Holding the Dark

Cando penso que te fuches,

Negra sombra que m'asombras,

Ô pe d'os meus cabezales

Tornas facéndome mofa.

Cando maxino qu'és ida

N'ò mesmo sol te m'amostras,

Y eres á estrela que brila,

Y eres ò vento que zoa.

Si cantan, ês ti que cantas;

Si choran, ês ti que choras,

Y ês o marmurio d'o rio

Y ês á noite y és á aurora.

En todo estás e ti ès todo,

Pra min y en min mesmo moras,

Nin m'abandonarás nunca,

Sombra que sempre m'asombras

Just when I think you’ve gone,

Black haze that amazes me,

Back you come to the head of my bed

Back again to daze me.

Just when I think you’ve left,

You show up where all the sun is,

And you’re the star with its reflection,

And you’re the whoosh of the wind.

If they sing, you’re the one singing;

If they weep, it’s you who weeps,

And you’re the murmuring river,

And you’re the night as well as day’s glee.

You’re part of everything and you’re everything,

You live for me and even inside me,

And you’ll never leave me,

Black haze that forever abides with me.

I’ve dealt with this poem before, and by dealt I mean read it, studied it, tried to write about it, and even made about nineteen attempts to translate it. When trying to find an acceptable English version, I realize this poem by Rosalía de Castro is as close to untranslatable as a poem can be. I’m referring to the English versions that are spread around the internet and are for the most part not very good. Take my word for it and save yourself some time.

The version you see here is still not right, and at this point I’m becoming obsessed with the original as a text, a literary thing that I can’t get my tongue around. I’ve been a translator for more than half a century, so I’ve got a lot riding on this set of verses - not the least of which is my pride, my professional competence. That pride, which could be but isn’t arrogance, insists I can’t let these sixteen lines - so short, so rhyming - get the best of me. I need to find a good English equivalent!

It’s not happening, because sombra and asombrar dissipate if one tries to tease them into English just like the morning dew that is unharvestable. The deep connection of noun and verb is based on shared sounds - sombr - and also on the ambiguity of the verb. Dictionaries don’t often detect the complexity of the verb, although the Cambridge Dictionary isn’t far off. It offers us: ASOMBRAR: to amaze, to amaze, to shade, to put in shade, amaze, astonish, astound, stun. There still ought to be a touch of uneasiness among the possible translations, because asombrar isn’t always a pleasant thing.

I am aware that translators can be rather boring (i.e., obsessive) when they get deep into the idea of bringing meaning across the border of one language to the distant shore of another, so I’ll spare you the other points I could make about these two words, noun and verb. Instead, just let me assure you that this poem is truly one of my inner demons, in part because it resists every effort to be transported to another set of readers entirely. It haunts me and is my own negra sombra, a black shadow occupying part of my translator’s brain. It signifies my failure, my shame at not being able to do the right thing, my sense of incompetence. The trauma is real. Not many people will understand that, but it’s true. I remain caught up in an endless cycle of reading and rereading, searching every thesaurus available, and grasping at etymologies - what does sombr mean, for example? Read sixteen lines, then back up to the first one again, hoping for a breakthrough, an escape from the prison of the original Galician.

There’s more. No translation is possible if the original meaning is not clear. That is where the inner demon of this translator is faced with trying to sort out the poet’s intention, her feelings. Too many critics have labeled the negra sombra, the black shadow, the symbol of depression, existential anguish, you name it. Perhaps it’s the color, the reference to darkness, a reason for feeling fearful; the I of the poem sees the darkness everywhere. But what if it’s not a fear projected by the speaker and instead is a concern? Something that matters to her, something that needs attention and might need to be improved or corrected?

If so, then might the black shadow also refer to something the I does not understand but is thinking about constantly, seeking clarification? Maybe the negra sombra is simply part of life, the life that has not yet been lived? If it’s everywhere, then it might be something to accept, not something to get rid of. In the poem, it seems to exist beyond the speaker, it appears in different places, it appears resilient. Does the speaker, in an impossibly brief sixteen lines, come to an understanding of her condition and embrace it? The existential explanation seems lazy or maybe even sexist. Did Rosalía write about the black shadow inner demon because she was religious? Because she was a woman and this was expected of her?

Or did the poet have such a clear vision of reality that she disguised her ideas to avoid censorship? She was very aware of the possibilities for women writers, of the use of Galician to publish, and of the impoverished conditions of Galicia. All of these could be considered demons for a woman in her time and circumstances. I don’t know why I’m bringing up all these issues, unless it’s to show how the internal devils of Rosalía might not have been completely internal; in fact, she decides to bring them closer, because she sees their ubiquitous nature. She might not be choosing darkness and something to fear, but as a disguise for thoughts and goals that would be unpopular in certain circles back then.

Depending on what the translator - this translator - reads as the intent of the original, the translation can vary. The poet accepts the dark, indecipherable something that is everywhere and forms an alliance with it. At least that’s what I think, which has done nothing so far to eliminate this poem as my own inner demon, the testimony to my ineptness as a translator. My confidence sags, my purpose is derailed, I can’t embrace the dark spots of my translating life. I am caught up in the web of the Galician language and it reminds me how little I know of it. People think I know what I’m doing, but they can’t see all the dark spaces wafting around me and inside of me, in my head.