estheruchi's review against another edition
3.0
He leído los tomos I y II de la obra reunida de Gabriela Mistral [Edición biblioteca nacional de Chile].
No es este libro en concreto pero quería que quedase reflejado.
No es este libro en concreto pero quería que quedase reflejado.
shanviolinlove's review against another edition
5.0
Mesmerizing in Mistral's capacity to render complex emotions so evocatively, from the thrill and jealousy of passionate love to profound grief, the quiet celebrations of living and the compassionate eye toward suffering. This book contains selections from all four of her publications, which spanned several continents. I can see why her poems for children are so widely popular among Latin American schools and look forward to introducing them to my own children.
apollonium's review against another edition
challenging
relaxing
sad
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? N/A
- Strong character development? N/A
- Loveable characters? N/A
- Diverse cast of characters? N/A
- Flaws of characters a main focus? N/A
3.0
gaby_inz's review against another edition
challenging
emotional
inspiring
reflective
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? N/A
- Strong character development? N/A
- Loveable characters? N/A
- Diverse cast of characters? N/A
- Flaws of characters a main focus? N/A
5.0
ktrain3900's review
5.0
I love this book so much. I first read it close to two decades ago, when I happened on it in the Boston Public Library. I then tried to read other translations of Mistral, but nothing compared with Hughes's translation. It won't be for everyone, although I'd suggest if the early poems about children don't do it for you, keep reading. I love her obsession with the son she never had. I love how she boldly wrote with love for pregnant women & the pregnant body at a time when "pregnant" was a rude word. I love the fresh imagery, the stunning word choices and turns of phrase, a merging of Mistral and Hughes. I can dwell on a poem, on a few lines at a time, on an image, and will keep coming back to them.
spacestationtrustfund's review against another edition
3.0
Some say that the best translators are poets. Others maintain that the best translators are academics with a specialised focus in translation studies. (Personally I think it's a bit of both.) Well, this collection of Gabriela Mistral's poetry was translated by Langston Hughes, which I thought was pretty interesting, as was his accompanying introduction:
Here's one of my favourite of Mistral's poems, "Poema del hijo," the context for which was that her lover had committed suicide and she was mourning that they'd never been able to build a family together.
Much of her poetry is simple and direct in language, never high-flown or flowery, and much easier, I think, to translate than most poets writing in Spanish. Since her poetry is so intensely feminine, however, I hesitated to attempt translations myself, hoping that a woman would do so. None did, in terms of a book. So when Bernard Perry of the Indiana University Press requested that I do so, it intrigued me to try—for the simple reason that I liked the poems. [...] I have no theories of translation. I simply try to transfer into English as much as I can of the literal content, emotion, and style of each poem. When I feel I can transfer only literal content, I do not attempt a translation. For that reason I have not translated the three Sonetos de la Muerte. They are very beautiful, but very difficult in their rhymed simplicity to put into an equivalent English form. To give their meaning without their word music would be to lose their meaning.Overall the translation was actually pretty good. Of course, this collection was published in the 1940s, so it's not going to be the most accurate possible translation... some of the poems are put into rhyming English verse; some have distinctly English phrasing. But overall, very impressive.
Here's one of my favourite of Mistral's poems, "Poema del hijo," the context for which was that her lover had committed suicide and she was mourning that they'd never been able to build a family together.
And Hughes's equivalent English translation:I.¡Un hijo, un hijo, un hijo! Yo quise un hijo tuyo
y mío, allá en los días del éxtasis ardiente,
en los que hasta mis huesos temblaron de tu arrullo
y un ancho resplandor creció sobre mi frente.
Decía: ¡un hijo!, como el árbol conmovido
de primavera alarga sus yemas hacia el cielo.
¡Un hijo con los ojos de Cristo engrandecidos,
la frente de estupor y los labios de anhelo!
Sus brazos en guirnalda a mi cuello trenzados;
el río de mi vida bajando a él, fecundo,
y mis entrañas como perfume derramado
ungiendo con su marcha las colinas del mundo.
Al cruzar una madre grávida, la miramos
con los labios convulsos y los ojos de ruego,
cuando en las multitudes con nuestro amor pasamos.
¡Y un niño de ojos dulces nos dejó como ciegos!
En las noches, insomne de dicha y de visiones,
la lujuria de fuego no descendió a mi lecho.
Para el que nacería vestido de canciones
yo extendía mi brazo, yo ahuecaba mi pecho.
El sol no parecíame, para bañarlo, intenso;
mirándome, yo odié, por toscas, mis rodillas;
mi corazón, confuso, temblaba al don inmenso;
¡y un llanto de humildad regaba mis mejillas!
