Sor Juana Eleven Poems translated from the Spanish by Michael Smith

I Approach, I Depart

I approach, I depart.
Who but I can find
some distant presence
in some absent eyes?

Unfortunate I flee
Phyllis's disdain.
What a grief to one
bereft of its gain!

So constant is my care
the hurt that I sustain
suffers less her scorn
than her scorn being vain.

Leaving, I do not lose
anything of my own;
for Phyllis not being mine,
I lose what I don't own.

What grief to him
to whom rebuff's so wise,
to be no cause of sorrow
it dared not be a prize!

For seeing in my fate
my very banishment
she hated me the more
that I might lose the less.

Who taught to you, Phyllis,
so subtle an artifice
to strip off your strictures
affection's attire?

I go to live a life
unnoticed by your lights,
that not even my death
may court your despite.

 

 

Stay, Shadow of My Love

Stay, shadow of my love, untamed,
reflection of the charm I treasure most,
illusion beautiful by which entranced I die,
sweet fraudulence by which in pain I live.

If to the powerful magnet of your gifts
my breast becomes submissive steel,
why cast your coaxing spell on me
then teasingly take to heel?

No bending to your despotic sway
can nurse your swaggering content;
for though you mock the closest tie

that bonded your imagined form,
it little counts to dodge my breast and arms
when once you're in the irons my dream forged.

 

 

Though Clear the Pure Light

Though clear the pure light of sky,
clear the moon and clear the stars,
and clear, too, the ephemeral sparks
the air bears and the blaze supports;

Though clear the bolt that costs
the wind a thousand groans,
and the lightning's imprint's
dreadful light in the gloom of night;

all human knowledge sluggish
stayed in dark, nor was it possible
mortal feathers, in proud flight,

be as Icaruses of rational thought,
until that light of yours, peerless Eusebio,
shed its light on the heavenly lights.

 

 

Suspend, Singer Swan

Suspend, singer swan, the sweet strain:
see how the lord that Delphi sees
exchanges for you the gentle lyre for pipe
and to Admetus makes a pastoral sound.

As gentle song, though strong, moved
stones and tamed the wrath of hell,
so it retreats, abashed, when you are heard:
your instrument blames the church itself.

For though the works of ancient builders
cannot match its columns,
nothing's greater than your song

when your clear voice strikes its stones,
and your sweet tones surpass it,
dwarf it, while making it grow the more.

 

 

Since I'm Condemned

Since I'm condemned to death
by your decree, Fabio,
and don't appeal, resist or flee
the wrathful judgment, hear me,
for there's no culprit of such guilt
should be refused confession.

Because, you say, you've been informed
my breast has caused offence to you,
I stand condemned, ferocious one.
Does uncertain news, not fact,
achieve more in your obdurate breast
than experience of so many truths?

If you've believed in others', Fabio,
why not believe in your own eyes?
Why, reversing the sense of Law,
deliver to the rope my neck?
You're as liberal with your rigours
as meanly strict with favours.

If I have looked at other eyes, Fabio,
kill me with your wrathful eyes.
If I serve another care,
let your implacable anger serve me.
And if another's love diverts me,
you, who've been my life, strike me dead.

If I have viewed another with delight,
never be delight in our mutual looks;
if with another I engaged in pleasant speech,
let your eternal displeasure point at me.
And if another love disturbs my sense,
chase out of me my soul, who've been my soul.

But as I die without resisting
my unhappy lot, my only wish
is you allow me choose the death I like.
Let my death be of my choice,
for your mere choice
continues me in life.

Let me not die of harshness, Fabio,
when I can die of love.
That will do you credit,
redeem me, since to die for love,
not for guilt, is no less a death,
but more an honoured one.

And now, finally, I seek your pardon
for all the wrongs I did to you through love.
Wrongs they are and they deserve your scorn.
Your offence is just in my accosting you,
because by loving you
I turn you to ingratitude.

This Evening, My Love

This evening, my love, as I spoke to you
and saw it in your face and in your acts
that I was not persuading you with words,
I longed for you to look upon my heart.

And Love, that aided my intentions,
conquered that which seemed impossible:
for in the plaint that grief was pouring out
my broken heart was suffering distillation.

Enough of strictures now, my love, enough.
Let tyrannous jealousies torture you no more
nor vile suspicion vex your peace of mind

with foolish doubts and futile indications,
since now in liquid humour you can see
and touch my broken heart between your hands.

