[Julie Steiner]

Salvador Rueda (Spain, 1857-1933)

The Cicada

Hush: it’s the cicada — the erudite
professor who taught Virgil poetry,
and gave Greek vineyards, too, their harmony
like deathless, ostinato-singing light.

Making her triumphant lyre ignite,
she still goes on, with zing and energy,
encompassing the day’s intensity
in her elytra. Hear! Her song’s fire-bright.

In sizzling red siestas, it’s her treat
to melt herself away in self-made heat,
a solar ember turned to a thrumming cry.

Her song consumes her till she’s bodiless.
She sings for love, to beauty’s loveliness.
She sings to souls, and must, while singing, die.


L11:
a solar ember turned a rhythmic cry. >> a solar ember turned to a throbbing cry. >> a solar ember turned to a thrumming cry.
L14:
She sings to souls, and must, while singing, die. >> She sings to souls, so must, while singing, die. >> She sings to souls, and must, while singing, die.


LITERAL ENGLISH PROSE CRIB

The cicada

Silence: it’s the cicada, the professor,
the one who taught poetry to Virgil
and gave to the Greek vineyards their harmony
like an immortal hum of singing light.

She still passes with her triumphant lyre,
burning with enthusiasm and energy;
enclosed in her elytra (forewings) goes the day,
listen to her fiery song.

A being blazing in the red siesta,
she is an ember of the sun made a ululation
that wants to be melted by its own heat.

By singing she burns up her real nature,
she sings for love, to beauty,
she sings to souls, and singing she dies.


ORIGINAL SPANISH

La cigarra

Silencio; es la cigarra, la doctora,
la que enseñó a Virgilio la poesía

y dio a las viñas griegas su armonía

cual bordón inmortal de luz cantora.



Aun pasa con su lira triunfadora

ardiendo en entusiasmo y energía;

encerrado en sus élitros va el día,

escuchad su canción abrasadora.



Ser en la roja siesta enardecido,

es un ascua del sol hecha alarido
que a su propio calor fundirse quiere.



Quema al cantar su real naturaleza,

canta por el amor a la belleza,
canta a las almas, y cantando muere.

[Carl Copeland]

Julie, I’m afraid I don’t have much helpful to say about this translation, which I find absolutely delightful.

It’s true, I didn’t know the words “ostinato” or “elytra,” but “ostinato” is such a nice improvisation that I’m going to add it to my vocabulary and keep quiet. “In her elytra” could of course be “within her forewings,” but Rueda uses “elytra,” which I don’t suppose is any better known in Spanish.

“Zing” sounds very modern, but the translation and poem are quirky enough that I decided I like it.

The third stanza is my favorite – really fine.

The substitution of “body” for “real nature” in L12 is questionable. If her body is consumed, her real nature could live on. In fact, the translation makes me think that at some point nothing is left of her but her song. That’s quite lovely, though Rueda seems to mean simply that her singing consumes her till she dies.

I’d lose the comma in L2 and the first one in L14, but that’s more a matter of where you want pauses.

Finally, I have to ask about the professor who taught poetry to Virgil. It sounds like a myth, but my quick search turned up only a place or two where Virgil referred to cicadas as “shrill” or “querulae.” There are several legends about Virgil and flies, but they never taught him poetry.

[Glenn Wright]

Hi, Julie—

I really enjoyed this sonnet. Your translation is precise and manages to capture the energy of the original. Like Carl, I admire “ostinato-singing light” as an imaginative rendering. “Zing” is a precise onomatopoeia reproducing the raspy sound that cicadas make.

Several classical writers refer to the cicadas as singing in the heat of the day, and most of them find the song of the cicada pleasant—Vergil being the exception. In Eclogue II he describes them as raucis . . .cicadis. In the Georgics, as Carl noted, they are called querulae. . . cicadae. Many myths, however, link cicadas with the Muses and music.

Very enjoyable! Fine work, Julie.

[Julie Steiner]

Thanks for your encouragement and interest, Carl and Glenn.

Originally Posted by Carl Copeland

The substitution of “body” for “real nature” in L12 is questionable. If her body is consumed, her real nature could live on. In fact, the translation makes me think that at some point nothing is left of her but her song. That’s quite lovely, though Rueda seems to mean simply that her singing consumes her till she dies.

