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Poetry Magazine
Academy of American Poets - Bulletin, August 2006.
Cesar Vallejo Black Stone Lying On A White Stone, My brother Miguel (Translations: Robert Bly)
Austin Poets - Lance Williams
Phoenix New Life Poetry (David Alen Stringer)
Poems. Selected from 'Mother Blood" (by Rolando Sifuentes, Cecilia Bustamante)
Literature - Poems by Peruvian-American Poet Cecilia Bustamante.
Austin Poets. International Poetry Day - Thom Woodruff (worldpoet@rocketmail.com)
Austin Poets - Ric Williams
Austin Poets: ric@austinchronicle.com

Poesa : English

Cesar Vallejo Black Stone Lying On A White Stone, My brother Miguel (Translations: Robert Bly)
Robert Bly

César Vallejo

César Abraham Vallejo was born on March 16, 1892, in Santiago de Chuco, an isolated town in north central Perú. Vallejo's grandmothers were Chimu Indians and both of his grandfathers, by a strange coincidence, were Spanish Catholic priests. He was the youngest of eleven children and grew up in a home saturated with religious devotion. Vallejo entered the School of Philosophy and Letters at Trujillo University in 1910, but had to drop out for lack of money. Between 1908 and 1913, he started and stopped his college education several times, working in the meantime as a tutor and in the accounts department on a large sugar estate. At the sugar estate, Vallejo saw thousands of workers arrive in the courtyard at dawn to work in the fields until nightfall for a few cents a day and a fistful of rice. Seeing this devastated Vallejo and later inspired both his poetry and his politics.

Black Stone Lying On A White Stone

by César Vallejo
Translated by Robert Bly

 I will die in Paris, on a rainy day, 

on some day I can already remember.
I will die in Paris--and I don't step aside--
perhaps on a Thursday, as today is Thursday, in autumn.

It will be a Thursday, because today, Thursday, setting down
these lines, I have put my upper arm bones on
wrong, and never so much as today have I found myself
with all the road ahead of me, alone.

César Vallejo is dead. Everyone beat him
although he never does anything to them;
they beat him hard with a stick and hard also

with a rope. These are the witnesses:
the Thursdays, and the bones of my arms,
the solitude, and the rain, and the roads. . .


To My Brother Miguel in memoriam
by César Vallejo
Translated by Robert Bly

Brother, today I sit on the brick bench outside the house, 
where you make a bottomless emptiness.
I remember we used to play at this hour of the day, and mama
would calm us: "There now, boys..."
Now I go hide
as before, from all these evening
prayers, and I hope that you will not find me.
In the parlor, the entrance hall, the corridors.
Later, you hide, and I do not find you.
I remember we made each other cry,
brother, in that game.

Miguel, you hid yourself
one nigbt in August, nearly at daybreak,
but instead of laughing when you hid, you were sad.
And your other heart of those dead afternoons
is tired of looking and not finding you. And now
shadows fall on the soul.

Listen, brother, don't be too late
coming out. All right? Mama might worry.

From Neruda and Vallejo: Selected Poems. Edited by Robert Bly, Beacon Press, Boston, 1971, 1990. Copyright © 1993 by Robert Bly. Used with his permission.

By Cesar Vallejo, translated and edited by Robert Bly, and published by Beacon Press in Neruda & Vallejo: Selected Poems. © 1971 by Robert Bly. Used with permission. All rights reserved.

Robert Bly.  "Cesar Vallejo Black Stone Lying On A White Stone, My brother Miguel (Translations: Robert Bly) ."  Extramares.  Ed.  Cecilia Bustamante.  Austin: Editorial Poetas Antiimperialistas de América.  23 de Junio de 2006.
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