I Don't Look

I don't look for jealousy
so Gila thinks I'm safe;
but that's the surest sign
I'm jealousy's slave.

My suspicion's alert, and
suffering most in silence
it's grief makes me mute
and she thinks it's sleep.

I hide my grievances
for fear of being rebuked;
what I think restraint
is just that I've been gagged.

Her amorous commerce
forfeits my assets;
for what costs me most
earns me but contempt.

Her company is a loss;
for a deal cutting two ways,
she thrives on the smuggle
and I owe the bribes.

In brief, I die in silence,
and she thinks that in my breast
it's only trust that prompts
the courtesies of dread.

Ah Fate

Ah Fate, was my offence so great
such punishment for it or torment
as the mind foresees is not enough
but the ear too must be summonsed?

You've moved so hard against me
I'm convinced that, by pitiless design,
you only gave me intelligence
to harm me all the more.

You applauded me, for more insults;
you made me rise, to reach such griefs;
and I even think your treachery

a punishment unequal to my misfortune,
for seeing I was rich in all your gifts
nobody would pity me my ills.

 

 

My Heartbreak

My heartbreak, now you have
reached to such extent
as lay within the power
of heartbreak's intent.

Your loss is total although
I think all is not lost
for the warning's cheap
even at its cost.

You will no longer envy
love its tempting bliss,
as one who is chastised
is far from such risk.

Expecting nothing
soothes my distress
for not to seek succour
solaces nonetheless.

In this very loss
I find myself released
since if I lost treasure
care also ceased.

Having nothing to lose
affords me relief
as travellers stripped
fear no thief.

Not even liberty itself
would I have as mine
for its possession
will soon turn malign.

From things so uncertain
I want no more care;
as one without a soul
I'd rather mine bear.

 

 

You Foolish Men

You foolish men who lay
the guilt on women,
not seeing you're the cause
of the very thing you blame;

if you invite their disdain
with measureless desire
why wish they well behave
if you incite to ill.

You fight their stubbornness,
then, weightily,
you say it was their lightness
when it was your guile.

In all your crazy shows
you act just like a child
who plays the bogeyman
of which he's then afraid.

With foolish arrogance
you hope to find a Thais
in her you court, but a Lucretia
when you've possessed her.

What kind of mind is odder
than his who mists
a mirror and then complains
that it's not clear.

Their favour and disdain
you hold in equal state,
if they mistreat, you complain,
you mock if they treat you well.

No woman wins esteem of you:
the most modest is ungrateful
if she refuses to admit you;
yet if she does, she's loose.

You always are so foolish
your censure is unfair;
one you blame for cruelty
the other for being easy.

What must be her temper
who offends when she's
ungrateful and wearies
when compliant?

But with the anger and the grief
that your pleasure tells
good luck to her who doesn't love you
and you go on and complain.

Your lover's moans give wings
to women's liberty:
and having made them bad,
you want to find them good.

Who has embraced
the greater blame in passion?
She who, solicited, falls,
or he who, fallen, pleads?

Who is more to blame,
though either should do wrong?
She who sins for pay
or he who pays to sin?

Why be outraged at the guilt
that is of your own doing?
Have them as you make them
or make them what you will.

Leave off your wooing
and then, with greater cause,
you can blame the passion
of her who comes to court?

Patent is your arrogance
that fights with many weapons
since in promise and insistence
you join world, flesh and devil.

 

 

Celia Watched

Celia watched a rose that in the meadow
flaunted joyously its vain pomp,
bathing its delicate countenance
in waves of blush and flush. And she said:

Fearlessly facing Fate, enjoy
the brief span of your lush time
for tomorrow's death cannot rob you
of the pleasure you have today.

And though Death presses on you
and your fragrant life departs, don't regret
your dying so pretty and so young.

See how experience counsels
that it's luck to die while pretty
and not behold the outrage of being old.

 

Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz (1651 [48?] - 1695) was born in the Mexican village of Juana de Asbaje y Ramírez. After a brilliantly successful showing at the vice-regal court, she retired to the Convent of Santa Paula of the Hieronymite order where she stayed cloistered for the remainder of her life. She is among the greatest poets of her own age in any language, and among the greatest poets of any age. Go here for The Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz Project from Dartmouth College, with links to digital images of her posthumously published Fama y obras posthumas (1700 — a page is shown to the right).

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