuerdo.
.
Y en esta angustia que no cesa,
que toca el alma y no la toca,
besar la sombra de otra boca
en cada boca que se besa…
. . . .
Último poema
Otra vez tus caminos me llevan hacia el alba,
cuando ya en mi sonrisa murió el último niño.
Otra vez esa flecha clavándose en la noche,
y esa lluvia de otoño para soñar contigo.
.
Otra vez estas manos alzándose hacia el sueño,
y estas sordas raíces sedientas de rocío,
y el profundo desastre de crecer en la sombra,
con los ojos cerrados y los brazos vacíos.
.
Otra vez esa antorcha que extenúa mi sangre,
y ese silencio oscuro que alarga su latido.
—Oh, corazón de fiebre en la floresta negra,
muriendo eternamente y eternamente vivo.
.
Oh, sí, otra vez y siempre morir en cada estrella,
y encender esa lámpara que se apagó de frío.
Oh, sí, otra vez y siempre, hasta morir la vida;
otra vez hacia el alba, por todos los caminos!
26 February 2010
Animals in captivity
I was so sad to see/hear in the news that a captive orca in the Sea World, Orlando, facility was responsible for the death of his trainer. This is not an isolated incident; captive animals do occasionally kill their caretakers. In fact, this orca, Tilikum, has made previous human kills. My heart goes out to the family, friends, and colleagues of this trainer who lost her life when Tilikum either attacked or tried ‘playing’ with her. My heart also goes out to Tilikum and the countless other intelligent creatures who are held captive for the entertainment of human beings.
Since childhood, I, like so many others, have enjoyed visiting zoos to see exotic animals. Over the past several years, though, I became (and remain) torn about the ethics of this. Zoos often provide a sanctuary for injured and abandoned animals ‘rescued’ from the wild or from private collections. Many zoos are involved in breeding programs to increase the numbers of endangered animals and, so, are trying to do some good in their own way. Even when zoos have significant acreage, however, and can provide their animal attractions with relatively spacious yards, this does not mean that the animals have enough space to ensure their mental and emotional health and well-being. The effect of captivity on animals who normally range across broad sections of terrain in the wild is a matter of scientific observation; for instance, large cats confined to small spaces develop neurotic habits, such as pacing for hours along a certain path, and primates will sometimes begin to sit for long periods during which they rock themselves, act despondent, and remain disengaged from their group and their caretakers.
Captive animals often develop behaviBoural problems, taking their frustrations out on their human caretakers, on their fellow captives, or even on themselves. The development of psychological problems can be especially marked in those animals who exhibit a significant levels of intelligence (as measured by human standards), such as: elephants, ‘higher-level’ primates (chimpanzees, bonobos, gorillas, etc.), and sea mammals (dolphins, porpoises, orcas, etc.). Think of the developmental damage/limitations observed in humans who have been confined and neglected during their formative years and who have been denied ‘normal’ social contact and interaction, as well as experiences and instruction that most of their peers receive during a comparative period. Even with professional care, therapy, and instruction provided in later periods, these individuals never attain the same level of social, psychological, or cognitive development as those who have more normative upbringings. I am thinking of one girl, in particular, whose mother was complicit in the abuse perpetrated by her husband on their daughter. ‘Genie’ was chained, naked, to a potty chair in a dark room for the first twelve (I think) years of her life, with verbal communication and both emotional and physical affection withheld from her. Once she was rescued, she spent the rest of her life either in the care of specific researcher/therapists or in the confines of a group home because she was not able to progress to a level of functional self-sufficiency necessary to allow her to live alone (don’t even get me started on the culpability of the researchers who fought over who was going to get the next chance to use this poor child as a guinea pig for their current pet theory, instead of actually focusing on helping her).
Like humans, many of the animals most susceptible to the detrimental psychological effects of confinement are naturally adapted to roaming across long distances. What is even more significant is that, like humans, most of these animals are social creatures, living in tight-knit herds, packs, pods, and other family- or social-groups. Beyond basic requirements of survival, such as food provision tactics, these groups are the source of vital aspects of social support, both in early developmental stages and across the lifetime of these beings: instruction and guidance, discipline and approbation, comfort and affection, physical contact and emotional presence…
If an elephant is the sole representative of his species at a zoo, how healthy can his mental state remain? How much actual improvement does the presence of one other elephant represent? Consider the natural hierarchy that exists in elephant herds in nature; the females are the core of herd stability and well-being. Even rogue elephants, who wander alone in nature for long periods of time, can suffer from what amount to psychiatric disorders as a result of their solitude.
If a dolphin and a handful of her compeers are made to exist in a concrete tank that takes mere moments to traverse, how stable can her behaviour be expected to remain? Consider, especially, that pods of dolphins and other sea mammals can be individually identified because of the patterns of their ‘speech.’ When an aquarium purchases or captures a new animal for their collection, that creature is effectively forced into a situation where it must form a bond with a group with animals who may be the same species but who speak a different language–or, at the very least, a substantially different dialect. Imagine being an English-only-speaking human person who was thrown into an inescapable situation where your only companions spoke either Russian or English with the thickest and most indecipherable of Irish brogues (and some Gaelic thrown in for good measure).
