Poem
Porfirio Barba Jacob
Ballad of Wild Joy
My glass full — the wine of the Anahuac —my effort vain — my passion sterile —
I am a wastrel — I am a marihuano —
drinking, dancing to the sound of my song…
Gird the fragrant thyrsus, touch the gay cymbal.
A mad bacchante and an offending satyr
combine their amorous frenzy in my blood.
Athens shines, Praxiteles thinks and sculptures,
and refinement chains passion with roses.
Woe is penurious life that only gives its honey
with a certain rhythm and in a certain share!
Laugh, dance to the breath of Dionysius that inebriates the heart!
Death comes, all will be dust
under its sway; dust of Pericles,
dust of Codrus; dust of Cimon!
My glass full — the wine of the Anahuac —
my effort vain —my passion sterile —
I am a wastrel — I am a marihuano —
drinking, dancing to the sound of my song…
From fruitful Hispania, from delectable Gallia,
from ardent Numidia, and from every compass
that the Roman eagles drink,
comes pure damsels and avid courtesans.
Dance in voluptuous, lubricious episodes,
with the Nubian slaves, with the Rhodian sailors.
Flaminius, he of the crimson hair,
looks in the spa for men of pleasure
for Heliogabalus… Sing higher,
laugh, dance with Bacchic joy
and make the blood that inebriates the heart spring.
Death comes, all will be dust,
dust of Augustus, dust of Lucretius,
dust of Numa, dust of Nero.
My glass full — the wine of the Anahuac —
my effort vain — my passion sterile —
I am a wastrel — I am a marihuano —
drinking, dancing to the sound of my song…
Villagers of the Cauca smelling of white lilies,
mountain girls of Antioquia sweet as hives,
infantinas of Lima, unctuous and augural
and princesses of Mexico, like the family
cupboard where the best-tasting sweets are kept;
and young men of Cuba, languorous, sensual,
ardent, vacant
like ghosts passing through one of my dreams;
young men of the pleasant Cucastlán — oh ambrosia! —
and young men of Honduras
where they have blind larks for their dark jungles,
come and dance in the happy whirlwind:
laugh, play to the sound of my song;
the pineapple and the guanábana perfume the way
and a palm tree wine soothes the heart.
Death comes, all will be dust,
dust of Hidalgo, dust of Bolívar,
dust in the urn, and, the urn now broken,
dust in the blindness of the Boreas!
My glass full — the wine of the Anahuac —
my effort vain — my passion sterile —
I am a wastrel — I am a marihuano —
drinking, dancing to the sound of my song…
The night is beautiful in its honeyed drunkenness,
the earth is pleasant behind its veil of fog;
Life is sweet, with a sweetness of trills;
love sings, the young pages grow tall;
the world is peopled, destinies are weaved…
Let the juice of the vineyards soothe my heart!
To drink! To dance in turbulent whirlwinds:
the effort is vain, illusion is useless!
© Translation: 2006, Nicolás Suescún
Balada de la loca alegría
Balada de la loca alegría
Mi vaso lleno — el vino del Anáhuac —mi esfuerzo vano — estéril mi pasión —
soy un perdido — soy un marihuano —
a beber, a danzar al son de mi canción…
Ciñe el tirso oloroso, tañe el jocundo címbalo.
Una bacante loca y un sátiro afrentoso
conjuntan en mi sangre su frenesí amoroso.
Atenas brilla, piensa y esculpe Praxiteles,
y la gracia encadena con rosas la pasión.
¡Ah de la vida parva que no nos da sus mieles
sino con cierto ritmo y en cierta proporción!
¡Reíd, danzad al soplo de Dionisos que embriaga el corazón!
La Muerte viene, todo será polvo
bajo su imperio; polvo de Pericles,
polvo de Codro, polvo de Cimón!
Mi vaso lleno — el vino del Anáhuac —
mi esfuerzo vano — estéril mi pasión —
soy un perdido — soy un marihuano —
a beber, a danzar al son de mi canción…
De Hispania fructuosa, de Galia deleitable,
de Numidia ardorosa, y de toda la rosa
de los vientos que beben las águilas romanas,
venid, puras doncellas y ávidas cortesanas.
