Posts Tagged ‘Serrat’

Res no és mesquí


Un bello poema del poeta catalán Joan Salvat Papasseit, de su libro El poema de la rosa al llavis (1923); poema este dedicado precisamente al ilustrador del libro, Josep Obiols

Res no és mesquí

A Josep Obiols

Res no és mesquíjoan-salvat-papasseit
ni cap hora és isarda,
ni és fosca la ventura de la nit.
I la rosada és clara
que el sol surt i s’ullprèn
i té delit del bany:
que s’emmiralla el llit de tota cosa feta.

Res no és mesquí,
i tot ric com el vi i la galta colrada.
I l’onada del mar sempre riu,
Primavera d’hivern – Primavera d’istiu.
I tot és Primavera:
i tota fulla verda eternament.

Res no és mesquí,
perquè els dies no passen;
i no arriba la mort ni si l’heu demanada.
I si l’heu demanada us dissimula un clot
perquè per tornar a néixer necessiteu morir.
I no som mai un plor
sinó un somriure fi
que es dispersa com grills de taronja.

Res no és mesquí,
perquè la cançó canta en cada bri de cosa.
– Avui, demà i ahir
s’esfullarà una rosa:
i a la verge més jove li vindrà llet al pit.

Nada es mezquino

Nada es mezquino,/ y ninguna hora escabrosa,/ ni es oscura la ventura de la noche./ Y el rocío es claro/ el sol sale y se fascina/ y tiene deseo del baño/ que se maravilla el lecho de toda cosa hecha.// Nada es mezquino,/ y todo rico como el vino y la mejilla curtida./ Y la ola del mar siempre ríe,/ Primavera de invierno – Primavera de estío./ Y todo es Primavera:/ y toda hoja, verde eternamente.// Nada es mezquino,/ porque los días no pasan;/ y no llega la muerte ni habiéndola pedido./ Y si la habéis pedido os disimula un hoyo/ porque para volver a nacer necesitáis morir./ Y no somos jamás un llanto/ sino una fina sonrisa/ que se dispersa como gajos de naranja.// Nada es mezquino,/ porque la canción canta en cada brizna de cosa./ -Hoy, mañana y ayer/ se deshojará una rosa:/ y a la más joven virgen le vendrá la leche al pecho.

Joan Salvat Papasseit

Original y traducción:

http://poemacadadia.blogspot.com.es/2008/05/res-no-s-mesqu.html

El poema ha sido musicalizado por varios cantautores de habla catalana. Una de las versiones más conocidas es la de Joan Manuel Serrat, dando título a su disco monográfico sobre este poeta, de 1977:

El gran Xavier Ribalta:

Y el inolvidable Ovidi, haciendo un recitado musicalizado:

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Antonio Machado’s “Retrato”


machadobaston“Retrato” is one of the first and more significative poems by Antonio Machado. More than a autobiographical poem, it’s a statement of aesthetics and philosophical principles. Oftentimes, many people have wanted to see a certain prophetical sense in his last strophe, because, at the defeating of the Spanish Republic in the Spanish Civil War, he crossed the border with France «lightweight luggage (…),/ almost naked, like the children of the sea.» Machado’s thoughts might change a little as time goes by, but he was loyal to the most of these lines. It was published in 1906 in the newspaper El Liberal, and later compiled in his book Campos de Castilla (Fields of Castile, 1912). The poem was musicalized and sung by Argentinean songwriter (who was living in Spain) Alberto Cortez, in his 1968 album Poemas y canciones. Volumen II

Again, a cover of this song was performed by Joan Manuel Serrat in his 1969 album Dedicado a Antonio Machado, poeta:

Retrato

Mi infancia son recuerdos de un patio de Sevilla,
y un huerto claro donde madura el limonero;
mi juventud, veinte años en tierras de Castilla;
mi historia, algunos casos que recordar no quiero.

Ni un seductor Mañara, ni un Bradomín he sido
—ya conocéis mi torpe aliño indumentario—,
más recibí la flecha que me asignó Cupido,
y amé cuanto ellas puedan tener de hospitalario.

