while boughs of cedar stirred the air
I opened the pages of St. John of the Cross' poetry last night, and chose one --
On a dark night
On a dark night,
afflicted and aflame with love,
O joyful chance!,
I went out unnoticed,
my house lying silent at last.
In darkness and secure,
down the secret ladder, disguided,
O joyful chance!,
in darkness, and shielded,
my house lying silent at last,
one joyful night,
in secret: no one was watching
and I saw no other thing,
my only light and guide
the light that burned in my heart.
That same light led me
more surely than the noonday sun
to where one was waiting,
the one I knew would come,
where surely no one would find us.
O you my guide, the night,
O night more welcome than dawn,
night that drew together
the loved one and the Lover,
each transformed into the other!
Oh my blossoming breast,
kept untouched for him alone,
there he fell asleep,
and I caressed him
while boughs of cedar stirred the air,
On the ramparts
while I sat ruffling his hair,
the air struck my neck
with its gentle hand,
leaving my senses suspended.
I stayed; I surrendered,
resting my face on my Beloved.
Nothing mattered.
I left my cares
forgotten among the lilies.
_ _ _
The jacket of this translation says, "For four centuries St. John of the Cross has been celebrated for the astonishing beauty of his poems, which he wrote while he was imprisoned for his dedication to the teachings of Teresa of Avila. His verse, which compares in power and feeling to the Psalms of David and the works of the Sufi poet Rumi, resonates with inspiration and rich imagery, and evokes a vision of a world filled with beauty, radiant with the love of God and ecstatic in its purity."
I am entirely inclined to agree, and would add a comparison of his work to The Song of Songs. Spiritual poetry so often lacks lustre and gleam and earthiness -- St. John's is quite the opposite. I have been slow to love Spain or the Spanish culture, but I'm beginning to delve into the richness
of its tradition and its literature -- a very small scratch on the surface -- and what I've seen is deeply, hauntingly beautiful. Far from idyllic, often scarred by suffering and evocative of how extensive are human imperfections, how capable we are of horrors, but always there's resurrection. Beauty from the ashes, the soul's triumph, and the glory of that humanity which survives suffering and is refined by it. The reminder that we are not alone.
_ _ _
En una noche oscura
En una noche oscura,
con ansias en amores inflamada,
¡oh dichosa ventura!,
salí sin ser notada,
estando ya mi casa sosegada.
A oscuras y segura,
por la secreta escala disfrazada,
¡oh dichosa ventura!,
a oscuras y en celada,
estando ya mi casa sosegada.
En la noche dichosa,
en secreto, que nadie me veía,
ni yo miraba cosa,
sin otra luz ni guía
sino la que en el corazón ardía.
Aquésta me guïaba
más cierta que la luz del mediodía,
adonde me esperaba
quien yo bien me sabía,
en parte donde nadie parecía.
¡Oh noche que me guiaste!,
¡oh noche amable más que el alborada!,
¡oh noche que juntaste
amado con amada,
amada en el amado transformada!
En mi pecho florido,
que entero para él solo se guardaba,
allí quedó dormido,
y yo le regalaba,
y el ventalle de cedros aire daba.
El aire de la almena,
cuando yo sus cabellos esparcía,
con su mano serena
en mi cuello hería,
y todos mis sentidos suspendía.
Quedéme y olvidéme,
el rostro recliné sobre el amado,
cesó todo, y dejéme,
dejando mi cuidado
entre las azucenas olvidado.
On a dark night
On a dark night,
afflicted and aflame with love,
O joyful chance!,
I went out unnoticed,
my house lying silent at last.
In darkness and secure,
down the secret ladder, disguided,
O joyful chance!,
in darkness, and shielded,
my house lying silent at last,
one joyful night,
in secret: no one was watching
and I saw no other thing,
my only light and guide
the light that burned in my heart.
That same light led me
more surely than the noonday sun
to where one was waiting,
the one I knew would come,
where surely no one would find us.
O you my guide, the night,
O night more welcome than dawn,
night that drew together
the loved one and the Lover,
each transformed into the other!
Oh my blossoming breast,
kept untouched for him alone,
there he fell asleep,
and I caressed him
while boughs of cedar stirred the air,
On the ramparts
while I sat ruffling his hair,
the air struck my neck
with its gentle hand,
leaving my senses suspended.
I stayed; I surrendered,
resting my face on my Beloved.
Nothing mattered.
I left my cares
forgotten among the lilies.
_ _ _
The jacket of this translation says, "For four centuries St. John of the Cross has been celebrated for the astonishing beauty of his poems, which he wrote while he was imprisoned for his dedication to the teachings of Teresa of Avila. His verse, which compares in power and feeling to the Psalms of David and the works of the Sufi poet Rumi, resonates with inspiration and rich imagery, and evokes a vision of a world filled with beauty, radiant with the love of God and ecstatic in its purity."
I am entirely inclined to agree, and would add a comparison of his work to The Song of Songs. Spiritual poetry so often lacks lustre and gleam and earthiness -- St. John's is quite the opposite. I have been slow to love Spain or the Spanish culture, but I'm beginning to delve into the richness
of its tradition and its literature -- a very small scratch on the surface -- and what I've seen is deeply, hauntingly beautiful. Far from idyllic, often scarred by suffering and evocative of how extensive are human imperfections, how capable we are of horrors, but always there's resurrection. Beauty from the ashes, the soul's triumph, and the glory of that humanity which survives suffering and is refined by it. The reminder that we are not alone.
_ _ _
En una noche oscura
En una noche oscura,
con ansias en amores inflamada,
¡oh dichosa ventura!,
salí sin ser notada,
estando ya mi casa sosegada.
A oscuras y segura,
por la secreta escala disfrazada,
¡oh dichosa ventura!,
a oscuras y en celada,
estando ya mi casa sosegada.
En la noche dichosa,
en secreto, que nadie me veía,
ni yo miraba cosa,
sin otra luz ni guía
sino la que en el corazón ardía.
Aquésta me guïaba
más cierta que la luz del mediodía,
adonde me esperaba
quien yo bien me sabía,
en parte donde nadie parecía.
¡Oh noche que me guiaste!,
¡oh noche amable más que el alborada!,
¡oh noche que juntaste
amado con amada,
amada en el amado transformada!
En mi pecho florido,
que entero para él solo se guardaba,
allí quedó dormido,
y yo le regalaba,
y el ventalle de cedros aire daba.
El aire de la almena,
cuando yo sus cabellos esparcía,
con su mano serena
en mi cuello hería,
y todos mis sentidos suspendía.
Quedéme y olvidéme,
el rostro recliné sobre el amado,
cesó todo, y dejéme,
dejando mi cuidado
entre las azucenas olvidado.