Man carrying an ox goad on his back

4.   Night Delivery of Lumber     (Pol-o baixo cantando)

(Queixumes dos Pinos, 1886)

Translator's Notes

"Pol-o baixo cantando" contains several reverse sentences (1.1-8, 1.11-12, 1.13, 2.3-4, 2.5-6, 2.9-10). A reverse sentence transposes the logical flow for the sake of rhyme or a flowery style. For example the sentence, "They bunch together in dark and shapeless mass" (2.3-4) was originally, "In dark and shapeless mass they bunch together." Such sentences are a common feature of Pondal's and of Spanish poetry as a whole because they yield a rhetorical effect in the original language. However a direct translation of the feature into English can yield confusing prose. Consider the first eight lines of "Pol-o baixo cantando" translated verse by verse,

Singing softly,
The good man from Bergantiños,
Ox goad slung across the back
And cutting a fine figure,
Who delivers to Ponte-Ceso
On a night of bright moonlight,
With grave bearing, a cartload of lumber
(Preceding him perhaps)

To obviate this kind of garbled text most reverse sentences found in the eleven poems were recomposed in translation.

Lexicon of Proper Nouns

Pol-o baixo cantando,
O bóo bergantiñan,
Co' aguillada o lombo,
E garboso ademan;
Q' a Ponte-Ceso leva,
En noite de luar,
Grave o carro de táboas,
Anteposto quezáis;
Por cousas que n'esprica,
D' un fondo e vago afan;
Mil escuras suidades,
Ceibando ós ecos vái;
E da pátria a pungente servidume,
Parece recordar.

Ó pé do castro verde,
Ben' os mira ó pasar;
Q' en masa escura e informe,
Ajuntados están,
E na nativa costa,
Os escuita fungar:
Parécelle que soan,
Intrépido compás,
Cuida que do combate,
Murmuran o siñal;
En escadron formados,
Cal gente de Breogán,
En falange de ferro ben tecida,
Que s' aprest' a luitar.

On a night of bright moonlight
The good man from Bergantiños who
Singing softly,
Ox goad slung across the back
And cutting a fine figure
Delivers a cartload of lumber
(Preceding him perhaps)
To Ponte-Ceso with grave bearing—
For reasons he can't explain—
From a deep indefinite strife—
Walks along releasing to echoes
A thousand obscure yearnings,
And the painful bondage of the homeland
He seems to remember.

At the foot of the green ancient-hill-fort
He stares in passing at the ones
That bunch together
In dark and shapeless mass
And he hears them rumble
On the native coastland:
He thinks they sound
A brave cadence,
He imagines they murmur
The signal for combat
Arranged in squadrons
Like people of Breogán,
In well-knit phalanx of iron
Preparing to fight.