Hay en mis venas gotas de sangre jacobina,
pero mi verso brota de manantial sereno;
y, más que un hombre al uso que sabe su doctrina,
soy, en el buen sentido de la palabra, bueno.

Adoro la hermosura, y en la moderna estética
corté las viejas rosas del huerto de Ronsard;
mas no amo los afeites de la actual cosmética,
ni soy un ave de esas del nuevo gay-trinar.

Desdeño las romanzas de los tenores huecos
y el coro de los grillos que cantan a la luna.
A distinguir me paro las voces de los ecos,
y escucho solamente, entre las voces, una.

¿Soy clásico o romántico? No sé. Dejar quisiera
mi verso, como deja el capitán su espada:
famosa por la mano viril que la blandiera,
no por el docto oficio del forjador preciada.

Converso con el hombre que siempre va conmigo
—quien habla solo espera hablar a Dios un día—;
mi soliloquio es plática con ese buen amigo
que me enseñó el secreto de la filantropía.

Y al cabo, nada os debo; debéisme* cuanto he escrito.
A mi trabajo acudo, con mi dinero pago
el traje que me cubre y la mansión que habito,
el pan que me alimenta y el lecho en donde yago.

Y cuando llegue el día del último vïaje**,
y esté al partir la nave que nunca ha de tornar,
me encontraréis a bordo ligero de equipaje,
casi desnudo, como los hijos de la mar.

Portraiture

My childhood are memories of a patio in Seville,/ and a clear orchard where the lemon tree matures;/ my youth, twenty years in lands of Castile;/ my story, some cases that I don’t want to remember.// Neither a seductive Mañara (1), nor a Brandomín (2) I was/ –you already know my clumsy dressing attire-,/ but I received the arrow that Cupid assigned to me,/ and I loved as much as they might have of hospitable.// There are in my veins Jacobean (3) blood drops,/ but my verse sprouts from a serene wellspring; and, instead of an usual man who knows his doctrine,/ I am, in the best sense of the word, good.// I worship loveliness, and in the modern aesthetics/ I cut the old roses of Ronsard’s orchard,/ but I don’t love the makeups of the present cosmetics,/ neither I am a bird of those of the new gay-chirping (4).// I disdain the romanzas of the hollow tenors/ and the choir of crickets tthat sing to the moon./ I take a halt to distinguish voices from echoes,/ and I’m only listening, among the voices, one.// Am I classic or romantic? Don’t know. I wish to leave/ my verse, as the captain leaves his sword:/ famous by the manly hand that brandished,/ not valued by the learned office of its balcksmith.// I converse with the man who always comes along with me/ –who talks alone hopes to talk with God any day-;/ my soliloquy is chating with this good friend/ that taught me the secret of philantropy.// And after all, I owe you nothing; you owe me all that I wrote./ I come up to my work, with my money I pay/ the suit that coats me and the mansion I dwell,/ the bread that feeds me and the bed where I lie.// And when might come the last trip day,/ and the ship that never shall return were ready to depart,/ aboard lightweight luggage you will find me,/ almost naked, like the children of the sea. 

Antonio Machado, 1906

NOTES:

This translation musts to be taken as an aproximation. Although its simple appearance, Machado’s poems (as any other one) are hard to translate: for that reason, I have choose a simple way instead of a literary one.

* Archaism.

** This is not an ortographical sign, but literary. This diaresis is used in classical Spanish poetry to keep the rythm of the verses, so the hiatus becomes in two syllables.

(1) Miguel Mañara Vicentelo de Leca (Seville, 1627-1679) was a charitable Spanish aristocrat. Due to a kind of testimony by his own with a smear campaign, he got fame o seductive, almost like Don Juan. Antonio and his brother Manuel shall write a play named Miguel Maraña, released in 1927, inspired in the fame of this real character.

(2) Marquis of Bradomín is the main character of Ramóm María del Valle-Inclán tetralogy Sonatas (1902, 1903, 1904 and 1905), that tales the story of this aristocrat who is described as “ugly, catholic and sentimental”. The Marquis of Bradomín, beside incarnate the reactionarism (he is a Carlist), is also a conqueror.

(3) Machado believed he had French ascendancy; beside this, he always was a convinced republican.

