The Spiritual Canticle

[kafka]

I have lamented in the past that I cannot read Spanish and taste the greatness of Saint John's poems in the original, but I found this translation of Nims. It has verve and magic. I love it!

The Bride:

Where have you gone to hide,
lover, and left me sighing? Couldnt care
less for your wounded bride
but off like a deer from there?
I hurried forth imploring the empty air.

You shepherds, you that rove
over the range where mountains touch the sky,
if you should meet my love
--my one love--tell him why
I'm faint and in a fever and may die.

I'll wander high and low
after the one I worship--til he's found
not stop where daisies grow
nor shrink for beasts around;
bow to no bully and obey no bound.

A question to the creatures:

O woods and brush between,
foliage planted by a lover's hand,
meadows of bluegreen
with many a flower japanned,
tell me: has he been lately in your land?

Their reply:

Scattering left and right
a thousand favors he went streaming by
these regions, quick as light.
And where it touched, his eye
left a new glory over earth and sky.

The Bride:

New suffering what's to soothe?
Once and for all be really mine, and cure it.
From now on, never use
go-betweens--who'd endure it?
I want your loving voice, and these obscure it.

All that come and go
tell of a thousand wonders, to your credit;
each glimmering's a blow;
like death I dread it--
something they still stood stammering. Yet said it.

How manage to withstand
so long, my life, not living where you live?
Knowing your death at hand
from arrows you receive
only to think of him? To think: to grieve.

Seeing you've wounded, dear,
this heart of mine, why never stoop to mend it?
Steal and yet leave it here?
By halves a bandit,
neither entirely take it nor unhand it?

Console my miseries.
Help as no other can in any measure.
Appear, light of my eyes,
sight's only treasure.
I have eyes for you. Or having them's no pleasure.

If only, crystal well,
clear in your silver mirror could arise
suddenly by some spell
the long awaited eyes
sketched in my heart, so faint they tantalize--

Those eyes, love! Look away!
I'm a gossamer on air!



will try to type the rest

Edited May 22, 2010 by kafka

[kafka]

The Bridegroom:

Swing lower, dove.
The wounded deer, astray,
shows on the hill above
drawn by your wing he loves the coolness of.

The Bride:

My love, the Pyrenees;
depths in a pathless forest cool with cresses;
rivers that seem like seas,
isles no explorer guesses,
the affectionate air, its whisper and caresses;

night sunk in a profound
rest, with the stir of dawn about the skies,
music without a sound,
a solitude of cries,
a supper of light hearts and lovelit eyes.

Our bed, a couch of roses;
lions in grottos to assure the ground;
purple that folds and closes
on beams of peace around;
our roof, with a thousand gold escutcheons crowned.

Seeing your sandal-mark
girls whirl to the four winds; their faces shine
stung by a sudden spark,
flushed with the glorious wine.
Their breath a very heaven--the air's divine!

Shown deeper than before
in cellars of my love I drank; from there
went wandering on the moor;
knew nothing, felt no care;
the sheep I tended once are who knows where?

He showed his secret heart;
had certain marvelous matters to confide.
Proposals. For my part
I kept nothing aside,
but made a promise: to become his bride.

Forever at his door
I gave my heart and soul. My fortune too.
I've no flock any more,
no other work in view.
My occupation: love. It's all I do.

If I'm not seen again
in old places, on the village ground,
say of me: lost to men.
Say I'm adventure-bound
for love's sake. Lost on purpose to be found.

Edited May 22, 2010 by kafka

[AccountDeleted]

I'm sorry, kafka, but I really don't like that translation at all. It seems to have lost some of its romantic flavor. I know poetry is personal but to me, this new one is like the NO Mass compared with the Latin Mass.



Compare the one you posted (which sounds like a country western song to me)

[i]Seeing you've wounded, dear,
this heart of mine, why never stoop to mend it?
Steal and yet leave it here?
By halves a bandit,
neither entirely take it nor unhand it?[/i]



With this by David Lewis
[i]
Why, after wounding[/i]
[i]This heart, have You not healed it?
[/i][i]And why, after stealing it,
[/i][i]Have You thus abandoned it,
[/i][i]And not carried away the stolen prey?[/i]


or this classic by E Allison-Peers?

