Being part of, and working for, the labor movement in this particular historical moment is, as Iron Reagan would say, grim business. Union membership in the United States is steadily declining, the fascists in power are taking unprecedented steps to strip federal, and ultimately all, workers of their rights, and union leadership at national and local levels has proven itself utterly unprepared and/or unwilling to fight (when they're not offering to collaborate, that is). Talking to a comrade about this not too long ago, they compared it to what it must've felt like in the 1920s, another historical low point for organized labor. While I have little faith in the spineless, rules-bound crop of leadership American unions are currently burdened with, thinking on a longer timescale does sustain my belief that the working class will find a way through, just like they did a hundred years ago. Whether that happens in my lifetime, how bloody it'll be, and where we end up, remains to be seen. Nothing is inevitable.
The rough draft of the Lila Ripoll translation below isn't necessarily related to the musings above, though I imagine that as a communist militant, Ripoll gave a fair amount of thought to the state of the working class in mid-20th century Brazil. I translated this poem because of one specific phrase that really struck me, and which of course I haven't translated to my satisfaction: "Só minha janela é escura / dentro da noite estrelada."
Até,
DAS
-----
"Cantiga"
Lila Ripoll
Distraio-me a olhar a rua
e a noite iluminada.
Só minha janela é escura
dentro da noite estrelada.
Distraio-me a olhar a rua
que é fita larga e comprida.
Triste ofício este de olhar
sem tomar parte na vida!
Os poetas cantam, não choram.
Por isso estou a cantar.
Se às vezes a voz é triste,
é porque o peito cansado
geme em vez de suspirar.
Suspiro, verso, saudade,
tudo música, afinal!
Eu canto porque suspiro,
suspiro pra não chorar.
Sei que com o meu ofício,
que é o ofício de cantar,
posso semear esperanças,
posso o futuro plantar!
Que pode sonhar um poeta,
senão repartir venturas?
Poeta, irmão, sonhemos juntos
um mundo sem amarguras.
Sonhemos juntos, plantemos.
A terra está como um fruto
em pleno amadurecer.
Espalhemos nossos versos,
como quem joga sementes,
para a terra devolver.
-----
"Song"
Lila Ripoll
I distract myself by watching the street
and the brightly-lit night.
Mine is the only dark window
within the starry night.
I distract myself by watching the street,
a long, wide ribbon.
What sad business this is, looking
without taking part in life!
Poets sing, they don't weep.
That's why I'm singing.
If at times my voice is sad,
it's because my tired heart
moans instead of sighs.
Sigh, verse, longing,
it's all music in the end!
I sing because I sigh,
I sigh so I don't weep.
I know that in my role,
which is to sing,
I can sow hope,
I can plant the future!
What can a poet dream of,
if not to share good fortune?
Poet, brother, let us dream together
of a world without bitterness.
Let us dream together, plant together.
The earth is like a fruit
in full ripeness.
We will spread our verses
like those who cast seeds
for the earth to return them.
