Border of a Dream: Selected Poems of Antonio Machado by Antonio Machado

By Antonio Machado

Antonio Machado (1875–1939) is Spain’s grasp poet, the explorer of dream and panorama, and of attention under language. largely considered as the best 20th century poet who wrote in Spanish, Machado—like his modern Rilke—is intensely introspective and meditative. during this assortment, the extraordinary translator Willis Barnstone, returns to the poet with whom he first began his distinctive profession, supplying a brand new bilingual version which supplies a sweeping evaluate of Machado’s paintings. furthermore, Border of a Dream contains a memory by means of Nobel Laureate Juan Ramón Jiménez and a foreword via John Dos Passos.

from "Proverbs and Songs"

Absolute religion. We neither are nor will be.
Our entire lifestyles is borrowed
We introduced not anything. With not anything we leave.
*
You say not anything is created?
Don’t fear. With clay
of the earth make a cup
so your brother can drink.

Born close to Seville, Spain, Antonio Machado grew to become to a occupation in writing and translating as a way to support aid his relations after the dying of his father in 1893. His turning out to be attractiveness as a poet ended in educating posts in a variety of towns in Spain and, finally, he back to complete his measure from the college of Madrid in 1918. He remained in Madrid after the outbreak of civil battle, devoted to the Republican reason, however the violence eventually pressured him to escape. He died an exile in France.

Willis Barnstone is certainly one of America’s best translator-poets, bringing into English a unprecedented diversity of labor, from Mao Tse-tung to the hot testomony.

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Extra info for Border of a Dream: Selected Poems of Antonio Machado

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In a flash the baby's old; Mel Gibson's hundredth comeback seems less clever; all his chases and embraces narrow down, while we fly on (in our plain radiance of vehicle) toward what cannot stay small forever. Page 38 Auto At first, the mobiles were for multitudes— the horse was doubled, then redoubled; way and station made for social arts, within which conversations, trains of thought, held sway. Today I drive morosely and alone, like half a billion others, each in a glassed-in, speakered-up contraption, each with a brain she thinks she can control (it goes off on its own, on detours now and then; it dreams of cable- cars and smoking-cars and Volkses that can spill unthinkable powers of ten in clownface) unlike this poor hollowed-out sedation of sedan I pull off the throughway, up to the pump marked SELF, and fill.

What comes over me to see such butterflies, where no bulldozing yet has drowned their soundings out comes over me as something monstrous: it's a tenderness, the kind I felt abroad in nations, seeing all the human variations on a theme of vulnerability… * Can't you tell us something else? asked Crito. But the cold had risen to the face and frozen every answering away. Page 50 When Crito saw it, then he closed his mouth and eyes. And so ''We owe a god an animal" became the final words of Socrates.

Page 54 6 Queen of tricolore, I was born for ribbons, born to make navies, not waves (god too has a special interest in the English nation). The wrench and cross will be my ornaments, our name be done. Let all now close our eyes. 7 An invention raises the food of my feeling from its mine by powers of depersonalist contraption. Rest at stomach, rest at heart! But ah, what wooden wings groan it from sternum to esophagus: the work of being is all chug and track, deaf bluff. After, I'll blunder on toward livings.

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