(4) Don Antonio never was too friendly to new literary vanguards, neither with a hollow and vain classical poetry. He always thought poetry should be as people as possible.

“Cantares”, poems by Antonio Machado, arranged by J. M. Serrat


I’m with the Spain of poets and workers.

Joan Manuel Serrat, Live in Los Angeles (USA), 1976

antonio machado discOne of the most famous songs of the great songwriter Joan Manuel Serrat, made upon a selection of poems of Antonio Machado. Serrat begun singing his own songs in Catalan, within the songwriters collective Setze Jutges (Sixteen Judges), but, circa 1968 he decided to sing in Spanish too, something that was interpreted by many as a treason and an attempt to earn more money (however, his mother was Aragonese). In the year of 1968, he recorded some EPs in Spanish that were compiled in the 69 Lp, La paloma (“The dove”, being the title of the song writen by Rafael Alberti, with music of Carlos Guastavino, that opened his album); at the same time, upon him was a veto due to the Eurovision affair. But, in spite of this, his monographic LP of that year, was a real succes. Dedicado a Antonio Machado, poeta (Dedicated to Antonio Machado, poet) was an album made of musicalizations of Antonio Machado’s poem, some by him, and other by the Argentinean songwriter, Alberto Cortez (the first in singing Machado’s poem), except the ending song, “En Colliure”, by Serrat, and the opening song, “Cantares”, in which Serrat mixes some of the poems named “Proverbios y cantares” (Proverbs and songs) with lyrics by his own. The song, besides being a homage, try to perform the feeling of Antonio Machado when, in 1939, with the defeating of the Spanish Republic, he went exiled to France (with his mother Ana Ruiz, his brother José, and writer Corpus Barga), when he died some days later.

Note: As usual, I must to advice that the translation of Antonio Machado’s verse musn’t be taken very seriously, but as an aproximation. We write in italic the original Machado’s verses, and, in normal, Serrat’s phrases; the values are subverted in the translation.

Cantares

Todo pasa y todo queda,
pero lo nuestro es pasar,
pasar haciendo caminos,
caminos sobre el mar.

Nunca perseguí la gloria,
ni dejar en la memoria
de los hombres mi canción;
yo amo los mundos sutiles,
ingrávidos y gentiles,
como pompas de jabón.

Me gusta verlos pintarse
de sol y grana, volar
bajo el cielo azul, temblar
súbitamente y quebrarse…
Nunca perseguí la gloria.

Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino y nada más;
caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.

Al andar se hace camino
y al volver la vista atrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.

Caminante no hay camino
sino estelas en la mar…

Hace algún tiempo en ese lugar
donde hoy los bosques se visten de espinos
se oyó la voz de un poeta gritar:
"Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar…"

Golpe a golpe, verso a verso…

Murió el poeta lejos del hogar.
Le cubre el polvo de un país vecino.
Al alejarse, le vieron llorar.
"Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar…"

Golpe a golpe, verso a verso…

Cuando el jilguero no puede cantar.
Cuando el poeta es un peregrino,
cuando de nada nos sirve rezar.
"Caminante no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar…"

Golpe a golpe, verso a verso.

Songs

Everything passes and everything remains,/ but ours is to pass,/ to pass making roads,/ roads over the sea. (1)// I never chased glory,/ nor to left on the memory/ of men my song;/ I love the subtle worlds,/ weightless and genteel,/ just like bubble blowers.// I like to see them painting themselves/ in sun and deep red, to fly/ under the blue sky, to tremble/ suddenly and break… (2)/ I never chased glory.// Walker, your footsteps are/ the road and nothing more;/ walker, there’s no road,/ it’s making road as it’s walked.// Walking the road it’s making/ and as it looked back/ it’s seeing the track that never/ shall be stepped again.// Walker there’s no road,/ but trails on the sea… (3)// Some time ago in that place/ where the woods are dressed with hawthorns today,/ was heard a poet’s voice to cry:/ “Walker there’s no road,/ it’s making road as it’s walked…”// Coup by coup, verse by verse…// The poet died far away from his home./ It’s covered with the dust of a negihbor country./ As he was moving away, they see him weeping./ “Walker there’s no road,/ it’s making road as it’s walked…”// Coup by coup, verse by verse…// When the goldfinch cannot sing./ When the poet is a pilgrim,/ when praying has not use at all./ “Walker there’s no road,/ it’s making road as it’s walked…”// Coup by coup, verse by verse.

