Consolatio

Alfred de Musset: Nothing makes us as great as a great sadness

Nothing makes us as great as a great sadness.

     --Alfred de Musset (1810-1857), "Nuit de mai" [May night]

Rien ne nous rend si grands qu’une grande douleur.

                                           

La Llorona, the weeping woman

I don't know what's wrong with the flowers, llorona,
the flowers in the graveyard.
because when the wind moves them, llorona,
it looks as if they are crying.

Alas for me, llorona, llorona,
llorona, take me to the river.
And cover me with your shawl, llorona,
for I am dying of cold.

Two kisses I bear in my soul, llorona,
that never leave me….
the last one from my mother, llorona,
and the first one I gave you….

    --Mexican folk song. "Llorona" means a weeping woman. There are many legends of La Llorona, but the one I prefer is that she is Malinche, the clever young Indian woman who helped Cortez conquer Mexico. Malinche was a real person, enslaved by the Aztecs.  Cortez called her Doña Marina. She later had a son with Cortez and he provided for her, but she died young. Because she helped the Spaniards conquer Mexico, she is said to wander through the land weeping. These are just some of the many verses of the song.

No sé que tienen las flores, llorona,
las flores del camposanto
que cuando las mueve el viento, llorona,
parece que están llorando.

Ay de mí, llorona, llorona,
llorona, llévame al rió....
y tápame con tu rebozo, llorona,
porque me muero de frió.

Dos besos llevo en el alma, llorona,
que no se apartan de mí….
el último de mi madre, llorona,
y el primero que te dí….

Nezahualcoyotl: The fleeting pomp of this world is like a green willow

“The goods of this life, its glories and riches, are but lent to us, its substance is an illusory shadow, and the things of today shall change on the coming of the morrow. Then gather the fairest flowers from thy gardens to bind round thy brow, and seize the joys of the present ere they perish.” In another song handed down by memory through the generations, Nezahualcoyotl said of the present, “The fleeting pomp of the world is like a green willow,….but at the end a sharp axe destroys it, a north wind fells it.”

  --Flute of the Smoking Mirror, a Portrait of Nezahualcoyotl, by Frances Gillmor (1903-1993) Albuquerque, UNM Press 1949)

[Nezahualcoyotl , "Hungry Coyote," (1402-1472) was king of Texcoco, in what is now Mexico, and a famous poet]

Saint Augustine: I wondered that other men should live when he was dead

4... My heart grew somber with grief, and wherever I looked I saw only death. My own country became a torment and my own home a grotesque abode of misery. All that we had done together was now a grim ordeal without him. My eyes searched everywhere for him, but he was not to be seen. I hated all the places we had known together, because he was not in them and they could no longer whisper to me “Here he comes!” as they would have done had he been alive but absent for a while. I had become a puzzle to myself, asking my soul again and again, “Why are you downcast? Why do you distress me?” But my soul had no answer to give….Tears alone were sweet to me, for in my heart’s desire they had taken the place of my friend.

 

6... I wondered that other men should live when he was dead, for I had loved him as though he would never die. Still more I wondered that he should die and I remain alive, for I was his second self. How well the poet put it when he called his friend the half of his soul! I felt that our two souls had been as one, living in two bodies, and life to me was fearful because I did not want to live with only half a soul. Perhaps this, too, is why I shrank from death, for fear that one whom I had loved so well might then be wholly dead.

7... What madness, to love a man as something more than human! What folly, to grumble at the lot man has to bear! I lived in a fever, convulsed with tears and sighs that allowed me neither rest nor peace of mind. My soul was a burden bruised and bleeding. It was tired of the man who carried it, but I found no place to set it down to rest.

8… the grief I felt for the loss of my friend had struck so easily into my inmost heart simply because I had poured out my soul upon him, like water upon sand, loving a man who was mortal as though he were never to die.

9... Blessed are those who love you, O God, and love their friends in you and their enemies for your sake. They alone will never lose those who are dear to them, for they love them in one who is never lost, in God….

      --Augustine of Hippo (354-430), Confessions of Saint Augustine,  Book IV  (translated by: Unknown)

Original Latin:

4.4.9.
quo dolore contenebratum est cor meum, et quidquid aspiciebam mors erat. et erat mihi patria supplicium et paterna domus mira infelicitas, et quidquid cum illo communicaveram, sine illo in cruciatum immanem verterat. expetebant eum undique oculi mei, et non dabatur. et oderam omnia, quod non haberent eum, nec mihi iam dicere poterant, `ecce veniet,' sicut cum viveret, quando absens erat. factus eram ipse mihi magna quaestio, et interrogabam animam meam quare tristis esset et quare conturbaret me valde, et nihil noverat respondere mihi. et si dicebam, `spera in deum,' iuste non obtemperabat, quia verior erat et melior homo quem carissimum amiserat quam phantasma in quod sperare iubebatur. solus fletus erat dulcis mihi et successerat amico meo in deliciis animi mei.

4.6.11.
mirabar enim ceteros mortales vivere, quia ille, quem quasi non moriturum dilexeram, mortuus erat, et me magis, quia ille alter eram, vivere illo mortuo mirabar. bene quidam dixit de amico suo: `dimidium animae' suae. nam ego sensi animam meam et animam illius unam fuisse animam in duobus corporibus, et ideo mihi horrori erat vita, quia nolebam dimidius vivere, et ideo forte mori metuebam, ne totus ille moreretur quem multum amaveram.

