* * *

Josep M. de Sagarra (1894-1961)

Song of the Suburb (1918)

I love that garden, suffocated
and resenting what the factories spew,
and I'm pleased my life's surrounded
by this indifferent view.

I enjoy the time when the breeze turns about -
morning and afternoon people snacking,
a young girl with her breasts bulging out
and a song that leaves me crying.

And the humble man who shows the air
a valient forehead and the eye of a serf,
cloth sandals cover his feet, beret, his hair,
blue smock on his back, snack tied in a kerchief.

Here I see the world opening wide,
cold and terrible like death's door.
And my heart like a little bell inside
is so miserly and poor!

I scrape off flattery like rust
and on my face there's no veil.
Without the slightest distrust
I can look at my naked soul.

I love the desolate garden;
the tired peach tree, dying,
blood red wine, tomato golden,
and the silver herring.

I follow your avid hobby
o you of the good teeth, strange men;
you'll go back to your misery
a little more content.

Long live evil, long live pain,
tear, rose, pearl, and kiss.
Long live this heart and these veins,
and this eye that sees nothing amiss.

Fiery dress ripped by delight,
dance for me! Loyal man,
come, let's smoke our pipes
on the virginal lawn.

Tell me the living wonders
of your work, your agony.
Below the concert of the stars
let's go on smoking tranquilly.

Cançó de Suburbi

M'estimo l'horta escanyolida
que de la fàbrica es ressent,
i em plau voltar la meva vida
d'aquest paisatge indiferent.

I em plau l'estona virolada:
gent d'amanida i berenar.
Una donzella espitregada
i una cançó que fa plorar.

I l'home humil que a l'aire ensenya
un front valent i un ull esclau,
i va amb la gorra i l'espardenya
i el farcellet i el vestit blau.

Aquí jo veig que el món se m'obre
fred i terrible com la mort.
I és tan mesquina i és tan pobra
la campaneta del meu cor!

Dels llagoters fuig la corrua
i en el meu rostre no hi ha vel
i em puc mirar l'anima nua
sense cap mica de recel.

Estimo l'horta desolada;
el presseguer ensopit que es mor,
i l'arengada platejada,
porró de sang, tomàquet d'or.

Jo vaig seguint la vostre dèria
homes estranys de bones dents,
que tornareu a la misèria
una miqueta més contents!

durin els mals, durin les penes,
llàgrima, rosa, perla i bes.
duri aquest cor i aquestes venes,
duri aquest ull que no veu res.

vestit encès que el goig estripa,
dansa per mi! Home lleial,
vine, fumem la nostre pipa
damunt de l'herba virginal.

Digue'm les vives meravelles
del teu treball, del teu turment.
Sota el concert de les estrelles,
anem fumant tranquil.lament.

* * *

Marià Manent (1898-1988)

The Wild Acacias (1920)

The wild acacias are beside the way,
svelte, with a very tenuous and flowered dress.
A delicate air's exhaled this eve of May;
with a fine blown scent, slowly, the flower drops.

Like those sweet friends, in the distant glow
of some pale memory, svelte, light as air;
imperceptible wind plays at their hair;
diaphanous and perfumed is each shadow.

Les Acàcies Salvatges

Les acàcies salvatges s'estan vora el camí,
esveltes, amb la vesta molt tènue i florida.
El capvespre de maig exhala un aire fi
i la flor queia, lenta, amb l'aroma esvaïda.

Tal, les dolces amigues, en la pàl.lida llum
d'algun record llunyà, esveltes i lleugeres:
el vent imperceptible fa un vol de cabelleres
i cada ombra diàfana deixa un poc de perfum.

* * *

Joan Salvat-Papasseit (1894-1924)

Give Me A Patroness... (1922)

Give me a patroness who's not chained down to dogma,
who I can pray to, "I, a sinner of love..."
Give me a saint who has loved much
- to pray to her one begins with a kiss and a song.

That saint who, in giving alms,
if her eyes should wound you, she'd take you in her arms
and her taste were like the fairest maiden,
one could sleep in the sweet cushion of her breast.

That saint, forever a beautiful young girl,
there was not one beggar who wasn't her devotee.
She was as clear, white, fresh and young,
as pure cream in a new crystal glass.

I would go to her in the morning,
before the sun rose, when I left my lady,
at the hour they open the church door
-I'd wear her scapular close, close to my heart.

Deu-me una santa

Deu-me una santa, enc que no sigui al dogma,
a qui pugui pregar: Jo pecador d'amor;
Deu-me una santa qui hagi estimat força,
que per pregar-li calgui un bes i una cançó.

La santa aquella que en donar almoina,
si els seus ulls et ferien t'embraçava el coll,
i era el seu tast com la més fina noia
i al coixí del seu pit hom havia el son dolç.

Aquella santa sempre bella mossa;
no havia mendicant que no li fos devot:
era tan clara, blanca, fresca i jove
com nata de primala i com un veire nou.

Jo hi aniria del matí, en 'quella hora
en que deixo l'amiga abans no sorti el sol,
quan a l'església obririen la porta:

- duria l'estampeta arran, arran del cor.

* * *

Gabriel Ferrater (1922-1972)

Backwards (1960)

I'll say it all backwards. I'll say the frantic
rains of August, a boy's feet
wrapped around the trampoline rope,
the sharp, rabbit-dog leap of the aroma
of lilacs in April, the patience
of the spider writing about his hunger,
a body with four legs and two heads
in a fading light, a fish
slipping like a violin bow,
the blue and gold of little girls on bicycles,
the dog's dramatic thirst, the cutting
of the truck's headlights in the putrid
morning at the market, smooth arms.
I'll say what escapes me. I'll say nothing of myself.

