From Oceanrain's Homepage:
To Honor the Great Puerto Rican Writer:
Julia de Burgos
This simple page was made to honor a great poet, a Puerto
Rican woman I feel proud of. I own Julia de Burgos
part of my inspiration on becoming a writer,
and I felt, I had to share with the world
Julia's literary soul. Julia was born in Carolina,
Puerto Rico in 1914 and died in New York
in 1958, at the early age of 39.
She was a teacher, a writer, a poet at heart,
and a feminist at a time when women
supposed to remain quiet at their homes...
I bought a book with 10 translations of Julia's poems,
by Rafael Ramos Albelo.
The book is called: "A Rose...Made of Water" published
in San Juan, Puerto Rico, 1994.
I choose two of those poems for you to enjoy.
I sincerily hope you will be able to capture
the passion of Julia's words within your inner soul...
*****~*****
To Julia de Burgos
by Julia de Burgos
People now murmor that I am your enemy
for they claim that in verses
I reveal your essence to the
world.
They lie, Julia de Burgos. They lie Julia de Burgos.
The voice uplifted in my verses is not your own: it is mine,
for you are garment and I essence;
and the greatest abyss lies between the two.
You are the cold- blooded puppet of social deceit,
and I, the driving splendour of human truth.
You, of courtesan hypocrisies...the honey; not I;
whose heart is revealed in my poems...all.
You are like your world, selfish; not I;
who dares all to be what I truly am.
You are merely the implacable, elegant lady;
not I; I am life, I am strength, I am woman.
You belong to your husband, to your master; not I;
I belong to no one, or to everyone, because to all,
everyone,
in wholesome feeling and thought, I give myself.
You curl your locks and paint yourself, not I;
I am curled by thewind; brightened by the sun.
You are homebound, resigned, submissive,
confined to the whims of men; not I;
I am Rocinante* galloping recklessly
wandering through the boundaries of God's justice.
You are not in command of self; everyone rules you:
you are ruled by your husband, your parents, relatives,
the priest, the seamstress, theatre, club,
the car, jewels, the banquet, champagne,
heaven and hell and... social hearsay.
But not me, I am ruled by my heart alone,
my sole thought; it is "I" who rules myself.
You, aristocratic blossom; and I, the people's blossom.
You are well provided for, but are indebted to everyone,
while I, my nothingness to no one owe.
You, nailed to the stagnant ancestral dividend;
and I, but one in the cipher of social divisor.
We are the encroaching, inevitable duel tothe death.
When the multitude uncontrolled runs,
the ashes of injustices, burnt, left behind,
and when with the torch of the seven virtues,
the throng to the seven sins gives chase,
I wilbe against you and against all
that is unjust and inhuman.
Upholding the torch... I shall be among the throng.
*****~*****
I was the most quiet
I was the most quiet,
among those who voyaged to your harbor
No obscene social events announced me,
nor the hushed bells of ancestral reflexes;
my route was the wild music of birds
which flung into the air my kindness...fluttering.
Neither did vessels laden with opulence bear me,
nor oriental rugs support my body;
over the vessels my face appeared
whistling in the wind's aimless simplicity.
I did not measure the harmony of trivial ambitions
offered by your full-of-promises hand.
I perceived, only, in the depths of my frail spirit,
the tragic abandon hidden in your gesture.
Your constant duality was marked by my avid thirst.
You were like the sea, resonant and discreet.
Over you I spent my wasted hours.
You hovered above, as the sun on petals.
And I strolled in the breeze of your fallen anguish
in the naive sadness of knowing the truth:
your life was a deep struggle of restless springs
an awesome white river rushing to the desert.
One day, by the yellow banks of hysteria,
many ambitious, hidden faces trailed you;
through your surge of tears ripped from the cosmos
other voices encroached without discovering your
mystery...
I was the most quiet.
My voice, hardly an echo.
Conscience difused in a sound of anguish,
dissipated and sweet, throughout all silences.
I was the most quiet.
One who sprang from the earth with no other weapon
but a verse.
I stand before you... stars,
disarmed and gentle... his love in my breast!
************************************
Farewell in Welfare Island
It has to be from here,
right this instance,
my cry into the world.
Life was somewhere forgotten
and sought refuge in depths of tears
and sorrows
over this vast empire of solitude
and darkness.
Where is the voice of freedom,
freedom to laugh,
to move
without the heavy phantom of despair?
Where is the form of beauty
unshaken in its veil simple and pure?
Where is the warmth of heaven
pouring its dreams of love in broken spirits?
It has to be from here,
right this instance,
my cry into the world.
My cry that is no more mine,
but hers and his forever,
the comrades of my silence,
the phantoms of my grave.
It has to be from here,
forgotten but unshaken,
among comrades of silence
deep into Welfare Island
my farewell to the world.
Goldwater Memorial Hospital.
Welfare Island - N. Y. C.
February 1953
(From Julia de Burgos: Yo Misma Fui mi Ruta edición de María M. Sola; P.158 )
Links* Links* Links
Sala de Honor Julia de Burgos ~Hispanic Poetry in Spanish~