The Solitudes

Luis de Góngora

the theatre makes
mixers of us
all
    Brief space
in spite of the sun
  in which LIMBS are
    snowcurds
snow of hues
Shadow
    blooms


time to the hill girls equals
distance from sun to wolf
bringing turbulent morning
Then (over there) walnut
drainage ditch
Dawn parades in
      her new hat


But here slow squadron
of mountain
    men dissolves
They’ve come to the village
Double-crossed
   by flaming arrow  day
            exhales
  purple breath

               JOYRIDES
         like in that ardent car
Charged with solemnizing
fire—elder gobbles
         mad at the wedding
       torch
But youth is fast
nighttime orchard
          morning’s ash





Next are poplars
Doing their green hair
 while thick boys
lithe women
Lights—mirrors
Poplars and poplars

the sun would turn star
to see these night things
     would rob bengal
     of stripes
     surly riverbird


then the bagpipes want
     dancing bad +
     hard for as long
as the big dipper
mows the sphere
Major trunk shake
now by river now   echo
     is yelling (anxious
           host) spikes
the drink of silence
      silence goes far from
      these woods    and woods
             become a wedding yard


Wild dream   in motion
Sleep is no remedy

for a while the bonfires
—who strive to be night
dots—stars—who think
   w/ sun brains
keep death at bay   night
    dark cooking a fear
and then put themselves to bed
Life unlaced   a
tomb inside you





Finally the night wins and silence
wins but sliced through by
              a laurel moan
knife    glade something
        dead
Some villain strips her frondy
pomp—although a tree
         can resist many things     
like ghosts   
gallant
    poplars—
trunk is paper for shepherds
     carve drunk secrets

              Love
             speaks


   those trees
well
   
morning’s espionage
caught them dreaming
            other forests

knock knock it is morning
instead of birds (bizarre) it was
two topazes clinked
together
the sun zooms a little
     sweaty

 
wedding day on the mountain
roses     jasmines    violets

      marvellous       
thinks the wanderer

 



here we call strangers
foresters  or people from
the forest
Pacing outside the
scene—curled
rose     the groom
obviously a hero etc

August: the wanderer
is in sick memory

the day he told her

spurned  
       maroon
   no land
no life but forgetting

translated from the Spanish by Hamish Ballantyne