[i]Why piercedst thou this heart
[/i][i]And heal'dst it not upon the selfsame day? [/i][i]
Why usedst robbers'art
[/i][i]Yet leavest thus thy prey [/i][i]And tak'st it not eternally away?[/i]



edited for layout.

Edited May 23, 2010 by nunsense

[kafka]

I like Nims better, since it has verve, charm, swing, and common, colloquial expressions which are accessable. I think Saint John borrowed the mode of a popular folk song to convey his spiritual meanings so this seems fitting for a translation. Notice how Saint John rarely uses any literary or even lofty or difficult words at all for his metaphors. Jesus used very common language and gestures to convey his teachings, for example when he spit on the ground in one of his miracles.

Poetry is not only about thoughts and content, it is also about form, e.g. the sound effects, rhythm, cadence, musicality etc. The form is suppose to convey the meaning on a more profound level than the words themselves. Lovers in love get lost in the dance of words and gestures. Literary stuff is not necessary for lovers.

That is why I wish I could understand the original Spanish, since the Spanish critics even the secular ones are unanimous in calling the three big ones, Canticle, Night and Flame the greatest Spanish literature ever and among the greatest possible things ever written. Lorca, the great Spanish writer, says the poems possess duende, a word meaning some sort of mysterious Divine power which cannot be faked according to the Spaniards.

In any case I am going to finish typing the rest of it.

[kafka]

here is an example of what I am saying.

Here is your David Lewis translation:

[i]My Beloved is the mountains,
The solitary wooded valleys,
The strange islands,
The roaring torrents,
The whisper of the amorous gales;

The tranquil night
At the approaches of the dawn,
The silent music,
The murmuring solitude,
The supper which revives, and enkindles love.

[/i]

now take a look at the John Frederick Nims translation:

[i]My love, the Pyrenees;
depths in a pathless forest cool with cresses,
rivers that seem like seas,
isles no explorer guesses,
the affectionate air, its whisper and caresses;

night sunk in a profound
rest, with the stir of dawn about the skies,
music without a sound,
a solitude of cries,
a supper of light hearts and lovelit eyes.

[/i]

in the first there is literally no rhyme. In the second there is rhyme in in alternating verses like the Spanish.

in the first there is no alliteration. The second is full of alliteration, e.g. "cool with cresses, seem like seas, affectionate air, light hearts and lovelit eyes. . ."

in the first their is little if any mimicking of metre. In the second there is a genuine mimicking:

la cena que recrea y enamora.----------a supper of light hearts and lovelit eyes.

as opposed to

the supper which revives and enkindles love.


to me the first sounds stodgy and stale.
the second sounds sounds to me like the author is crazy in love

[AccountDeleted]

[quote name='kafka' date='24 May 2010 - 05:32 AM' timestamp='1274643143' post='2116053']
here is an example of what I am saying.

Here is your David Lewis translation:

[i]My Beloved is the mountains,
The solitary wooded valleys,
The strange islands,
The roaring torrents,
The whisper of the amorous gales;

The tranquil night
At the approaches of the dawn,
The silent music,
The murmuring solitude,
The supper which revives, and enkindles love.

[/i]

now take a look at the John Frederick Nims translation:

[i]My love, the Pyrenees;
depths in a pathless forest cool with cresses,
rivers that seem like seas,
isles no explorer guesses,
the affectionate air, its whisper and caresses;

night sunk in a profound
rest, with the stir of dawn about the skies,
music without a sound,
a solitude of cries,
a supper of light hearts and lovelit eyes.

[/i]

in the first there is literally no rhyme. In the second there is rhyme in in alternating verses like the Spanish.

in the first there is no alliteration. The second is full of alliteration, e.g. "cool with cresses, seem like seas, affectionate air, light hearts and lovelit eyes. . ."

in the first their is little if any mimicking of metre. In the second there is a genuine mimicking:

la cena que recrea y enamora.----------a supper of light hearts and lovelit eyes.

as opposed to

the supper which revives and enkindles love.


to me the first sounds stodgy and stale.
the second sounds sounds to me like the author is crazy in love [img]http://www.phatmass.com/phorum/public/style_emoticons/default/wink.gif[/img]
[/quote]


I disagree but then that is what art is all about, it speaks to the heart and not to the mind. In the Nims, I hear rhyming and alliteration that sounds forced and artificial to try to emulate the original Spanish, and translating something just to make it rhyme or use alliteration seems artificial to me.