Antonio Machado/ J. M. Serrat

Music: J. M. Serrat

List of the verses of Antonio Machado (supplied by Wikipedia: http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cantares_%28canci%C3%B3n_de_Joan_Manuel_Serrat%29):

(1) “Proverbios y cantares XLIV”

(2) “Proverbios y cantares I”

(3) “Proverbios y cantares XXIX”

Miquel Porter’s “Lletania”, a lost song sung by J. M. Serrat


The Els Setze Jutges' 1st poster: Remei Marguerit, Miquel Porter, Delfí Abella, Josep Maria Espinàs & Pi de la SerraProbably it was at the beginnings of 60s when three members of the Setze Jutges (Cat. “Sixteen Judges”), Miquel Porter (singer and songwriter), Lluís Serrahima and Jaume Armengol (musician) wrote this curious and risky song: it’s a song that tells the recent Spanish history as it was a travel in train. However, the lyric was too clear, and therefore, too risky to even try record it (censorship never would allow it)… And the song stayed forgoten til 1996, when Joan Manuel Serrat recorded the soundtrack of D’un temps, d’un país (“Of a time, of a country”, title of a Raimon’s song, included on the LP): a record where the great Catalan songwriter makes covers of some of the most emblematic songs of the Nova Cançó Catalana (Cat. Catalan New Song): from the sobriety of Setze Jutges to the experiments of the movement Música Laietana, passing through the folksingers and folk groups. This is a lesson of History:

Lletania

Tot canvia, res canvia,
mira el tren, mira la via.
Si t’ho penses i bé observes,
ja sabràs filosofia.

Mil discursos, pocs recursos,
és el pa de cada dia.
Sols Espanya, qui ho diria,
vol ser sola i no canvia.

Monarquia, oligarquia,
dictadura, cara dura.
Barret frigi sens prestigi
i després vingué el prodigi.

Una guerra que ho esguerra
i un cabdill que adoptà un fill:
un jove de molta empenta
a qui li faltava un grill.

Hi ha feixistes i papistes,
i un grapat de llargues llistes,
rabassaires, mercenaris
i gents que resa rosaris.

Hi ha carlistes i marxistes,
i també alguns optimistes,
policies i espies,
i gent que no té manies.

I "la no intervención"
i "los del Real Perdón".

I segueix la llarga cursa,
que s’allarga i que s’escurça,
de corsaris i falsaris,
i visites a altres barris.

Els que passen la frontera
fent el salt de la pantera,
ben folrada la cartera,
foten "tiros" pel darrera.

Les rates de sagristia,
considerada gent pia,
i, ¡ai vés qui ho diria!,
fins i tots la meva tia.

I segueix la lletania
de l’amor, la mort i els dies.

Litany

D'un tempsEverything changes, nothing changes,/ look at the train, look at the railway./ If you think about it and you watch well,/ you shall know philosophy.// A thousand of speeches, little resources,/ that’s our daily bread./ Only Spain, who would have thought,/ wants to be alone and is not changing (1).// Monarchy, oligarchy,/ dictatorship, cheeky,/ Phrygian cap (2) without prestige/ and later came the prodigy (3).// A war that spoil it,/ a chieftain (4) that adopted a child:/ a young man with a lot of spirit/ who had a crew loose.// There are Fascists and Papists,/ and a bunch of large lists,/ landlords (5), mercenaries/ and folks who say the rosary.// There are Carlists and Marxists,/ and also some optimistists,/ policemen and spies,/ and people that has no shame.// And the “Non Intervention”/ and those of the “Royal Pardon”.// And continues the large curve,/ lenghtening and shortening,/ of corsairs and forgers,/ and visits to other neighbourhoods.// Those that cross the border/ do the panther’s jump,/ the wallet well covered,/ *fuck the shooting behind*.// The sacristy rats,/ considered as pious folks,/ and, you see who would have thought!,/ even my aunt.// And continues the litany/ of the love, the death and the days.