How can we accurately measure the harm done to these captive animals who are deprived of their freedom and the support of a sufficient family of fellows? Do the educational and research benefits of zoos and aquariums outweigh the negative ethical ramifications of confining animals, whether captured or bred for the purpose? Is the existence of a zoo justified by its potential to teach children and adults to value life in a less species-centric manner? Who is qualified to make these judgments? For the moment, I am trying to make ethical decisions about each individual location, based on its purpose and its provision for and care of its animal charges. Aquariums with intelligent sea mammal attractions? No. Circuses with elephant performers? Absolutely not. Zoos? Perhaps–after doing some research into their facilities. Large animal sanctuaries, where herds of animals are free to range across large tracts of land? How wonderful!
9 February 2010
Kicking it off with a bit about music
If you take a look at the music library in our home, you would be hard pressed to find anything even remotely resembling Top 40 hits. We long ago had to do away with displaying our CD’s in their jewel cases; there simply was not enough room! Even with a recent weeding out of those discs that we never listen to, we still had to purchase a new case for purchases made over the past year. (That makes 4 large, 250-disc cases, now–plus a couple of cases half that size–and we actually need a couple more so the contents are not quite so packed in and the inserts don’t have to go in the same slot as the discs.)
I grew up speaking almost as much Spanish outside the home as I spoke English; there was even a decent amount of French thrown in (poorly pronounced, usually with a vaguely Spanish accent, no less). Even native speakers have told me that they have trouble with their first language when they have gone for extended periods without speaking it. I certainly have retained almost none of the French that I once knew; as for my Spanish, even with formal classes it suffered greatly after my parents moved our family from Tampa, Florida, to a podunk little town in Southwestern Arkansas. The passion (and, dare I confess it–the preference) for the language never left me, however. At every opportunity, I listened to Latino radio stations and accosted random Hispanics for brief conversations. It was always difficult to determine which music groups were worth the effort it would take to find and buy their albums.
Launchcast (in its original incarnation) helped introduce me to a lot of great artists and helped expand my musical horizons far beyond the Latin music I was looking for. When Launchcast underwent its changeover, I switched entirely to Pandora (I tell myself I am contributing to the Music Genome Project when I try in vain to add all of the foreign artists to my station); in addition, the radio stations available through iTunes have been invaluable tools in seeking out new artists’ music. I also love being able to listen to samples on Amazon and then order albums that once would have been well nigh impossible to discover, much less buy.
My husband is now addicted to ‘world’ music, too (he is the one who first investigated the iTunes radio options that we have always ignored). Along the way, our personal music library has grown to include music in Portuguese (European and Brasilian), French, Italian, Faroese, various African languages, Turkish, Arabic, Hindi, Tamil, and other languages; this is in addition to Spanish music from all over the globe. It is now a rare thing to add a new singer/group into the collection if the songs are in English. Andrew Byrd, Keane, Frou Frou, Teitur…there has to be something particularly striking about the vocalist and/or the music to draw us in. Last fall, I asked my husband if he wanted to go on a date to a Bollywood dance recital for a local dance school; he couldn’t wait to go, but he laughingly told me he would be very disappointed if the music and costumes were not largely traditional. Luckily, he got his wish, and we were even treated to Prabhu Deva (India’s answer to Michael Jackson) being dragged onto the stage during the finale to ham it up with a few of his standard moves.
My patience with popular English language music has been very short for a long time now (since the late 80′s, actually). My main source of displeasure is the dearth of originality. While New Wave wasn’t always the most original music out there, at least it was FUN. I am certain the same complaint about lack of originality can be (and is) made of foreign music by native critics. (Although I don’t read many product reviews, as a rule, I do like to read comments from native speakers on their own artists–when I can do the translations.) It is much easier for me to enjoy cliches, though, when they are sung by Tarkan or Nek. Exotic accents, native instruments or beats, even differences in syntax (for those languages I can actually understand even a little)–these things contribute to the appeal of non-English music (and film, too). Add to that certain cultural differences that come across in lyrics and on-stage; it is just so much fun for me that I couldn’t even begin to express it to anyone else!
I have a huge amount of appreciation and respect for artists like Juanes and Sting, both of whom are amazingly talented individuals and both of whom often use their music to impart political and humanitarian messages; nevertheless, enjoyment–i.e. my own subjectively experienced sense of entertainment and temporary mental liberation–is usually the primary reason I listen to music. There are some days when it is only the music I am listening to that keeps me on an even keel; I tell myself, ‘Oh, listen! They’re playing “Hechicera” (or “Particle Man” or “Bu Gece” or “La jeune fille aux cheveux blancs”). Go to your happy place and forget that you just handled 10 straight calls from some of the most personality-challenged individuals on the planet.’ Some days I log off from my job and go in search of Bach’s ‘Toccata and Fugue in D Minor’ to help blow the cobwebs away or ‘Mes Ami’ to help turn my grumpiness into happy contentment. Even people who don’t work in a customer-centric job may be able to relate to that.
