Collaging Rosalía

Everyone in town was talking. They couldn’t help themselves. They couldn’t stop. They spent day and night tossing their thoughts about her around. Day and night. Waking and sleeping. They were obsessed and wouldn’t be free of their obsession until they solved the problem. Because it was a problem. It was a serious matter, very serious. So serious, in fact, that they were having trouble dealing with it. With her, with what she was doing. With what she was saying. They were convinced it was dangerous to have her in their midst, just walking around town, doing what she did. Some of the people were afraid of her, of what she might do. She could be dangerous. If she went off the deep edge, as the saying goes, she might create a situation that could affect them all. Some of the people were beginning to fear that stepping outdoors, leaving their houses, would put them in harm’s way. The ones that still had the courage to gather in small groups, talked nonstop about her, the woman who was going around acting as if she were reciting a poem in her head, a poem that wasn’t even in English. Normal people didn’t do things like that. Normal people didn’t carry poems like that around with them. What to do?

She’s crazy.

She sure is.

Have you seen how she goes around talking to herself?

Day and night, yes. She’s always looking around and talking.

To herself, it appears.

No, not to herself. To plants. She’s talking to plants and things like that. 

Things, not people.

But plants don’t talk. 

She looks up at the sky a lot, I’ve heard.

Yes, I’ve seen her do it. What is she doing?

It looks like she’s trying to talk to the stars.

Stars certainly don’t talk.

Of course not. But that’s not all.

She looks like she’s listening, then she answers.

None of the things she holds conversations with can speak.

Not the stars nor the waves in the sea. 

But we know she does.

Yes, I’ve seen her down by Maquoit Bay.

She’s definitely crazy. We shouldn’t bother with her.

She’s obviously out of her mind.

Such a dreamer.

She’s mad, not a dreamer.

Do you think she’ll try to drown herself? Would she end up like that woman in Kate Chopin’s story? Or the one in Alfonsina Storni’s poem?

That’s a strange story.

That’s a strange poem.

Didn’t Virginia Woolf write something similar, about a lighthouse?

What’s literature got to do with it? That’s just second-hand emotions.

That’s just a song.

Stop it! We’ve got a real problem in our town. We have to do something.

She thinks she’s normal, from the way she explains it. I heard her.

Don’t believe a word she says.

Maybe we should stop her.

Yes, we should. She’s not well.

She should see a doctor.

We should make her go.

We could take her.

What is her problem?

She’s always going around talking to things that can’t talk.

Yes, we’ve already said that.

But did you hear her yesterday?

Maybe she sees ghosts.

Maybe she’s talking to ghosts, yes, that must be it.

But ghosts don’t exist.

No, They don’t, at least they’re not supposed to be real.

It’s all in her head.

She’s so strange.

Maybe she’s a witch. Or a sorceress.

Is there a difference?

Have you been reading too many fantasy novels? Get real.

Do you think the doctors can help her?

What’s wrong with her?

She’s obsessed, or something.

Or something.

Obsessed with what?

Definitely not normal. It’s something that’s definitely not normal.

Why is she doing that? Talking to nobody?

What is wrong with her?

Is there a cure for her madness?

How long has this been going on?

Maybe she’s a lost cause.

Lock her up.

She scares me.

She scares me, too.

She…

I heard them all, knew what they were saying, where and when they said it. They weren’t fooling me. My hearing is excellent and they weren’t keeping their voices low. They also had never heard of Rosalía, who taught me things those people knew nothing about. Rosalía knew so many things. She wrote them down, too, and I found them one day…

Dicen que no hablan las plantas, ni las fuentes, ni los pájaros,

They say plants can’t talk, nor can fountains, nor birds,

Ni el onda con sus rumores, ni con su brillo los astros,

Nor can the wave that ripples, nor the stars that shine,

Lo dicen, pero no es cierto, pues siempre cuando yo paso,

That’s what they say, but it isn’t true, because when I walk by,

De mí murmuran y exclaman:

They whisper things about me and cry:

Ahí va la loca soñando

There goes that crazy woman, dreaming

Con la eterna primavera de la vida y de los campos,

About the eternal springtime of life and fields,

Y ya bien pronto, bien pronto, tendrá los cabellos canos,

And yet all too soon, far too soon, her hair will be turning white,

Y ve temblando, aterida, que cubre la escarcha el prado.