Miquel Porter – Lluís Serrahima – Jaume Armengol

(1) After the defeated of the Axis countries in the II World War, Franco’s was the only standing “allie” of Germany (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spain_in_World_War_II). During a time, Franco wished to be in peace with the winners, but in front of the threats of some democratic and socialist countries, and, in the other side, the demanding of a change into a more democratic regime, the dictator summoned to great shows of patriotism against foreigner intereferences, although at the same time, he made a little changes… Later, with the US president Eisenhower’s visit to Spain, the Francoist regime was, finally, recognized by the Nations Society.

(2) As in other countries, the Phrygian cap was the symbol of Republican and, also, Catalanists.

(3) These lines describes the last days of Alphons XIII’s reign, that, due to the national troubles, took place to the General Miguel Primo de Rivera’s dictatorship (1923-1930), and finally the advent of the II Spanish Republic.

(4) It’s not casual that the word used is cabdill, “caudillo” in Spanish: that was Franco’s sobriquet, equivalent to German Führer and Italian Duce.

(5) The Catalan landlords, cat. rabassaires, were opnely conservatives.

And here’s Joan Manuel, alive with buddy Francesc “Quico” Pi de la Serra, in the 2009 concert Luchando contra la desmemoria (Fighting against forgetfulness):

Translation to Spanish:

https://albokari2.wordpress.com/2007/02/20/lletania/

León Felipe’s “Vencidos”


http://laescribania.wordpress.com/2010/11/13/leon-felipe-un-exiliado/León Felipe, born as Felipe Camino Galicia de la Rosa (1884-1968), was one of the most important Spanish poets, since the 20s til his dead in 1968. His first poem book, Versos y oraciones del caminante (Verses and prays of the Walkerman) was edited in 1920. León Felipe couldn’t be framed in any of the principal poetic ways of the 20s: neither a vangardist, a clasicist or a revolutionary, but a poet with simple poems in free verse, perhaps alike Antonio Machado. The war and the exile, later, made of him one of the most fierce revolutionary poets, with a strong humanist thought. León Felipe was such aesthetic as revolutionary in his very particular poetry. He died in Mexico City, in 1968. This poem belongs to his first book: the figure of Don Quixote was used by León Felipe many times, as a symbol of the real Spanish spirit, and as a personal symbol of himself too: always dreaming, always fighting against windmills, and always getting beaten and tired. Later, he made an union of Don Quixote and Jesuschrist.

Again, I must to tell that this is just an aproximation, and shouldn’t be used for professional or academic purposes. If you like it, you better look for good editions in your language, better if it’s bilingual.

The poet recites his own poem; recorded in “León Felipe y su intérpretes” (RCA 1977)

Vencidos

Por la manchega llanura
se vuelve a ver la figura
de Don Quijote pasar…

Y ahora ociosa y abollada va en el rucio la armadura,
y va ocioso el caballero, sin peto y sin espaldar…
va cargado de amargura…
que allá encontró sepultura
su amoroso batallar…
va cargado de amargura…
que allá «quedó su ventura»
en la playa de Barcino, frente al mar…

Por la manchega llanura
se vuelve a ver la figura
de Don Quijote pasar…
va cargado de amargura…
va, vencido, el caballero de retorno a su lugar.

Cuántas veces, Don Quijote, por esa misma llanura
en horas de desaliento así te miro pasar…
y cuántas veces te grito: Hazme un sitio en tu montura
y llévame a tu lugar;
hazme un sitio en tu montura
caballero derrotado,
hazme un sitio en tu montura
que yo también voy cargado
de amargura
y no puedo batallar.
Ponme a la grupa contigo,
caballero del honor,
ponme a la grupa contigo
y llévame a ser contigo
pastor.

