Have you ever wanted to read the poetry of Bocas del Toro’s literary legend Guillermo Sánchez Borbón (Tristán Solarte) in English? Well, here it is. What an absolute honor and privilege it is for The Bocas Breeze to share three of El Poeta’s classics, translated by Josh Whitlock in collaboration with Dra. Ivette Sánchez de Puente.
En la Isla (1934)
Era entonces el mar breve de viento
y de voz.
Matinal, pajarecido, de gozosa luz,
de bien repartido
sol.
Claro de aguas él, yo de pensamiento.
On the Island (1934)
The sea then was brief of breeze
and of voice.
Full of birds, joyful morning light,
and well-distributed
sun.
Its waters, and my thoughts, both clear.
This image, along with the featured image above, are by Alexander Arosemena courtesy of La Prensa.
Los Años Repetidos
Los años repetidos junto al mar,
con el verano encallado en sus playas
y la indeleble rosa de las tardes,
me han dejado su huella de infinito
en el corazón que se ocultó de Dios.
Year After Year
Year after year by the sea,
with the summer stranded on its beaches
and the indelible rose of the afternoons,
have left the mark of infinity
in the heart that hid from God.
En el Onceno Aniversario de la Muerte de Mi Madre
Perdóname el haberte retenido en la tierra.
Perdóname el no haber roto las raíces
que en mí hundió tu recuerdo.
Perdóname el haber conservado tus trenzas,
tus negras trenzas que en el fondo del baứl familiar
continuaron creciendo.
Perdóname los sueños en que agoté tu ternura.
Perdóname tus gestos, tu voz,
que prolongaron mis noches de insomnio.
Perdóname las voces con que te he llamado.
Perdóname las fiebres que al borde de mi lecho
te han reclamado.
Y por haberte envejecido, perdóname, madre.
Once años han passado sobre el rostro
Que conserve en mi memoria.
Cada pena mía ha Abierto una arruga,
le ha arrancado una lágrima.
Once años te he hecho vivir en mí
con dolorosa y cotidiana hondura.
Once años arrancados al silencio absolute,
a las aguas definitivamente niveladas.
Once años que he retrasado tu amorosa
entrega a la muerte,
que te he condenado a velar mi sueño.
Hoy, que ya regreso de la vida,
que una helada quietud me va Alejando
de todo lo que he sido,
vengo a decirte con once años de retraso: descansa en paz,
yo támbien voy a rendirme al silencio que tứ invocaste.
Image by Alexander Arosemena courtesy of La Prensa
On the Eleventh Anniversary of the Death of My Mother
Forgive me for keeping you on earth.
Forgive me for not breaking the roots
that buried your memory in me.
Forgive me for saving your braids,
your black braids that continued growing
in the bottom of the family trunk.
Forgive me the dreams in which I exhausted your tenderness.
Forgive me your gestures, your voice,
that prolonged my nights of insomnia.
Forgive me the voices with which I’ve called you.
Forgive me the fevers that have brought you
to the edge of my bed.
And, for having aged you, forgive me, Mother.
Eleven years have passed over the face
that I preserve in my memory.
Every sorrow of mine has opened a wrinkle,
has torn a tear from your eye.
Eleven years I’ve made you live in me
with painful, daily depth.
Eleven years wrenched from the absolute silence,
from the finally evened waters.
Eleven years that I’ve delayed your loving
surrender to death,
that I’ve condemned you to watch over my sleep.
Today, as I return to life,
as an icy stillness pushes me away
from all that I have been,
I come to tell you eleven years late: rest in peace,
and I too will surrender to the silence that you summoned.
Who was Guillermo Sánchez Borbón? Learn more about the life and work of Bocas del Toro’s most famous novelist, journalist and poet in a 2022 article authored by Josh Whitlock, translator of these poems: English version | Spanish version
“El Mural de Tristan Solarte y el Ahogado,” on the back side of Gran Hotel Bahia (Calle 4a y Avenida A). @tristansolartemural
