This week another rather bleak piece by the strikingly original Peruvian poet César Vallejo (1892-1938; see also week 566). It was written at a time of personal crisis, involving the death of his mother, relationship problems, economic hardship and in the face of all these a struggle to retain the deep Catholic faith of his childhood.

It does seem to be a feature of the devout, that having paid what they feel to be their spiritual dues they react to calamity with a sense of personal outrage rather than a weary acceptance of the fact that bad things happen to good people and that’s just the way the world is. Nevertheless, the poem has struck a chord with many readers for the way it expresses the existential bafflement of man trying to make sense of a senseless universe, and for the way in which Vallejo redeems the passivity of his suffering with the defiance of his art. Yep, when the going gets tough, the tough write a poem…

The translation that follows is my own. The word ‘potro’ in line 7 is a bit of a crux here. It can mean ‘colt’ or ‘foal’ but can also mean ‘rack’ (as used for torture). While the rack is an ancient device, having been used by the Greeks, an association with Attila seems unlikely, but a punishment in Attila’s times was certainly to be trampled to death by horses: see for example the Old Norse poem ‘Hamðismál’, in which two brothers Hamðir and Sörli avenge the death of their sister Svanhild who has been executed in this way by Ermanaric, an emperor of the Goths. Thus I have gone with the equine interpretation as seeming to me the more probable, but I would be interested to know how a native Spanish speaker takes this line.

Los heraldos negros

Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes… ¡Yo no sé!
Golpes como del odio de Dios; como si ante ellos,
la resaca de todo lo sufrido
se empozara en el alma… ¡Yo no sé!

Son pocos; pero son… Abren zanjas oscuras
en el rostro más fiero y en el lomo más fuerte.
Serán tal vez los potros de bárbaros Atilas;
o los heraldos negros que nos manda la Muerte.

Son las caídas hondas de los Cristos del alma
de alguna fe adorable que el Destino blasfema.
Esos golpes sangrientos son las crepitaciones
de algún pan que en la puerta del horno se nos quema.

Y el hombre… Pobre… ¡pobre! Vuelve los ojos, como
cuando por sobre el hombro nos llama una palmada;
vuelve los ojos locos, y todo lo vivido
se empoza, como charco de culpa, en la mirada.

Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes… ¡Yo no sé!

César Vallejo

The black heralds

There are blows in life, so heavy… I don’t know!
Blows as from God’s hate, as if beneath them
The undertow of all you ever suffered
Wells up again within you… I don’t know!

They are few, but they are… They scar with their dark trenches
The fiercest faces and the strongest backs.
They are perhaps the steeds of barbarous Attilas
Or the black heralds sent by Death.

They are deep falls that sunder Christ from souls
Whose dear faith is blasphemed by Destiny.
Those bloody blows are like the crackling of bread
Left to burn before the oven door.

And man… Poor man! He turns to look, as when
A touch upon the shoulder summons us;
He looks wild-eyed, and all that he has lived
Pools before his gaze to a puddle of guilt.

There are blows in life, so heavy… I don’t know!