Self Portrait

My childhood is memories of a patio in Sevilla,
a sun-filled orchard, lemons ripening on a tree;
my youth – twenty years in the dry lands of Castilla.
I’ll draw a veil over some of that history.
 
I was never a Don Juan nor much of a flirt
my appearance is against me – too uncouth –
yet my heart was duly pierced by Cupid’s dart,
and I’ve always loved women who returned my love.
 
There’s Jacobin blood flowing in my veins
but my poetry arises from a quieter flood;
and, unlike a person with their ready-made doctrines
in some true sense of the word, I am good.
 
Loving beauty, I’ve fashioned my own aesthetic
cutting old roses from the garden of Ronsard;
but I have no time for modern stylistic tricks,
don’t count me among fashionable troubadours.
 
I can’t stand the empty warbling of romantic tenors,
the grasshopper chorus serenading the moon.
I listen for a distinctive voice among the echoes
and from all the voices, I single out one.
 
Am I classic or romantic? I hardly know. My wish
is to leave you my verse like a fighting captain’s sword:
renowned for the brave hand that wielded it
and not for some ancient sword-smith’s craft.
 
I keep talking to the person who is always at my side
– those like me who talk to themselves hope to speak to God one day –
my soliloquy is a conversation with that true friend
who taught me the secret of philanthropy.
 
You see, I’m not in your debt, you’re in mine
for all that I’ve written. I go about my work, and pay
for the clothes I wear, for the roof over my head,
the bread that keeps me alive, and the bed in which I lie.
 
And on that last day when finally I embark
on that ship that will never turn back,
you’ll find me shirtless, travelling light
stripped to the waist like an old sea dog.
 

Patrick Early

in collection A Voice in Time: Selected Poems of Antonio Machado, 2014,
(trans. Patrick Early, ed. Daniela Obert, illustr. James Atkins),
Ourglass Publishing, ISBN 978-0-9930210-0-8

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The Lemon Tree

The lemon tree casually trails
a pale dusty branch
over the clear water of the fountain
and there in the depths,
the golden fruit lie dreaming.
A gentle evening,
on the eve of spring,
a mild March afternoon
borne on the breath
of approaching April;
I’m alone in the silent patio
pursuing an old familiar illusion:
a certain shadow against the white wall;
a certain memory hanging
over the low stone rim
of the sleeping fountain;
a fleeting glimpse of a light dress
in the air. The scent of absence
pervades the afternoon
which speaks to my luminous soul,
saying: never, and to my heart: wait.
A perfume which evokes ghosts
of past, naïve fragrances.
Yes, I remember you, clear joyful
afternoon on the eve of spring, –
no flowers were in bloom but you brought me
the good smell of mint, and the fresh basil
my mother grew in her flower pots.
And you saw me dip my pure hands
into the calm water,
reaching for those enchanted fruit
that lie dreaming in the fountain’s depths.
Yes, I know you well,
clear joyful afternoon,
on the eve of spring.
The lemon tree casually hangs
a pale dusty branch over the water.
How well I know you, clear joyful afternoon,
on the eve of spring.
 

Patrick Early

in collection A Voice in Time: Selected Poems of Antonio Machado, 2014,
(trans. Patrick Early, ed. Daniela Obert, illustr. James Atkins),
Ourglass Publishing, ISBN 978-0-9930210-0-8

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The Old Elm

The old elm, though struck by lightning, and half rotted through,
after April showers and May sunshine,
has put out a few green leaves.
That hundred year old elm on the hill
washed by the river Duero! Yellowish moss
has stained the white bark
that covers its decaying and dusty trunk.
it won’t invite brown nightingales,
to nest unlike the whispering poplars
which stand guard over road and river bank,
An army of ants in single file
are climbing up its trunk, and inside,
spiders are weaving their grey webs.
Before the woodcutter comes with his axe
to cut you down, old elm of Duero,
before the carpenter arrives to turn you
into the frame for a church bell,
a carriage shaft, or a yoke for an ox-cart,
before you find yourself glowing red
in the hearth of some wretched hovel
beside a country road; before a gale
dismembers you and you are gripped
by the icy breath of the white sierras;
before the river drags you down
to the sea, I want to note the grace
of your green branches in my notebook.
My heart, like you, is turning
towards the light, towards life,
hoping for another spring miracle.
 

Patrick Early

in collection A Voice in Time: Selected Poems of Antonio Machado, 2014,
(trans. Patrick Early, ed. Daniela Obert, illustr. James Atkins),
Ourglass Publishing, ISBN 978-0-9930210-0-8

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from Proverbios y Cantares

Traveller, your footsteps
are the highway, nothing more.
Traveller, there is no highway,
you make it as you go along.
Walking, you make your own road
and if you turn and look behind
you’ll see a path you’ll never
have to tread again.
Traveller, there is no highway,
just your wake on the surface of the sea.
 

Patrick Early

in collection A Voice in Time: Selected Poems of Antonio Machado, 2014,
(trans. Patrick Early, ed. Daniela Obert, illustr. James Atkins),
Ourglass Publishing, ISBN 978-0-9930210-0-8

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