Por la manchega llanura
se vuelve a ver la figura
de Don Quijote pasar…

http://www.ucm.es/info/especulo/bquijote/q_leonf2.htm

Defeated

All along the Manchega plains/ it’s seing again the shape/ of Don Quixote passing by…// And now idle and battered upon the gray goes the armor,/ and the knight is going idle, without breastplate and without backplate…/ he goes charged with bitterness…/ for his amorous battling/ found a sepulture…/ he goes charged with bitterness…/ for there “stood behind his fortune”*/ at the beach of Barcino, in front of the sea…// All along the Manchega plains/ it’s seing again the shape/ of Don Quixote passing by…/ he goes charged with bitterness…/ the knight, defeated, goes back to his place.// How many times, Don Quixote, by that same plain/ at the times of discouragement I look you passing by just like that…/ And how many times I shout to yo: make me a site on your mount/ and take me to your place;/ make me a site on your mount/ beaten knight,/ make me a site on your mount/ because I go charged with/ bitterness too/ and I cannot battle./ Put me on the rump with you,/ knight of honour,/ put me on the rump with you/ and take me to be with you/ a shepherd.// All along the Manchega plains/ it’s seing again the shape/ of Don Quixote passing by…

León Felipe

Gustave_Doré_-_Miguel_de_Cervantes_-_Don_Quixote_-_Part_1_-_Chapter_1_-_Plate_1_'A_world_of_disorderly_notions,_picked_out_of_his_books,_crowded_into_his_imagination'* Real quote from Don Quixote, but the translation is mine, not taken from an English edition. The context of the poem follows the endings of Don Quixote: at the beach of Barcino (Barcelona), Don Quixote is challenged by the Knight of the White Moon (Caballero de la Blanca Luna), who is a disguised man from his village: if he loses, he shall get back to his village. And so it was. When he is at his deathbed, he takes the decision of make himself a shepherd. The most of the academics read this as a literary symbol, almost biographic, of the own Miguel de Cervantes: a reference to his pastoral novel, La Galatea. Perhaps, other criticist might see in this a metaphore of the history of literature, when, at the aftermath of Middle Age and the beginnings of Modernity, the writers, the poets, left behind the genre of knights and begun to write bucolic poetry (for example, the love between shepherds writen by Garcilaso de la Vega).

Contrary to popular belief, this poem, at its beginnings, didn’t talk about the Spanish civil war, the defeated Spanish Republic, nor the exile, as can be noted in the date of edition. But later, as it’s natural, many people used in this way. So, the popular songwriter Joan Manuel Serrat sung his own version, probably in this spirit, but not necessarily:

From his succesful LP “Mediterráneo” (1971)

Miguel Hernández’s “Canción última”


Portrait of Miguel, made by drama-writer to be Antonio Buero Vallejo, while both were in jail after the warAfter the success of his great book Viento del pueblo (Wind of the People), edited in 1937, between 1938 and 1939, the poet Miguel Hernández was preparing a new poem book during the last years of the Spanish Civil War, but due to the defeating of the Spanish Republic, the book couldn’t be edited, but its poems were very known, as we’ll see… His new book, El hombre acecha (The man waylays) was bounding to keep the triomphalist tone of its predecesor, but the war was tooking to its tragic and sad end: the Non-Intervention Committee, answering to the denounce of Germany and Italy, commanded the inmediatly exiting of the foreigners fighters (for the Republic) from Spanish territory (many of them didn’t), and, as it was losing their territory, the Republic was almost completly alone in its struggle, and the soldiers were tiring, being hurted and dying more and more everyday. This tireness was retrated by Miguel Hernández in many of the poems of this book, as it was this “Canción última”, which closed the book, where the poet expresses his longing for go home, with his wife and son, and the despair in front of the inevitable lost of war.

(Advice: this translation musts not be taken very serious, because I’m not a philologist nor bilingual; you must take it as a first aproximation. For better translations, search for English, or in any other language, translations of Miguel Hernández’s book made by well-recognosized philologists)

Canción última

Pintada, no vacía:
pintada está mi casa
del color de las grandes
pasiones y desgracias.

Regresará del llanto
adonde fue llevada
con su desierta mesa
con su ruidosa cama.

Florecerán los besos
sobre las almohadas.
Y en torno de los cuerpos
elevará la sábana
su intensa enredadera
nocturna, perfumada.

El odio se amortigua
detrás de la ventana.

Será la garra suave.

Dejadme la esperanza.