Danzad en voluptuosos, lúbricos episodios,
con los esclavos nubios, con los marinos rodios.
Flaminia, de cabellos de amaranto,
busca para Heliogábalo en las termas
varones de placer… Alzad el canto,
reíd, danzad en báquica alegría
y haced brotar la sangre que embriaga el corazón.
La Muerte viene, todo será polvo:
polvo de Augusto, polvo de Lucrecio,
polvo de Numa, polvo de Nerón!
Mi vaso lleno — el vino del Anáhuac —
mi esfuerzo vano — estéril mi pasión —
soy un perdido — soy un marihuano —
a beber, a danzar al son de mi canción…
Aldeanas del Cauca con olor de azucena;
montañesas de Antioquia, con dulzor de colmena;
infantinas de Lima, unciosas y augurales,
y princesas de México, que es como la alacena
familiar, que resguarda los más ricos panales;
y mozuelos de Cuba, lánguidos, sensuales,
ardorosos, baldíos,
cual fantasmas que cruzan por unos sueños míos;
mozuelos de la grata Cuscatlán — ¡oh ambrosía! —
y mozuelos de Honduras,
donde hay alondras ciegas por las selvas obscuras;
entrad en la danza, en el feliz torbellino:
reíd, jugad al son de mi canción;
la piña y la guanábana aroman el camino
y un vino de palmeras aduerme el corazón.
La Muerte viene, todo será polvo:
polvo de Hidalgo, polvo de Bolívar,
polvo en la urna, y, rota ya la urna,
polvo en la ceguedad del aquilón!
Mi vaso lleno —el vino del Anáhuac —
mi esfuerzo vano — estéril mi pasión —
soy un perdido — soy un marihuano —
a beber, a danzar al son de mi canción…
La noche es bella en su embriaguez de mieles,
la tierra es grata en su cendal de brumas;
vivir es dulce, con dulzor de trinos;
canta el amor, espigan los donceles;
se puebla el mundo, su urden los destinos…
¡Que el jugo de las viñas me alivie el corazón!
¡A beber! ¡A danzar en raudos torbellinos,
vano el esfuerzo, inútil la ilusión!
© 1937, Porfirio Barba Jacob
From: La canción de la vida profunda y otros poemas
Publisher: J.B. Jaramillo Meza, Manizalez
From: La canción de la vida profunda y otros poemas
Publisher: J.B. Jaramillo Meza, Manizalez
Poems
Poems of Porfirio Barba Jacob
Close
Ballad of Wild Joy
My glass full — the wine of the Anahuac —my effort vain — my passion sterile —
I am a wastrel — I am a marihuano —
drinking, dancing to the sound of my song…
Gird the fragrant thyrsus, touch the gay cymbal.
A mad bacchante and an offending satyr
combine their amorous frenzy in my blood.
Athens shines, Praxiteles thinks and sculptures,
and refinement chains passion with roses.
Woe is penurious life that only gives its honey
with a certain rhythm and in a certain share!
Laugh, dance to the breath of Dionysius that inebriates the heart!
Death comes, all will be dust
under its sway; dust of Pericles,
dust of Codrus; dust of Cimon!
My glass full — the wine of the Anahuac —
my effort vain —my passion sterile —
I am a wastrel — I am a marihuano —
drinking, dancing to the sound of my song…
From fruitful Hispania, from delectable Gallia,
from ardent Numidia, and from every compass
that the Roman eagles drink,
comes pure damsels and avid courtesans.
Dance in voluptuous, lubricious episodes,
with the Nubian slaves, with the Rhodian sailors.
Flaminius, he of the crimson hair,
looks in the spa for men of pleasure
for Heliogabalus… Sing higher,
laugh, dance with Bacchic joy
and make the blood that inebriates the heart spring.
Death comes, all will be dust,
dust of Augustus, dust of Lucretius,
dust of Numa, dust of Nero.