And trembling, stiff with cold, sees the frost lying on the meadow.

Hay canas en mi cabeza, hay en los prados escarcha,

There are gray hairs cover my head, there is frost on the meadows,

Mas yo prosigo soñando, pobre, incurable sonámbula,

But I keep on dreaming, poor me, incurable sleepwalker,

Con la eterna primavera de la vida que se apaga

About life’s eternal spring as it is losing its light

Y la perenne frescura de los campos y las almas,

And the everlasting coolness of the fields and spirits,

Aunque los unos se agostan y aunque las otras se abrasan.

Even though the first are parched and the others are scorched.

Astros y fuentes y flores, no murmuréis de mis sueños,

Stars and fountains and flowers, don’t whisper about my dreams,

Sin ellos, ¿cómo admiraros ni cómo vivir sin ellos?

Without them, how can I understand you and how can I live without them?

Plants: Yellow. Blue. White. Red. Orange. Violet. We speak so many languages, all surrounded by the scent of green. Who wouldn’t want to talk to us, talk with us? We know all about the seasons, the passing of the days and nights, rain, withering and appearing after winter is over. We flutter in the breeze, shudder if it hails, brighten paths, and know what people are thinking. Some of us are considered weeds, which doesn’t hurt our feelings, not a whit. We love looking up at people, until we are spent. 

Springs: We slake your thirst, real or metaphorical. We can wash away sins or just lull you to sleep with our gurgling streams. We are necessary for things to grow. Oases for weary or troubled minds. We remind you that a body is almost entirely made of water. With us, beside us, you are never alone. We share the same thoughts. We speak clearly and transparently.

Birds: Nobody likes waking up to a silent sky or living a silent spring. We show off our energy, which lifts your spirits, and then perches near you if you listen while we wing. We are hope, just as Emily said. You love our freedom and our hardiness in winter, our stamina if we choose to migrate when the frosts come. We are often brightly colored, but even when we are dull gray or brown, our flitting and eating are a dance you admire. We are graceful even when scattered. You learn from us, watching and listening. We talk to you in a language you understand.

Murmuring wave: I am not really a single wave, for none of my kind can lap alone on the shore. We are a gentle horde of moving droplets, blanketing sand or the mica-rich pebbles on the beach of Maquoit Bay. You come to us and you hear our words. You would understand just as well if you were to come to us on the eastern shore of the Atlantic. We want you to place your hands or feet in the center of our rippling chorus. That sounds overly poetic, but after all, we are waves and that is how we speak. 

Stars: We don’t need to talk for you to understand the meaning of our gleam. We are like signals molded from silence, but you catch every word when others don’t even know the sky exists. We don’t know who taught you how to see and hear what we’re saying, but you do understand us, and we’re grateful for that. Maybe we’ve been a bit too present in poems, not all of them good ones, but we think you can discern which are worthy and which are not. We trust you, even from afar. We will come to you, though, if you need us. And sometimes , some nights, we think you do.

Frost on meadow: I can surprise you and be painful to things still in bloom, but my crystals stir something undeniable within your spirit. It may be you see me as pure, new water that has appeared - still congealed - to water the land. I am part of the process, you realize, and admire my natural shine, which is like brief starlight where you walk. You know my intention is not to do harm. I am a natural part of the world and enjoy your smile when you catch me winking at you. 

Fields: Why try to tell you what you already know about us, what you already love? We are vast and so don’t need to explain ourselves; it is enough that you know how to respond when our grasses tell you what they have been doing all day and how they like to play in the evening breezes. We are your heart, growing and lifting your spirit like the birds. Of course we must talk to one another. We need no translator.

Flowers: We join the fields, echoing their words and lining your paths. We need no definition, because what we are says it all. You could not live without us, nor we without you and your gaze.

Dreams: We are all of the above, and just as eternal. We live in a perfect world and you live in us. None of us needs anything more. 

*****

Epilogue 

The story ends here, because only one person in town has read Rosalía’s poem. She has translated it, however, should any of the others decide they want to understand what otherwise they will never hear.

Author’s Note:

The poem in Spanish was written by a real person, Rosalía de Castro (1837-1885). If you, reader, would like to understand, she has five books of poetry for you, waiting to speak.