Come Gather Round Me, Carmelites

St. John of the Cross

Come gather round me, Carmelites,
And praise our chosen man;
Stand upright on your legs awhile
Stand upright while you can.
For soon we go where he has gone,
His bones are underground;
Come sling those holy rosaries
And let the chant resound.

And here’s a cogent reason,
And I have many more
He shunned all use of footwear
Preferring to be poor
Whatever light a dark night’s got
He brought it all to be
And here’s the happy reason:
That St. John saw no “me.”

Spanish Johnnie was a poet;
And one of such a kind
Each Spanish man that sings a song
Keeps St. John in his mind.
Yet Johnnie was a humble man,
Who fought the devil down,
And a humble man's a mighty man,
So pass the wine cup round. 

The Prior and his party
A tragic story made,
This martyr throw in prison
And twice-fortnightly flayed;
But poems that live longest
Are written in distress,
And St. John wrote his Canticle
And St. John passed his test.

-- Stephen K. Roney (after W.B. Yeats).

The Dark Night of the Soul

St. John of the Cross

I've taken a stab at this before, but here's another product of the local blackout a few nights ago: my interpretation of St. John of the Cross's "Dark Night of the Soul." This is a less literal translation than my previous try, in order to make it work better, I think, in English.

In velvet night, on fire with violent longing—oh sweet chance—
I slipped away unseen; my household still and dumb, like smoke suspended.

Safe in the blanketing darkness, by unsuspected ladder, reflecting someone else—oh blissful chance—
Invisible and silent; our dead world sleeping still.

In the delirious void, unwhispered and unknown, disturbing no moonbeams
Naked with blindness, no wayfinder but the unsteady torch burning down my heart.

This flame a truer guide than gaudy noon
To the place where I remembered he had been
A place where no one was, and none appeared.

Darkness itself led me—night brighter than the dawn.
Brilliant night that interlaces lover and belovéd, two transformed.

Upon my restless breast, all his alone
He rested, sleeping; I caressed. A cedar detonation filled the room.

A gentle breath swept in from some high keep. I lost my fingers in his hair;
His fingers found and touched my neck: all senses fled.

One remained, forgetting everything. My head was somewhere on his breast.
Everything ended. Even me. All cares or caresses were lost among lilies.

-- Stephen K. Roney

The Dark Night of the Soul

My interpretation of the finest lyric in Spanish, St. John of the Cross's "Dark Night of the Soul.":

In blackest night, on fire with desperate longing—oh bliss of chance—

I escaped unseen; my household still and ignorant, like smoke suspended.

Safe in the covering darkness, by the secret ladder, disguised as someone else—oh bliss of chance—

Dark, unseen, unknown; my household sleeping still.

In the delirious night, unwhispered and unnoticed, troubling no beams

And stark with blindness, no light, no wayfinder but the torch burning down my heart.

This torch a truer guide than gaudy noon

To the place where I remembered he had always awaited me

A place where no one was, and none appeared.

Night itself led me—night lovelier than the dawn.

Brilliant night that interlaces lover and belovéd, both transformed.

Upon my scented breast, all his and his alone

He rested, sleeping; I caressed. The breath of distant cedars filled the room.

A wind swept in from high watchtower. My fingers parted hair;

His fingers brushed my neck: all senses left.

Someone remained, forgetting everything. My head was fallen, on his breast.

Everything ended, even me. All cares disappeared among lilies.

I disagree with St. John's theology, but he sure can write.