The beginning of the poem claims that there is only one individual cicada making all the noise on a summer day, which is almost certainly untrue. The first quatrain goes on to claim that this particular cicada happens to be the very same one that taught Virgil, making her improbably long-lived, and possibly even immortal. So I think that it's unlikely that at the end of the poem, Rueda means that the cicada sings until she dies. I think he means that while she is singing, her buggy body becomes irrelevant, and she enters the supernatural realm of the soul, where matter cannot go. Whenever the soul leaves the body, it's a sort of death, even if not permanent. Cf. the French "la petite morte" (the little death) for the ecstasy of sexual orgasm.

Given "She sings to souls" at the beginning of that final line, "so" might be a more helpful translation than "and" in L14.

Finally, I have to ask about the professor who taught poetry to Virgil. It sounds like a myth, but my quick search turned up only a place or two where Virgil referred to cicadas as “shrill” or “querulae.” There are several legends about Virgil and flies, but they never taught him poetry.

Originally Posted by Glenn Wright

Several classical writers refer to the cicadas as singing in the heat of the day, and most of them find the song of the cicada pleasant—Vergil being the exception. In Eclogue II he describes them as raucis . . .cicadis. In the Georgics, as Carl noted, they are called querulae. . . cicadae. Many myths, however, link cicadas with the Muses and music.

I assume that Rueda made up the hyperbolic claim that the cicada taught Virgil poetry, as a way of establishing the fact that cicadas have been associated with human song/poetry at least since Greek and Roman times, and also perhaps as a way to set the scene in that part of the world.

By the way, although the Spanish word for cicada (cigarra) is grammatically feminine, the talk of immortality and mortality in the poem is probably influenced by the Greek myth of Tithonus, the lyre-playing consort of the goddess of dawn, who was granted immortality but not eternal youth. He was turned into a cicada. The Greek word for cicada, τέττῖξ (téttix), is grammatically masculine, although the Latin (cicada) is feminine.

This myth might have been used to explain why cicadas were particularly noisy during the early hours of the morning, when the dawn appears in the sky. Sir James George Frazer notes that among ancient Greeks and several other peoples there was a widespread belief that creatures that can shed their skin renew their youth and live forever. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tithonus)

Thanks again for your feedback, Carl and Glenn, and for your interest in the poem.

[Carl Copeland]

Originally Posted by Julie Steiner

The beginning of the poem claims that there is only one individual cicada making all the noise on a summer day, which is almost certainly untrue. The first quatrain goes on to claim that this particular cicada happens to be the very same one that taught Virgil, making her improbably long-lived, and possibly even immortal. So I think that it's unlikely that at the end of the poem, Rueda means that the cicada sings until she dies. I think he means that while she is singing, her buggy body becomes irrelevant, and she enters the supernatural realm of the soul, where matter cannot go. Whenever the soul leaves the body, it's a sort of death, even if not permanent. Cf. the French "la petite morte" (the little death) for the ecstasy of sexual orgasm.

Ok, I read this more as a poem about cicadas in general than as the myth of a single immortal cicada. Myths can do both, of course, but I felt that the sestet was more about how cicadas give everything to their song, burning themselves out in the process. Your interpretation is no less lovely, but it involves understanding the cicada’s body as its “true nature,” which is a hard sell for me.

Originally Posted by Julie Steiner

“Sir James George Frazer notes that among ancient Greeks and several other peoples there was a widespread belief that creatures that can shed their skin renew their youth and live forever.”

I wondered if “bodiless” had something to do with molting, but that occurs before the young cicadas begin to sing, so it doesn’t fit easily here.

[Julie Steiner]

Originally Posted by Carl Copeland

Your interpretation is no less lovely, but it involves understanding the cicada’s body as its “true nature,” which is a hard sell for me.

Carl, you are using the terms "true nature" and "real nature" (the "real naturaleza" of L12's Spanish original) interchangeably.

But in classical Greek philosophy, they are different.

Within that thought system, living things' real nature — their physical reality — is composed of the four elements of earth, air, wind, and fire. (Note that the poem is very heavy on the fire imagery.)

Living things' true nature — also called "quintessence" in Greek philosophy — is composed of the fifth, non-physical element (ether) that animates their bodies until their deaths.

Because in L14 the cicada "sings to souls," which are composed of immortal ether and are not necessarily anchored to corporeal reality, the cicada itself becomes pure soul while in the act of singing — and that transcendence of its "real," physical nature is presented as a death.

[Carl Copeland]

Ok, I get you, Julie. If a philosopher would readily understand “real” (as opposed to “true”) nature as physical, and if Rueda made such precise use of philosophical terminology, then your interpretation is convincing. It’s more interesting than my simpler reading in any event.