Nocturne (A Spanish Gothic Poem, 1892)

by Brett Rutherford

Adapted from a poem by José Asuncion Silva (1865-1896)

On such a night — how shall I describe it? —
A night all full of murmurings, of the brush
of invisible wings, of perfumes indefinable,
a night within whose glooms of vague forest,
fireflies went on and off sepulchrally —
or was it a nuptial flickering that led us on? —
as meekly you accompanied me, silent,
slender, hushed, and pale, as though such thoughts,
such double presentiments of joy and doom
troubled the very depths of your soul, too.
Glow-worms and the night-ghosted asphodels
spelled out our distant path across the plain.
One sandaled foot before the other tread,
you walked with me, and the spherical moon,
bloated in heaven’s serge and indigo,
shed light, a beacon out of infinity.

Your shadow, so delicate and languid,
and my shadow, graven by white lunar light
upon the sands of the path before us,
were joined together
deep umbra as one, indefinite shades
of edged penumbra, joined as one,
two as one in a great, single shadow,
two as one in a great, single shadow,
two as one in a great, single shadow.

Gone is that night! Gone! But now another,
solitary, choked full of infinite
woes and the sharp agony of mourning,
on the same path as then, still and lonely
I came — why here again on such a night? —
parted from you by the passing of time,
by the door of your tomb, by arguments
unreconciled, the leaden density
which neither your voice nor mine pierced through.
Still and lonely — why here again at night?

And the hounds of the wood (or were they wolves?)
bayed at the moon (did they not care for it,
this moon of pale visage, bloodless?)
Were they not troubled, as I was,
by the frogs’ croak at the bottomless mere?

Cold came and pierced me to shuddering,
cold such as the chill that on your bed
stole color from your cheeks and neck and hands,
the chill in its snowy whiteness, the white
of the winding sheet, the bleached shroud.
It was the cold of mausoleum air,
it was the chill of the advancing tread
of Death, the unwanted frost of shut eyes.

And my shadow, graven by white lunar light,
went on the path alone,
went on the path alone,
not calling out your name (I have no right!),
went on the path to the wastes of solitude.

But then your shadow, so delicate and languid,
slender, hushed, and pale, as on that night
of your dying on the first moon of Spring,
as on that night all full of murmurings,
of the brush of wings, of perfumes indefinable,
came up close by and walked with me,
came up close by and walked with me,
came up close by and walked with me —
my shadow with its black umbra,
my shadow with its vaguely-edged penumbra
(yours the fluttering edge of penumbra only,
O shadow without a living source!)
two as one joined in a great, single shadow,
two as one joined in a great, single shadow.
Oh, shadows of the living and of the dead, joined
as one, two shadows running
each to the other in nights of woe and tears!

“Nocturne” was written in 1892 by Colombian poet José Asuncion Silva.  He had lived in Europe and knew Mallarmé. His poetry is a precursor of modernism in Latin American poetry, and, in this poem in particular, he inhabits the world and esthetics of Poe’s poems. Suggestive of “Ulalume,” hypnotic with its repetition and its shadowy images, this poem was also doubtless provoked by the death of his beloved sister in the same year. Three years later, all the poet’s unpublished works were lost in a shipwreck. A year later, Silva committed suicide. “Nocturne,” written in free verse, defied the classical, formal mode of most poetry in Spanish.

In this adaptation I have made the supernatural suggestiveness of the poem stronger – it is not possible to work on a piece such as this without being completely overshadowed by “Ulalume.” I have also introduced the concept of the double-shadow: the umbra is the dark, solid part of a shadow, and the penumbra is a shadow’s vague, poorly-defined edges. Silva does not employ these terms, so this is my addition. I have also removed the gender of the dead loved one, because, well, that it what I do. Silva repeats lines almost with a hypnotic intent, so I have done the same in my version, also permitting some exact phrases from the opening of the poem to find their way in again near the end, like a musical reprise.

It is simultaneously, a very Gothic poem, and a very modern poem. It is one of the most important Spanish-language poems I have engaged with.