4.7.12.
o dementiam nescientem diligere homines humaniter! o stultum hominem immoderate humana patientem! quod ego tunc eram. itaque aestuabam, suspirabam, flebam, turbabar, nec requies erat nec consilium. portabam enim concisam et cruentam animam meam impatientem portari a me, et ubi eam ponerem non inveniebam.

4.8.13
nam unde me facillime et in intima dolor ille penetraverat, nisi quia fuderam in harenam animam meam diligendo moriturum acsi non moriturum?

4.9.14.
beatus qui amat te et amicum in te et inimicum propter te. solus enim nullum carum amittit cui omnes in illo cari sunt qui non amittitur. et quis est iste nisi deus noster?

 

Jurgis Blekaitis: That sad yet radiant knowledge

Your soul

When you died,
for several days the very depth of my eyes
was haunted by a dove,
white, restless, easily frightened.
No sooner did I catch a glimpse of it,
than it took wing, fluttered away,
and disappeared into the grayish twilight.
But my heart knew: It's you. Your soul.

And it was good - that sad yet radiant knowledge.
Autumn can be at times like that:
the quiet light, transformed to wisdom,
holds up to earth a sky wide open,
just like a mirror. And you can see the most minute
bud of emotion, quivering in your soul.
All is so clear it hurts:
the sky, the earth
and you yourself, lost in between,
yes, even death.

What you were I know and never shall forget:
A dove. White, easily frightened.

    --Jurgis Blekaitis (1916-2007), Lithuanian (translated by Vyt Bakaitis)

Leonardas Andriekus: Fill the emptiness of the skies with my grief

Sunset

This bloodfilled sunset
Promises nothing good--
Only a night without dawn:
With the emptiness of fallen stars,
With restless nightwatches,
With a painful glow.

I know all its promises,
The quick red flicker of flame
In the windows of home.
It will soon grow dark. Help me, Lord,
To drain this bitter cup
To the bottom.

It will grow dark. Change into an eyeblink
This long night without dawn,
Without love, without dreams.
Lord, fill the emptiness of the skies
With my grief,
Deepen the oceans.

I know that in the divine wholeness
Even the star that falls into the sea
Does not find only emptiness--
Let my grief engulf
This bloodfilled sunset
And this night without dawn.

    --Leonardas Andriekus (1914-2003), Lithuania (translated by Jonas Zdanys)

Leonardas Andriekus: I cannot weep

Amber

I cannot weep
I cannot wail,
My spirit is empty like a dried-up inlet.

Weep for me
Wail for me,
Little Baltic amber
Cast out by the sea in darkness.

Now only God--
With wind, wave, fishermen asleep--
Can hear you.
The sea does not love me,
Mourn, mourn, little amber,
For the fate that is ours.

    --Leonardas Andriekus (1914-2003), Lithuania
(Translated by Demie Jonaitis)

Leonardas Andriekus: Prayer

You know how fragile our minds are, Lord.
In your unlimited wisdom,
Strengthen me that, when grasshoppers fiddle in the fields,
My heart won't break with grieving.

The dream and the reality, to me, are one--
I yearn for storied names and places;
Strengthen me, Lord, that before death awhile
Grasshoppers and I might be merry together.

    --Leonardas Andriekus (1914-2003), Lithuania
(translated by Demie Jonaitas)

Irish blessing on the dead

May they rest in the company of the saints,
and their sons and daughters with them.

     --Irish blessing

Leaba imeasc na naomh go raibh acu
agus ag an chlann mac is iníon atá leo.

Górecki, Polish folk song: Where has he gone, my dearest son?

Where has he gone,
My dearest son?
Perhaps during the uprising
The cruel enemy killed him

Ah, you bad people
In the name of God, the most Holy,
Tell me, why did you kill
My son?

Never again
Will I have his support
Even if I cry
My old eyes out

Were my bitter tears
to create another River Oder
They would not restore to life
My son

He lies in his grave
and I know not where
Though I keep asking people
Everywhere

Perhaps the poor child
Lies in a rough ditch
and instead he could have been
lying in his warm bed

Oh, sing for him
God's little song-birds
Since his mother
Cannot find him

And you, God's little flowers
May you blossom all around
So that my son
May sleep happily

                

   --Polish folk song in the dialect of the Opole region, set to music by Górecki in his Third Symphony; translated by: Unknown [Please tell me if you know]

Kajze mi sie podziol
moj synocek mily?
Pewnie go w powstaniu
zle wrogi zabily.

Wy niedobrzy ludzie,
dlo Boga swietego
cemuscie zabili
synocka mojego?

Zodnej jo podpory
juz nie byda miala,
chocbych moje stare
ocy wyplakala.

Chocby z mych lez gorkich
drugo Odra byla,
jesce by synocka
mi nie ozywila.

Lezy on tam w grobie,
a jo nie wiem kandy
choc sie opytuja
miedzy ludzmi wsandy.

Moze nieborocek
lezy kay w dolecku,
a moglby se lygac
na swoim przypiecku.

Ej, cwierkejcie mu tam,
wy ptosecki boze,
kiedy mamulicka
znalezc go nie moze.

A ty, boze kwiecie,
kwitnijze w okolo,
niech sie synockowi
choc lezy wesolo