I just 'feel' more romance in the Lewis or Allison-Peers translations because rather than try to 'make poems' out of what it is already sublime poetry beyond compare, they translate the 'meaning' behind it. But that's okay, I don't like modern art or NO Masses either and many people do. We can agree to disagree, and there are bound to be many who do enjoy what you type out, so go for it!

[kafka]

[quote name='nunsense' date='23 May 2010 - 10:50 PM' timestamp='1274669409' post='2116310']
I disagree but then that is what art is all about, it speaks to the heart and not to the mind. In the Nims, I hear rhyming and alliteration that sounds forced and artificial to try to emulate the original Spanish, and translating something just to make it rhyme or use alliteration seems artificial to me.

I just 'feel' more romance in the Lewis or Allison-Peers translations because rather than try to 'make poems' out of what it is already sublime poetry beyond compare, they translate the 'meaning' behind it. But that's okay, I don't like modern art or NO Masses either and many people do. We can agree to disagree, and there are bound to be many who do enjoy what you type out, so go for it!
[/quote]
These translations are not new. Nims worked on them from the 40s to the 60s. He reconstructed them several times and Robert Alter, one of the greatest literary scholars in the past century, helped on the final drafts. These are serious scholars with the greatest respect for Juan de la Cruz

I agree that we can disagree, yet art is not all subjective. And I do not appreciate nor do I approve of the Ordinary vs Extraordinary Form of the Mass parallel you are presenting.

Edited May 24, 2010 by kafka

[AccountDeleted]

[quote name='kafka' date='25 May 2010 - 01:53 AM' timestamp='1274716406' post='2116546']
These translations are not new. Nims worked on them from the 40s to the 60s. He reconstructed them several times and Robert Alter, one of the greatest literary scholars in the past century, helped on the final drafts. These are serious scholars with the greatest respect for Juan de la Cruz

I agree that we can disagree, yet art is not all subjective. And I do not appreciate nor do I approve of the Ordinary vs Extraordinary Form of the Mass parallel you are presenting.
[/quote]


Dear Kafka, I am so sorry if I hurt your feelings about this.

To me, all art is very subjective, and perhaps I was too blunt. If this translation speaks to your heart, then I should not have been so quick to say negative things about it. St John of the Cross is basically the closest thing I have to a mystical spiritual director, so I guess I take things too personally concerning him. Because I have a few favorite translators (of all his works, not just this poem), I probably reacted too strongly to this one, but I really just don't resonsate with the Nims one. The fact that you do shows how personal poetry is.

And I am not questioning the capabilities of your literary scholars, just saying that I don't like their artistic style. Perhaps not all literary scholars are good poets? St Teresa of Avila wrote poetry too, and despite her incredible relationship with God, her poems don't really speak to me either (although some of them are worthy of comment as 'sayings'). IMO she wrote prose well but poetry badly - but that is a subjective statement and there are probably many people who adore her poetry. I do have one of her poems on my About Me section of my profile, so that shows one of the exceptions to my preferences! Being a translator of poetry must be a very difficult thing to do because not everyone is going to like the translation or see it as poetry either in its translated form. That's why I consider it subjective as well. I have read Fray Juan in Spanish and although I could not personally translate his work into English myself because of the type of Spanish and the colloquialisms, I can get enough of a feel for it to know which English translations speak to me in the same way.

And I am sorry you took offence at something that was not intended to be personal - the reference to NO and EF Masses. I meant to infer that we all have different tastes and just as some people actually do prefer the NO to the EF and vice versa, some people are going to prefer Nims to Peers/others or vice versa. If you read this to mean that only people who like the NO will prefer Nims (or any other permutation of my statement, then I can assure you that this was not my intention but I can see how it could appear to be what I was saying. My apologies for being clumsy in my writing. My intention was to say that I am not a fan of the NO or modern art, or Nims - I was being purely subjective here and trying to explain this with other examples. I ask you to please not take what I say personally as I certainly would not want to hurt your feelings about this, and I have done no survey to gauge if those who like the NO prefer Nims or Peers et al, so the statement was certainly not objective.