Y no temí a la muerte, disgregadora impura;
los ojos de él libraran los tuyos de la nada,
y a la mañana espléndida o a la luz insegura
yo hubiera caminado bajo de esa mirada.II.Ahora tengo treinta años, y mis sienes jaspea
la ceniza precoz de la muerte. En mis días,
como la lluvia eterna de los polos, gotea
la amargura con lágrima lenta, salobre y fría.
Mientras arde la llama del pino, sosegada,
mirando a mis entrañas pienso qué hubiera sido
un hijo mío, infante con mi boca cansada,
mi amargo corazón y mi voz de vencido.
Y con tu corazón, el fruto de veneno,
y tus labios que hubieran otra vez renegado.
Cuarenta lunas él no durmiera en mi seno,
que sólo por ser tuyo me hubiese abandonado.
Y en qué huertas en flor, junto a qué aguas corrientes
lavara, en primavera, su sangre de mi pena,
si fui triste en las landas y en las tierras clementes,
y en toda tarde mística hablaría en sus venas.
Y el horror de que un día con la boca quemante
de rencor, me dijera lo que dije a mi padre:
«¿Por qué ha sido fecunda tu carne sollozante
y se henchieron de néctar los pechos de mi madre?».
Siendo el amargo goce de que duermas abajo
en tu lecho de tierra, y un hijo no meciera
mi mano, por dormir yo también sin trabajos
y sin remordimientos, bajo una zarza fiera.
Porque yo no cerrara los párpados, y loca
escuchase a través de la muerte, y me hincara,
deshechas las rodillas, retorcida la boca,
si lo viera pasar con mi fiebre en su cara.
Y la tregua de Dios a mí no descendiera:
en la carne inocente me hirieran los malvados,
y por la eternidad mis venas exprimieran
sobre mis hijos de ojos y de frente extasiados.
¡Bendito pecho mío en que a mis gentes hundo
y bendito mi vientre en que mi raza muere!
¡La cara de mi madre ya no irá por el mundo
ni su voz sobre el viento, trocada en miserere!
La selva hecha cenizas retoñará cien veces
y caerá cien veces, bajo el hacha, madura.
Caeré para no alzarme en el mes de las mieses;
conmigo entran los míos a la noche que dura.
Y como si pagara la deuda de una raza,
taladran los dolores mi pecho cual colmena.
Vivo una vida entera en cada hora que pasa;
como el río hacia el mar, van amargas mis venas.
Mis pobres muertos miran el sol y los ponientes,
con un ansia tremenda, porque ya en mí se ciegan.
Se me cansan los labios de las preces fervientes
que antes que yo enmudezca por mi canción entregan.
No sembré por mi troje, no enseñé para hacerme
un brazo con amor para la hora postrera,
cuando mi cuello roto no pueda sostenerme
y mi mano tantee la sábana ligera.
Apacenté los hijos ajenos, colmé el troje
con los trigos divinos, y sólo de Ti espero,
¡Padre Nuestro que estás en los cielos!
recoge mi cabeza mendiga, si en esta noche muero.
I.A son, a son, a son! I wanted a son of yours
and mine, in those distant days of burning bliss
when my bones would tremble at your least murmur
and my brow would glow with a radiant mist.
I said a son, as a tree in spring
lifts its branches yearning toward the skies,
a son with innocent mien and anxious mouth,
and wondering, wide and Christ-like eyes.
His arms like a garland entwine around my neck,
the fertile river of my life is within him pent,
and from the depths of my being over all the hills
a sweet perfume spreads its gentle scent.
We look as we pass at a mother big with child,
whose lips are trembling and whose eyes are a prayer.
When deep in love we walk through the crowd,
the wonder of a babe's sweet eyes makes us stare.
Through sleepless nights full of joy and dreams
no fiery lust invaded my bed.
For him who would be born swaddled in song,
I hollowed my breasts to pillow his head.
The sun never seemed too warm to bathe him;
but my lap I hated as too rough a place.
My heart beat wildly at so wonderful a gift,
and tears of humility streamed down my face.
Of death's vile destruction I had no fear,
for the child's eyes would free your eyes from such doom,
and I would not mind walking beneath death's dark stare
in the brilliance of morning or at evening's gloom.II.Now I am thirty years old, and my brow is streaked
with the precocious ashes of death. And slow tears
like eternal rain at the poles,
salty, bitter, and cold, water my years.
While the pine burns with a gentle flame,
musing, I think it would have been meet
that my son be born with my own weary mouth,
my bitter heart and my voice of defeat.
With your heart like a poisonous fruit,
and me whom your lips would again betray,
for forty moons he might not have slept on my breast;
and because he was yours, he might have gone away.
In what flowering orchards, beside what running waters
in what springtime might he have cleansed his blood of my sorrow,
though I wandered afar in gentler climes,
while it coursed through his veins in some mystical tomorrow?
The fear that some day from his mouth hot with hate
he might say to me, as I to my father did protest,
"Why was your weeping flesh so fertile
as to fill with nectar a mother's breast?"