A l'inrevés (1960)

Ho diré a l'inrevés. Diré la pluja
frenètica d'agost, els peus d'un noi
caragolats al fil del trampolí,
l'agut salt de llebrer que fa l'aroma
dels lilàs a l'abril, la paciència
de l'aranya que escriu la seva faim,
el cos amb quatre cames i dos caps
en un solar gris de crepuscle, el peix
llisquent com un arquet de violí,
el blau i l'or de les nenes en bici,
la set dramatica del gos, el tall
dels fars del camió en la matinada
pútrida del mercat,els braços fins.
Diré el que em fuig. No diré res de mi.

* * *

Gabriel Ferrater (1922-1972)

Bedroom in the Fall (1960)

The blinds, not completely closed, like
a fright which doesn't quite fall,
don't cut off the air from us. Look,
thirty seven straight, thin horizons open out,
but the heart forgets them. Unyearned,
the light is dying - it was honey-
colored, and now it's the color of apple smell.
How slow the world, how slow the world, how slow
the sadness for hours which go quickly.
Tell me, will you remember
this bedroom?
       "I love it.
Those workers' voices - Who are they?"
       Bricklayers:
there's still room for one more house on this block.
       "They sing,
and today I can't hear them. They shout, laugh,
and today that they're quiet it seems strange."
       How slow
the red leaves of the voices, how uncertain
when they come to cover us. The sleeping
leaves of my kisses cover
the exposed parts of your body, and while you forget
the high leaves of summer, days
uncovered, without kisses, deep within
the body remembers: your skin
is still half sun, half moon.

Cambra de la Tardor

La persiana, no del tot tancada, com
un esglai que es reté de caure a terra,
no ens separa de l'aire. Mira, s'obren
trenta-set horitzons rectes i prims,
però el cor els oblida. Sense enyor
se'ns va morint la llum, que era color
de mel, i ara és color d'olor de poma.
Que lent el món, que lent el món, que lenta
la pena per les hores que se'n van
de pressa. Digues, te'n recordaràs,
d'aquesta cambra?
"Me l'estimo molt.
Aquelles veus d'obrers -Què són?"
Paletes:
manca una casa a la mançana.
"Canten,
i avui no els sento. Criden, riuen,
i avui que callen em fa estrany."
Que lentes
les fulles roges de les veus, que incertes
quan vénen a colgar-nos. Adormides,
les fulles dels meus besos van colgant
els recers del teu cos, i mentre oblides
les fulles altes de l'estiu, els dies
oberts i sense besos, ben al fons
el cos recorda: encara
tens la pell mig del sol, mig de la lluna.

* * *

Agustí Bartra (1908-1982)

Security (1938)

Roses, twilights, night birds?
Moon, love, swans, sweet tones?
Bah! I've had enough of these words
which before were the only ones

that counted for me.
Now I love that dog, maybe,
better than thee
of the no and the yes, my lady.

Now I have a great simple
truth and a pure
fierceness. The city pleases me little,

and I feel more like nature
than the sun-ripened fruit on the tree.
I know what I want and it wants me.

Seguretat

Rossinyol, crepuscles, roses?
Lluna, amor, cignes, músiques?
Bah! Estic las d'aquestes coses
que adés eren les úniques

que comptaven per a mi.
Ara estimo més aquell gos,
potser, que no pas vós,
dona del no i el sí.

Ara tinc una gran veritat
senzilla i una feresa
bona. Em plau poc la ciutat,

i em sento més naturalesa
que un fruit obrint-se al sol.
Sé el que vull i el que vull em vol.

* * *

Joan Brossa (1919-1998)

I Can Leave You (1952)

The half moon of a magnet pulled me.
I look at the magnet she gave me one day.
After the lightning I'll free the slave.
       My force is fleeing.
Why long needle holes in my breast?
And why that? Planting in the house?
More rock? Was the arrow on target?
       Done. With sadness.
I couldn't. And the gold. The door closes.
No lighthouse bathes this moveable road.
The arrows have been blunted, ai!
       The most powerful ones.
Mouth and teeth forge still more crimes.
Birds flute. The snake isn't deaf.
Your arrows, Love, have all been blunted
       By mine, the long ones.
The pointed tongue wants vengeance.
Extinct queen. Off with her head too.
Golden chains and handmaids transport me
       Into the woods.
When the arrow is shot Love is prolonged.
The rocks in the wall were lodestone.
Wind disperses fruited scent
       Scaling the cliffs.
Likewise root and flower between heaven and earth,
Just so, root and flower are sun and moon;
There are hours in the morning and in the evening:
       Yes, I can leave you.

Et Puc Deixar

La mitja lluna d'un imant m'atreia.
Miro l'imant que un dia va donar-me.
Despres dels llamps deslliuraré l'esclava.
      Em fuig la força.
Per què en el pit forats d'agulles llargues?
I per què això? Plantar dintre la casa?
Més roca? Fora de fitó la fletxa?
      Fet. Amb tristesa.
Poc podia. I l'or. La porta es tanca.
Cap far no banya aquest camí movible.
S'han esmussat les fletxes, ai!, les fletxes
      Més poderoses.
Forgen més crims les dents dintre la boca.
Ocells flautegen. La serp no és sorda.
S'han esmussat, Amor, les teves fletxes,
      Les grans, les meves.
La llengua punxeguda vol venjança.
Extinta reina. El cap també saltava.
Cadenes d'or transporten amb safates
      Boscos endintre.
Prolonga Amor la fletxa quan la tira.
De pedra imant al mur eren les roques.
Olor de fruita el vent ara dispersa
      Esclatant cingles.
Talment arrel i flor entre cel i terra,
Talment arrel i flor són sol i lluna;
Hores hi ha del matí i hores del vespre:
      Si, puc deixar-te.