The Art of Poetry
Look at the river made of time and water,
and remember that time is itself a river.
Know that we are lost, just like that river,
and that faces slip away, just like that water.
Feel how waking is another kind of sleep,
another kind of dream, and that the death
our flesh is frightened of is the very same death
we die every night when we go to sleep.
See in each day and in each year a symbol
of all the days of man, of all of his years.
Turn the indignities of all of these years
into music, into voices, into a symbol.
See death as sleep, and see in the sunset
a sad sort of gold. Such is poetry,
poor and immortal. Such is poetry,
that returns like dawn and the sunset.
Sometimes in the evening there is a face
staring back at us from the depths of the mirror.
Art ought to be something like that mirror
revealing to us our own proper face.
They say that Ulysses, tired of wonders,
wept tears of love to behold Ithaca,
green and humble. Art is Ithaca,
green eternity, not a place of wonders.
And art is also an unending river.
It comes and goes, a mirror of the same
shifting Heraclitus, who was himself the same
and yet somehow another, an unending river.
Arte Poética
Mirar el río hecho de tiempo y agua
Y recordar que el tiempo es otro río,
Saber que nos perdemos como el río
Y que los rostros pasan como el agua.
Sentir que la vigilia es otro sueño
Que sueña no soñar y que la muerte
Que teme nuestra carne es esa muerte
De cada noche, que se llama sueño.
Ver en el día o en el año un símbolo
De los días del hombre y de sus años,
Convertir el ultraje de los años
En una música, un rumor y un símbolo.
Ver en la muerte el sueño, en el ocaso
Un triste oro, tal es la poesía
Que es inmortal y pobre. La poesía
Vuelve como la aurora y el ocaso.
A veces en las tardes una cara
Nos mira desde el fondo de un espejo;
El arte debe ser como ese espejo
Que nos revela nuestra propia cara.
Cuentan que Ulises, harto de prodigios,
Lloró de amor al divisar su Itaca
Verde y humilde. El arte es esa Itaca
De verde eternidad, no de prodigios.
También es como el río interminable
Que pasa y queda y es cristal de un mismo
Heráclito inconstante, que es el mismo
Y es otro, como el río interminable.
Ars Poetica
To look at the river made of time and water
And remember that time is another river,
To know that we are lost like the river
And that faces dissolve like water.
To be aware that waking dreams it is not asleep
While it is another dream, and that the death
That our flesh goes in fear of is that death
Which comes every night and is called sleep.
To see in the day or in the year a symbol
Of the days of man and of his years,
To transmute the outrage of the years
Into a music, a murmur of voices, and a symbol.
To see in death sleep, and in the sunset
A sad gold—such is poetry,
Which is immortal and poor. Poetry
returns like the dawn and the sunset.
At times in the evenings a face
Looks at us out of the depths of a mirror;
Art should be like that mirror
Which reveals to us our own face.
They say that Ulysses, sated with marvels,
Wept tears of love at the sight of his Ithaca,
Green and humble. Art is that Ithaca
Of green eternity, not of marvels.
It is also like the river with no end
That flows and remains and is the mirror of one same
Inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
And is another, like the river with no end.
Jorge Luis Borges, 1899-1986
“The Art of Poetry” (translated by Paul Weinfield) / “Arte Poética” / “Ars Poetica” (translated by William S. Merwin)
© 1960 Jorge Luis Borges
Photo by Maksym Pozniak-Haraburda on Unsplash
