Jorge Guillén was a member of the Generation of ’27, a group of avant-garde Spanish poets who continued meeting until the Spanish Civil War. “Unos amigos” references the group’s initial encounter in Sevilla, in December 1927, to celebrate the 300th anniversary of the death of Baroque poet Luis de Góngora. The poem was published in Guillén’s collection “Y Otros Poemas” in 1973. The manuscript, in Guillén’s original handwriting, can be found in Harvard’s Houghton Library. No English translation has been published.
Some Friends
December 1927
Is that moment already a myth?
Myth collecting a firm core
Thus it does not evaporate, mythical
Its workdays clear with hope.
Hope in action, so jovial,
Without posturing, academic or theoretical,
Without youth’s arrogance bursting in,
Redemptive among the shards,
The enthusiasm visible
Diluted in light, in the atmosphere
Of fervor and of friendship.
The keepsake of a journey
Lingers in our memories.
We went to Sevilla.
Who? Some friends
Through casual contacts,
A chance that turned out to be fate:
Happy relationships
Among those who, though only boys,
Discovered tastes, preferences
In each other, common in their root.
Poetry!
And we went to the South.
Salinas the Humane stayed in Madrid.
As did Aleixandre
—with that strong poet’s solitude.
And in Malaga two others, unforgettable.
Sevilla.
And Luis Cernuda came up together with the Betis.
(Salvador Plaza.
Softly he says to me:
I like that image:
“Alright then, radiator, winter’s nightingale.”
Alberti, Rafael. Such a little bullfighter
To have been so great a matador.
Dámaso so intensely kindhearted,
His talent gushing over.
Bergamín the Subtle,
Master in his labyrinth. Ariadne left over.
Gerardo Diego, all serious,
Sets off at once on a caper.
It’s an hola! to his Lola.
Chabás – “with a voice like stubble” –
Smiles always from his East.
And then Federico.
Oh, those hospitable Sevillans!
There with Joaquín Romero at their head,
Great future warder of his own Alcázar
Company, cheerful company.
To live is inevitable.
To envy—what for?—is not inevitable.
An agreement arises
Tying together without tying down.
Each voice, already distinct,
Never is confused
—Right, great don Antonio?— with echos.
The calling issues its mandate.
Happy coincidence:
There were mothers inspired
And there were poets born, yes, possibly.
Everything was to be done.
Was it done?
It began to be done, it’s being done.
Enthusiasm, enthusiasm.
The excursion is over
Together now forever.
By Victoria Baena ’14
Manuscript photos courtesy of Harvard’s Houghton Library.