And although you say that not all art is subjective, to me it is. My mother was a portrait artist and I didn't like all of her work either. Perhaps there were good features of those paintings that I didn't like, such as composition, perspective, use of colors etc, but the point is that I subjectively didn't like some of them. And this is the same for the paintings or music or poetry of the 'great masters' as well. I subjectively choose to like/dislike based on my feelings. Perhaps many other people do not do this, but I do. And perhaps the art critics make their decisions of good art/bad art based purely on objective reasons, but that doesn't change how I feel about something. All the critics in the world can tell me something is a great work of art (especially pop art) and I might simply say, "I don't like it."

But isn't it wonderful that Nims did this translation -- because it speaks to you, and many others I am sure. If there was only one color in the world, wouldn't it be monotonous? But there is a rainbow of colors and we all have different preferences as to our favorite colors. You were sharing yours with us and I jumped in and said it wasn't my favorite color - and that was rude, for which I sincerely apologize.

pax xti

[kafka]

holy smokes! You didnt hurt my feelings or offend me. Peace. I just do not like things getting reduced to the OF-EF culture wars, but that wasnt your intention so maybe I was a little over-sensitive.

now I will type the rest.

[kafka]

Bride (continued from above)

In the cool morning hours
we'll go about for blossoms we can wear;
string emeralds in the flowers
sprung in love's summer air.
I'll give a strand to bind them--my own hair.

curling upon my shoulder.
You loved to see it lifted on the air.
You loved it, fond beholder
caught fascinated there;
caught fast by an eye that wounds you unaware.

Your eyes in mine aglow
printed their living image in my own.
That's why you loved me so.
And why I've grown
worthier to return the fervor shown.

You thought me, cheek and brow,
a shade too Moorish, and were slow to praise.
Only look this way now
as once before: your gaze
leaves me with lovlier features where it plays.

Now that the bloom uncloses
catch us the little foxes by the vine,
as we knit cones of roses
sturdy as those of pine.
No trespassing about this hill of mine.

Keep north, you winds of death.
Come, southern wind, for lovers. Come and stir
the garden with your breath.
Shake fragrance on the air.
My love will feed among the lilies there.

The Bridegroom:

She enters, the bride! closes
the charming garden that all dreams foretold her;
in comfort she reposes
close to my shoulder.
Arms of the lover that she loves enfolds her.

Under the apple tree,
that's where! Rings on your fingers--to foretell
a wedding, yours with me--
broke in a flash the spell
where all that scandal on your mother fell.

Wings flickering here and there,
lion and gamboling antler, shy gazelle,
peak, precipice, and shore,
flame, air, and flooding well,
night-watchman terror, with no good to tell,

by many a pleasant lyre
and song of sirens I command you, so:
down with that angry choir!
All sweet and low
and let the bride sleep deeper. Off you go!

[kafka]

The Bride:

Girls of Jerusalem,
now that the breath of roses more and more
swirls over leaf and stem,
keep further than before,
Live elsewhere. And no darkening our door.

Stay hidden close with me,
darling. Look to the mountain; turn your face.
Finger at lips. But see
what pretty friends embrace
the passer of fabulous islands in her chase.

The Bridegroom:

The little pearl-white dove
with frond of olive to the Ark returns.
Wedded, the bird of love
no longer yearns,
settled above still water, among ferns.

Hers were the lonely days;
in lonliest of solitudes her nest.
Her guide on lonely ways
her love, who knew them best,
that arrow from the desert in his breast.

The Bride:

Let's live delighted, love!
Gaze eye to eye, see only you in these!
To the hill and heights above!
Cool waters playing! Please
come with me deep and deeper in the trees!

And on to our eyrie then,
that cave in the dizzy cliff--few ever guessed it,
hid cunningly from men.
Ah but we've traced it,
and wine of the red pomegranate--there we'll taste it!

And there at last you'd show
the very thing my soul was yearning for;
and, dearest life, although
I lost it once, restore
something you gave the other day: once more

the breathing of the air,
the nightingale in her most jubilant vein,
woods and pleasures there
in night's unruffled reign--
these, and the flame caressing without pain.

With none around to see.
Aminadab's away, that once offended.
Above, the cavalry,
their long siege ended,
sighted the shining waters and descended.


and that is it for the poem. I love this version. I hope someone else liked it too. It is similar to the Song of Songs of Solomon the book of Scripture--which surprisingly--Saint John had read aloud as he was on his death bed.

[vee]

John of the Cross

[kafka]

bumped because Juan de la Cruz's feast is in two weeks
(I cant believe nunsense and I got into an argument over the translation, lol)