One of the finest Spanish poets of this century, Antonio Machado, isn’t well known in this country. He deserves to be.

These poems are reprinted, with kind permission, from Antonio Machado — Selected Poems and Prose (White Pine Press, 76 Center, Fredonia, NY 14063; $6, including shipping).

In addition to a representative selection of Machado’s poetry, the book includes several prose pieces written during the Spanish Civil War and long suppressed by Franco’s government. They express Machado’s thoughts on socialism and the role of the poet.

The work of several translators is included in the book; these poems were translated by Robert Bly.

— Ed.

 

     The afternoon is dying
like a simple household fire that goes out.

     There, above the mountains,
a few coals are left.

     And that tree on the white road, broken,
makes you cry with compassion.

     Two branches on the torn trunk, and one
leaf, withered and black, on each branch!

     Are you crying now? . . . In the golden poplars
far off, the shadow of love is waiting for you.
     I have walked along many roads,
and opened paths through brush,
I have sailed over a hundred seas
and tied up on a hundred shores,

     Everywhere I’ve gone I’ve seen
excursions of sadness,
angry and melancholy
drunkards with black shadows,

     and academics in offstage clothes
who watch, say nothing, and think
they know, because they do not drink wine
in the ordinary bars.

     Evil men who walk around
polluting the earth . . .

     And everywhere I’ve been I’ve seen
men who dance and play,
when they can, and work
the few inches of ground they have.

     If they turn up somewhere,
they never ask where they are.
When they take trips, they ride
on the backs of old mules.

     They don’t know how to hurry,
not even on holidays.
They drink wine, if there is some,
if not, cool water.

     These men are the good ones,
who love, work, walk and dream.
And on a day no different than the rest
they lie down beneath the earth.
Last night, as I was sleeping,
I dreamt — marvellous error! —
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk from?

Last night, as I was sleeping,
I dreamt — marvellous error! —
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.

Last night, as I was sleeping,
I dreamt — marvellous error! —
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.

Last night, as I slept,
I dreamt — marvellous error! —
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.