[Glenn Wright]

mignon and I have been enjoying exploring the works of Jorge Luis Borges. In response to her recent poem about the objects in her daughter’s house that reveal her family, Roger mentioned that it reminded him of this sonnet by Borges which I was not previously familiar with. I decided to attempt my own translation of it.

Things

The walking stick, the silver coins, the key fob,
the docile lock, the half-done research job
that in my few days left I’ll not be able
to read, the playing cards, the little table,
a book, and in its pages the desiccated
violet from a night commemorated,
certainly unforgettable, now forgot,
the westward-facing mirror, holding the hot
illusion of scarlet sunrise. So many things!
Limes, thresholds, maps, glasses, keys on rings,
they serve our every need like silent slaves,
blind and oddly discreet! When we’re in graves,
they will last when we are past recall;
they’ll never know that we have left at all.

——————————-
Edits:

L1: The walking-stick, the small coins, the key-fob, > The walking stick, the silver coins, the key fob,
L2: the manageable lock, the research job > the docile lock, the half-done research job
L6: violet, from an evening commemorated, > violet from a night commemorated,
L7: certainly unforgettable, now erased, > certainly unforgettable, now forgot,
L8: the red western mirror which has embraced > the westward-facing mirror holding the hot
L9: the burning illusion of sunrise. So many things! > illusion of scarlet sunrise. So many things!
L12: as blind and oddly discreet as corpses in graves! > blind and oddly discreet! When we’re in graves,
L13: They will last long after we’re past recall; > they will last long after we’re past recall; > they will last when we are past recall;


Original:

Las Cosas

El bastón, las monedas, el llavero,
la dócil cerradura, las tardías
notas que no leerán los pocos días
que me quedan, los naipes y el tablero,
un libro y en sus páginas la ajada
violeta, monumenta de una tarde
sin duda inolvidable y ya olvidada,
el rojo espejo occidental en que arde
una ilusoria aurora. ¡Cuántas cosas,
limas, umbrales, atlas, copas, clavos,
nos sirven como tácitos esclavos,
ciegas y extrañamente sigilosas!
Durarán más allá de nuestro olvido;
no sabrán nunca que nos hemos ido.


Crib:

The Things

The walking-stick, the coins, the key-ring,
The manageable lock, the late/overdue
notes that the few days that remain to me will not [be] read,
the playing cards and the card table,
a book and in its pages a withered
violet, commemoration of an afternoon
without doubt unforgettable and now forgotten,
the red western mirror in which burns
an illusory sunrise. So many things!
Limes/files, thresholds, atlases, glasses, keys,
they serve us like silent slaves,
blind and strangely discreet/secretive!
They will last beyond our oblivion;
they will never know that we have left.