Sister Juana Ines de la Cruz 1651-1695
A rose found in a meadow by Celia,
how vain its splendor seems
with petals of carmine and scarlet.
it is so passing and delicate;
It says: enjoy without fear the destiny
that follows this brief time of life,
for morning's death cannot take away
that which you enjoy today.
And although death's quick hand
will distance the fragrance of your life,
beauty and youth never feel death's promise:
remember what experience tells us:
it is better to die knowing you have lived
then to feel the insult of regret. Translated by Sunny Talton
Oda a la Pereza Ode to Laziness
Ayer senti que la oda Yesterday I felt the ode
no subia del suelo. would not rise off the ground.
Era hora, debia It was time,
por los menos she should have at least
mostrar una hoja verde. shown a green leaf.
Rasque la tierra: 'Sube, I scratched the soil: 'Get up,
hermana oda sister ode
--le dije--, --I said to her--
te tengo prometida, I have promised to care for you,
no me tengas miedo, don't be afraid of me,
no voy a triturarte, I won't step on you, grind you,
oda de cuatro hojas, ode with four leaves,
ode de cuatro manos, ode with four hands,
tomaras te conmigo. drink tea with me.
Sube, Get up,
te voy a coronar entre las odas I will crown you among my odes,
saldremos juntos, por la orilla we'll leave, meet the shore,
del mar, en bicicleta'. then the sea, on bicycle.'
Fue inutil. Oh, it is futile.
Entonces, Then,
en lo alto de los pinos, in the highest of pines,
la pereza the laziness
aparecio desnuda, appeared nude,
me llevo deslumbrado I was drowsy
y sonoliento, when she dazzled me,
me descubrio em la arena and I found
pequenos trozos rotos bits of broken
de sustancias oceanicas, ocean fragments:
maderas, algas, piedras, wood, seaweed, shells,
plumas de aves marines. feathers of sea birds.
Busque sin encontrar I scavenged for yellow agates,
agatas amarillas. but to no avail.
El mar The sea
llenaba los espacios consumed the spaces,
desmoronando torres, eroding towers,
invadiendo invading
las costas de mi patria, the coasts of my homeland,
avanzando rushing
sucesivas catastrofes de espuma. in consecutive catastrophes of
foam.
Solaen la arena Alone in the sand
abria un rayo a ray opened
una corola. a loop of petals.
Vi cruzar los petreles plateados I saw silver petrals
y como cruces negras pass
los cormoranes like black cormorants
clavados en las rocas. crossing, nailed to rocks.
Liberte una abeja I loosened a bee
que agonizaba en un velo from death in a
de arana, spiderweb,
meti una piedrecita I put a stone
en un bolsillo, in my pocket,
era suave, suavisima it was smooth, so smooth
como un pecho de pajaro, like a bird's breast,
mientras tanto en la costa, while on the coast
toda la tarde, all afternoon,
lucharon sol y niebla. sun and fog wrestled.
A veces Sometimes
la niebla se impregnaba light filled the fog
de luz like topaz,
como un topacio, other times
otras veces caia a ray from the humid sun
un rayo de sol humedo fell, and then yellow drops
dejando caer gotas amarillas. fell.
En la noche, Night time.
pensando em los deberes de mi oda I was thinking of the duties
fugitiva, of my fugitive ode,
me saque los zapatos and so I threw off my shoes
junto al fuego, beside the fire,
resbalo arena de ellos poured out the sand,
y pronto fui quedandome and soon I fell
dormido. sound asleep.
The Above Translated by Jason L. Martin
She complains of her lot, suggesting her aversion to vice and justifying
her resort to the Muses
In hounding me, world, what do you gain?
In what do I offend you, if I only seek
To put things of beauty in my understanding
And not my understanding in things of beauty?
I esteem neither treasures nor riches,
And thus find more contentment
Putting riches in my thoughts
Than in putting my thoughts in riches.
I prize not comeliness, which, vanquished,
Becomes the civil spoils of time.
Nor do perfidious riches agree with me,
Judging it better, in truth,
To consume the vanities of life
Than to consume my life in vanities. Translated by Jacobo Stefami
Death like yours, my Laura, since you have died,
to feelings that still long for you in vain,
to eyes you now deny even the sight
of lovely light that in the past you gave.
Death to my hapless lyre from which you drew
these echoes that, lamenting, speak your name,
and let these awkward characters be known
as black tears shed by my grief-stricken pen.
Let compassion move stern Death herself
who (strictly accurate) brooked no excuse,
and let Love lament his bitter fate;
who boldly hoping at one time to woo you
wanted to have eyes simply to see you,
that now do nothing more nor less than mourn you.
[Translated by Amanda Powell]
By Sandi -- We all want love, don't we. If we hide ourselves in convents, we still want love -- love of God, of others, and some in our imaginations. The need to be loved never goes away, whether there is silence or prison bars.