I find bitter joy in that you sleep now
deep in a bed of earth, and I cradle no child,
for I sleep, too, with no cares, no remorse,
beneath my tangle of brambles wild.
Since I may no longer close my eyes
like a crazy woman I hear voices from outer space,
and with twisted mouth on torn knees I would kneel
if I saw him pass with my pain in his face.
To me God's respite never would be given:
through his innocent flesh the wicked wound me now:
for through all eternity my blood will cry aloud
in my son ecstatic of eye and brow.
Blessed be my breast in which kin is lost
and blessed be my belly in which they die!
The face of my mother will no longer cross the world
nor her voice in the wind change to sorrow's cry.
Forests decayed to ashes will rise a hundred times
to fall again a hundred times by axe or nature's blight.
But in the month of harvest I will fall to rise no more:
me and mine shall disappear in endless night.
As though I were paying the debt of a whole race,
like cells in a beehive, my breast fills with pain.
Each passing hour to me seems a lifetime,
a bitter river flowing seaward is each vein.
I am blind to the sun and blind to the wind
for which my poor dead ones so anxiously long.
And my lips are weary of fervent prayers that,
before I grow mute, my mouth pours into song.
I did not plant for my own granary, nor teach in hope
of loving arms' support when death I might meet
and my broken body sustain me no longer,
and my hand grope for the winding sheet.
I taught the children of others, trusting only in You
to fill my granary with grain divine.
Our Father Who art in heaven, lift up this beggar.
Should I die tonight, let me be Thine.
competencefantasy's review
challenging
dark
emotional
sad
fast-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? N/A
- Strong character development? N/A
- Loveable characters? N/A
- Diverse cast of characters? N/A
- Flaws of characters a main focus? N/A
3.5
4shanna's review against another edition
5.0
I think this is a really beautiful and carefully handled translation 🥲
jimmylorunning's review
5.0
I hear
the couplet of fat
as it grows in the night
like a dune.
from "Midnight"
This Chilean poet has been on my radar for a while now, and I actually bought [b:a different|1293675|Selected Prose and Prose Poems (LLILAS Translations from Latin America Series)|Gabriela Mistral|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1182549988s/1293675.jpg|1282780] book of prose-poem translations a while ago, but was never able to really get into it. The other more-available translation is this [b:Selected Poems|67998|Selected Poems|Gabriela Mistral|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1170684051s/67998.jpg|65929] by Ursula K. Le Guin (which I do not own yet, but will be seeking out). I've been hearing so many good things about Gabriela Mistral but there's always that risk with translated poetry of being completely underwhelmed, and not knowing if it's the translation or the poems themselves. When I started reading this volume, translated by Langston Hughes, I realized immediately that it was not the poet's fault that I never connected with her before.
From the eyes of wild beasts gentle tears will flow,
and the mountains You forged of stone will understand
and weep through their white eyelids of snow:
the whole earth will learn of forgiveness at Your hand.
from "Prayer"
Gabriela Mistral writes from an intense simplicity of expression, image, and emotion and I think Langston Hughes really understood that. Her poems really shine through in these translations. He pays much attention to the music and energy of her line.
In the thicket they look like fire;
when they rise, like silver darting.
And they go by even before they go,
cutting through your wonder.
from "Larks"
She moves from physical to metaphysical in a few syllables. She inverts cliches gracefully, without breaking a sweat or calling attention to it. Often her poems seem modest, small, and sweet, while hinting at something deeper.
and she became as water
that from a wounded deer turns bloody.
from "The Flower of the Air"
One quirk about this volume, though: the title "Selected Poems" suggests these are her best poems covering a broad range of topics. They may be her best poems, but they're not very broad ranging--over half of them deal with pregnancy, motherhood, and children. Many are lullabies. So it seems more like a selection of poems curated on one topic. I think (from browsing the Google Books preview) that the Ursula K. Le Guin translation may have a more broad range of poems on various topics.
This son of mine is more beautiful
than the world on which he steals a look.
from "Charm"
Now I am nothing but a veil; all my body is a veil beneath which a child sleeps.
from "To My Husband"
I feel my breasts growing,
rising like water in a wide pool, noiselessly. And their
great sponginess casts a shadow like a promise across my belly.
Who in all the valley could be poorer than I if my breasts never grew moist?
Like those jars that women put out to catch the dew of night,
I place my breasts before God.
That's not a complaint though, because before this I had only read a handful of poems about motherhood (mostly by my friend [b:Sarah Vap|8125375|Faulkner's Rosary|Sarah Vap|http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1278008603s/8125375.jpg|12921032]). It was really nice to see this seldom explored topic given its due all the way back in the 1920's (which was when Mistral published her first poems).
A breath that vanishes in a breath
and a face that trembles because of it
in a meadow where nothing trembles.
from "Paradise"