Salvador Espriu: an Introduction
Although Salvador Espriu is a very different poet from William Blake, while Blake described the Bible as “The Great Code of Art,” Espriu claimed this was the only book that influenced his poetry. Like Blake’s work, Espriu’s is unique, leading Harold Bloom to observe that he “know[s] very few useful comparison’s to other poets that could illuminate Espriu.” Espriu cannot be described as a realist, symbolist, or narrative poet since even his shortest poems juxtapose shifting combinations of these modes. Like Blake, he stands all but alone as a visionary poet in the Judeo-Christian tradition who insistently rejects literal belief or faith while asking readers to believe in nothing but the transformative and redemptive powers of the imagination and its use of words. As Blake’s poems take place simultaneously in timeless or biblical settings and among the “dark Satanic mills,” among other features of his contemporary England, Espriu’s work takes place simultaneously in timeless or biblical settings and in allusive hints of his contemporary Catalonia.
He was a young poet during and following Franco’s subjugation of Catalonia. “Sinera,” approximating the transposed spelling of Arenys de Mar, the seaside town where he spent much of his childhood, is envisioned as a lost paradise throughout much of his poetry. In “The Governor,” Espriu’s Catalan contemporaries at once recognized the “debased land / by the sea” as a conflation of “Sinera” and biblical Israel. Likewise, in “That the Song May Return to Sinera One Day,” they associated the “The world I lost” and the various forms of loss throughout this poem with a combination of the lost biblical paradise, the destruction of the second temple in 70 CE, and Catalonia’s plight at the time. Yet the archetypal reach of Espriu’s poetry is reinforced by his refusal throughout to explicitly mention any specific contemporary, historical, biblical and classical events and personages.
Although bilingual in Spanish and Catalan, Espriu wrote in Catalan despite the extent to which he knew this would limit his potential readership. In the ending of “That the Song May Return to Sinera One Day,” “Only some … fragile words , / the root and seed / of my language” remain. Likewise in “The Governor,” the redemptive conclusion begins “with words / of this dead language” that Espriu describes metaphorically as “stones of effort and sorrow / that will build the new / city of praises.” In place of faith, as seen in both endings, the path to redemption in Espriu’s work is through a visionary use of words, in particular what he describes elsewhere as “through the mysterious gold / of my old Catalan,” into which “I plunged my hands.”
— Andrew Kaufman and Antonio Cortijo Ocaña, translators
/ / / / /
That the Song May Return to Sinera One Day
My lingering dream
of a vast white peace
under a sky of mercy.
I walk calming pathways
that bring me
the brightness of summits.
Time stands still
in the high vineyards
above the sea.
I have stopped time
and cling to memories I love
from past winters.
But you will laugh
since you see how Catalan lips
stay sealed.
And mouths of beggars
open in the sun
with plagues of leprosy.
No one has understood
what part of me
I wanted saved.
No one has ever understood
why I always talk
about the world I lost.
The words are forks
from which I hang
my reasons in strands.
In the heavy wind
they brandish ropes
that will hold no more weight.
The song is distant,
and the weighty bell
tolls for the dead.
The dance of the haughty nun
and the drunk
is over.
So too, the dance
of the hairy devil
and Queen Esther.
The bear has now stopped strolling around.
I have read
the Preacher’s book.
Little by little
I put all my puppets away
in a box.
I have to shut up now,
since I have no strength
against so much evil.
This weak voice
will not know how to cure you
of evil this ancient.
From this strange emptiness
reign silence
and solitude.
Only some names are left:
house, tree, land,
soil, woman, furrow.
Only fragile words,
the root and seed
of my language.
The sea, the old pine,
the boat foreseen.
The fear of dying.
* * * * *
The Governor
Sanballat and Geshem
and Tobiah, the enemies
from beyond the river, watched
the fallen walls, the temple
without the songs of my God.
We live in tombs,
darkened, looking inside
ourselves, in a dream
that does not bring back the dawn.
But when the whirlwind awakens a distant sound
of cedars and the flights of eagles,
I descend through the ruins
of the city, to the inner courtyard
of Israel, where the last of the lineage
of the lords fell. Then,
above the blood and the marble,
I slowly rise as prince
of my people’s night.
Ah, sadness, sadness,
my eyes, debased land
by the sea! In the flickering shadows
that now gather around, I begin
to remember the ancient
dignity, with words
of this dead language:
stones of effort and sorrow
that will build the new
city of praises.
/ / / / /
Perquè un dia torni la cançó a Sinera
El meu somni lent
de la gran pau blanca
sota el cel clement.
Passo pels camins
encalmats que porten
la claror dels cims.
És un temps parat
a les vinyes altes,
per damunt del mar.
He parat el temps
i records que estimo
guardo de l’hivern.
Però tu riuràs,
car veus com es tanquen
llavis catalans.
I es baden al sol
boques de captaires,
plagues de leprós.
Ningú no ha comprès
el que jo volia
que de mi es salvés.
Mai no ha entès ningú
per què sempre parlo
del meu món perdut.
Les paraules són
forques d’on a trossos
penjo la raó.
Branden a ple vent
cordes que no poden
suportar més pes.
El càntic és lluny,
i la greu campana
toca pels difunts.
Ha cessat el ball
de l’altiva monja
i de l’embriac.
La dansa també
del pelut dimoni
amb la rena Esthr.
Ja no volta l’ós.
He llegit el llibre
del Predicador.
Deso a poc a poc
dintre de la capsa
tots els meus ninots.
Ara he de callar,
que no tinc prou força
contra tant de mal.
D’un mal tan antic
aquesta veu feble
no et sabrà guarir.
En un estany buit,
manen el silenci
i la solitud.
Sols queden uns noms:
arbre, casa, terra,
gleva, dona, solc.
Només fràgils mots
de la meva llengua,
arrel i llavor.
La mar, el vell pi,
pressentida barca.
La por de morir.
* * * * *
El governador
Sambal·lat i Gosem
i Tobies, els guaites
d’enllà del riu, vigilen
els murs caiguts, el temple
de meu Déu sense cántics.
Habitem en sepulcres,
entenebrats, mirant-nos
dintre nostre, en un somni
que no retorna l’alba.
Però quan torbs desvetllen
una remor llunyana
de cedres i vol d’àguiles,
davallo, per les runes
de la ciutat, a l’atri
d’Israel, on van caure
els últims del llinatge
dels senyors. Aleshores,
damunt la sang i el marbre,
lentament m’alço príncep
de la nit del meu poble.
Ah, tristesa, tristesa,
ulls meus, terra envilida
ran del mar! A les ombres
vacil·lants que s’apleguen
ara a l’entorn començo
a recordar l’antiga
dignitat, amb paraules
d’aquesta llengua morta:
carreus d’esforc i pena
que bastiran la nova
ciutat de les lloances.