El hombre acecha (1938-1939)

Last song

Painted, no empty:/ painted is my house/ with the colour of the great/ passions and misfortunes.// It shall return from the weeping/ where it was leaded/ with its deserted table/ with its noisy bed.// Kisses shall bloom/ upon the pillows./ And around the bodies/ the sheet will raise/ its intense night, scented/ bindweed.// Hatred softens/ behind the window.// It will be the gentle talon.// Let me the hope.

The book kept being inedit, but its poems were very well known by many readers of this great poet. Spanish songwriters took some of these poemas. So, Joan Manuel Serrat, in 1972, in his album homage to the poet, sang this poem:

And later, in 1976, a songwriter called Francisco Curto recorded his version too in another album-homage, with the same name: his version is a half recitated song:

Joan Manuel Serrat’s “Pare”


per al meu amicPer al meu amic –For my friend- (1973) supossed the back of Joan Manuel Serrat to sing in Catalan after 1970 (his last in Catalan was Serrat/4 in 1970). It was a bittersweet time, that among 1969 and 1974: as he was getting a great succes, as in Spain as in Latin-America (even in USA), due to the “Eurovision affair” (when he declined to sing in the contest if it was not in Catalan), he still was vetoed in television. The veto ended in that year. Many people thought this was one of their most elaborated works. To it belongs this beautiful ecologist folk-rock song style.

Although the primitive fascism had some ecologists points, the pollution in Spain had its conection with dictatorship too, because many of the ministers, those called technocrats,  during the days of the industrial expansion, abused a lot of the fields and green zones, so, by the 70s, there was a lot of regions very polluted.

Pare

Pare
digueu-me què
li han fet al riu
que ja no canta.
Rellisca
com un barb
mort sota un pam
d’escuma blanca.

Pare
que el riu ja no és el riu.
Pare
abans que torni l’estiu
amagui tot el que és viu.

Pare
digueu-me què
li han fet al bosc
que no hi ha arbres.
A l’hivern
no tindrem foc
ni a l’estiu lloc
per aturar-se.

Pare
que el bosc ja no és el bosc.
Pare
abans de que no es faci fosc
ompliu de vida el rebost.

Sense llenya i sense peixos, pare,
ens caldrà cremar la barca,
llaurar el blat entre les enrunes, pare
i tancar amb tres panys la casa
i deia vostè…

Pare
si no hi ha pins
no es fan pinyons
ni cucs, ni ocells.

Pare
on no hi ha flors
no es fan abelles,
cera, ni mel.

Pare
que el camp ja no és el camp.
Pare
demà del cel plourà sang.
El vent ho canta plorant.

Pare
ja són aquí…
Monstres de carn
amb cucs de ferro.

Pare
no, no tingueu por,
i digueu que no,
que jo us espero.

Pare
que estan matant la terra.
Pare
deixeu de plorar
que ens han declarat la guerra.

Father

Father,/ tell me what have they done to the river/ that it’s not singing./ It slips/ like a barbel/ dead upon an inch/ of white foam.// Father,/ the river is not the river anymore./ Father,/ before the summer comes back/ hide everything that is living.// Father,/ tell me what/ have they done to the forest/ for there is no trees./ In winter/ we’ll have no fire/ neither in summer a place/ to stop by.// Father,/ the forest is not the forest anymore./ Father,/ before it gets dark/ fill with life the pantry.// Without wood and without fishes, father,/ we’ll must burn the boat,/ mow the wheat between the ruins, father,/ and close the house with three bolts/ and you were saying…// Father,/ if there’s no pines/ pinions won’t be made/ nor worms, nor birds.// Father,/ where there’s no flowers/ are not made bees,/ beeswax, nor honey.// Father,/ the camp is not the camp anymore./ Father,/ tomorrow from the sky shall rain blood./ Crying the wind is singing it.// Father,/ they are already here…/ Monsters of flesh/ with iron worms.// Father/ no, don’t be afraid,/ and say no,/ for I await you.// Father,/ they are killing the earth./ Father,/ stop crying/ for they have declared us war.

Joan Manuel Serrat

Spanish translation:

https://albokari2.wordpress.com/2007/02/05/pare/

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