My glass full — the wine of the Anahuac —
my effort vain — my passion sterile —
I am a wastrel — I am a marihuano —
drinking, dancing to the sound of my song…
Villagers of the Cauca smelling of white lilies,
mountain girls of Antioquia sweet as hives,
infantinas of Lima, unctuous and augural
and princesses of Mexico, like the family
cupboard where the best-tasting sweets are kept;
and young men of Cuba, languorous, sensual,
ardent, vacant
like ghosts passing through one of my dreams;
young men of the pleasant Cucastlán — oh ambrosia! —
and young men of Honduras
where they have blind larks for their dark jungles,
come and dance in the happy whirlwind:
laugh, play to the sound of my song;
the pineapple and the guanábana perfume the way
and a palm tree wine soothes the heart.
Death comes, all will be dust,
dust of Hidalgo, dust of Bolívar,
dust in the urn, and, the urn now broken,
dust in the blindness of the Boreas!
My glass full — the wine of the Anahuac —
my effort vain — my passion sterile —
I am a wastrel — I am a marihuano —
drinking, dancing to the sound of my song…
The night is beautiful in its honeyed drunkenness,
the earth is pleasant behind its veil of fog;
Life is sweet, with a sweetness of trills;
love sings, the young pages grow tall;
the world is peopled, destinies are weaved…
Let the juice of the vineyards soothe my heart!
To drink! To dance in turbulent whirlwinds:
the effort is vain, illusion is useless!
© 2006, Nicolás Suescún
From: La canción de la vida profunda y otros poemas
From: La canción de la vida profunda y otros poemas
Ballad of Wild Joy
My glass full — the wine of the Anahuac —my effort vain — my passion sterile —
I am a wastrel — I am a marihuano —
drinking, dancing to the sound of my song…
Gird the fragrant thyrsus, touch the gay cymbal.
A mad bacchante and an offending satyr
combine their amorous frenzy in my blood.
Athens shines, Praxiteles thinks and sculptures,
and refinement chains passion with roses.
Woe is penurious life that only gives its honey
with a certain rhythm and in a certain share!
Laugh, dance to the breath of Dionysius that inebriates the heart!
Death comes, all will be dust
under its sway; dust of Pericles,
dust of Codrus; dust of Cimon!
My glass full — the wine of the Anahuac —
my effort vain —my passion sterile —
I am a wastrel — I am a marihuano —
drinking, dancing to the sound of my song…
From fruitful Hispania, from delectable Gallia,
from ardent Numidia, and from every compass
that the Roman eagles drink,
comes pure damsels and avid courtesans.
Dance in voluptuous, lubricious episodes,
with the Nubian slaves, with the Rhodian sailors.
Flaminius, he of the crimson hair,
looks in the spa for men of pleasure
for Heliogabalus… Sing higher,
laugh, dance with Bacchic joy
and make the blood that inebriates the heart spring.
Death comes, all will be dust,
dust of Augustus, dust of Lucretius,
dust of Numa, dust of Nero.
My glass full — the wine of the Anahuac —
my effort vain — my passion sterile —
I am a wastrel — I am a marihuano —
drinking, dancing to the sound of my song…
Villagers of the Cauca smelling of white lilies,
mountain girls of Antioquia sweet as hives,
infantinas of Lima, unctuous and augural
and princesses of Mexico, like the family
cupboard where the best-tasting sweets are kept;
and young men of Cuba, languorous, sensual,
ardent, vacant
like ghosts passing through one of my dreams;
young men of the pleasant Cucastlán — oh ambrosia! —
and young men of Honduras
where they have blind larks for their dark jungles,
come and dance in the happy whirlwind:
laugh, play to the sound of my song;
the pineapple and the guanábana perfume the way
and a palm tree wine soothes the heart.
Death comes, all will be dust,
dust of Hidalgo, dust of Bolívar,
dust in the urn, and, the urn now broken,
dust in the blindness of the Boreas!
My glass full — the wine of the Anahuac —
my effort vain — my passion sterile —
I am a wastrel — I am a marihuano —
drinking, dancing to the sound of my song…
The night is beautiful in its honeyed drunkenness,
the earth is pleasant behind its veil of fog;
Life is sweet, with a sweetness of trills;
love sings, the young pages grow tall;
the world is peopled, destinies are weaved…
Let the juice of the vineyards soothe my heart!
To drink! To dance in turbulent whirlwinds:
the effort is vain, illusion is useless!
© 2006, Nicolás Suescún
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