Recital: Ana Mora '21 GD, Mezzo-Soprano

Chacarera

A mí me gustan las ñatas
Y una ñata me ha tocado
Ñato será el casamiento
Y más ñato el resultado.
Cuando canto chacareras
Me dan ganas de llorar
Porque se me representa 
Catamarca y Tucumán.

Chacarera

I love girls with little snub noses
and a snub-nose girl is what I've got.
Ours will be a snub-nose wedding
and snub-nosed children will be our lot.
Whenever I sing a chacarera
it makes me want to cry,
because it takes me back to 
Catamarca and Tucumán.

Triste

Ah!
Debajo de un limón verde
Donde el agua no corría
Entregué mi corazón
A quien no lo merecía.
Ah!
Triste es el día sin sol
Triste es la noche sin luna
Pero más triste es querer
Sin esperanza ninguna. 
Ah!

Sad

Ah!
Beneath a lime tree
where no water flowed
I gave up my heart
to one who did not deserve it.
Ah!
Sad is the sunless day.
Sad is the moonless night.
But sadder still is to love
with no hope at all. 
Ah!

Zamba

Hasta las piedras del cerro
Y las arenas del mar
Me dicen que no te quiera
Y no te puedo olvidar.
Si el corazón me has robado
El tuyo me lo has de dar
El que lleva cosa ajena
Con lo suyo ha de pagar 
Ay!

Zamba

Even the stones on the hillside
and the sand in the sea
tell me not to love you.
But I cannot forget you.
If you have stolen my heart
then you must give me yours.
He who takes what is not his
must return it in kind. 
Ay!

Arrorró

Arrorró mi nene,
Arrorró mi sol,
Arrorró pedazo
De mi corazón.
Este nene lindo 
Se quiere dormir 
Y el pícaro sueño
No quiere venir.

Lullaby

Lullaby my baby;
lullaby my sunshine;
lullaby part
of my heart.
This pretty baby 
wants to sleep 
and that fickle sleep
won’t come.

Gato

El gato de mi casa
Es muy gauchito
Pero cuando lo bailan
Zapateadito.
Guitarrita de pino
Cuerdas de alambre.
Tanto quiero a las chicas,
Digo, como a las grandes.
Esa moza que baila
Mucho la quiero
Pero no para hermana
Que hermana tengo.
Que hermana tengo
Si, pónte al frente
Aunque no sea tu dueño, 
Digo, me gusta verte.

Anonymous

Gato

The cat of the house
is most mischievous,
but when they dance,
they stamp their feet.
With pine guitars
and wire strings.
I like the small girls
as much as the big ones.
That girl dancing
is the one for me.
Not as a sister
I have one already.
I have a sister.
Yes, come to the front.
I may not be your master
but I like to see you. 

Translation© Jacqueline Cockburn. Text and translation provided courtesy of Oxford Lieder (www.oxfordlieder.co.uk)

No, non è morto il figlio tuo

No, non è morto il figlio tuo;
Oh, non è morto, non è morto.
Se n'è andato pel giardino:
Ha raccolto tante rose;
Se n'è inghirlandata la fronte:
Ed ora dorme al loro dolce odore.

Anonymous

No, your son is not dead

No, your son is not dead,
Oh, he’s not dead, not dead.
He has gone off to the garden.
He has picked many roses;
He has adorned his forehead with them.
And now he sleeps to their sweet smell..

Translation by Ana Mora 

La mamma è come il pane caldo

La mamma è come il pane caldo:
Chi ne mangia si sente pago.
Il babbo è come il vino schietto:
Chi ne beve si sente ebbro.
Il fratello è come il sole: 
Esso schiara monti e valli. 

Anonymous

Mother is like warm bread

Mother is like warm bread:
Whoever eats it feels satisfied.
Father is like strong wine:
Whoever drinks it feels inebriated.
Brother is like the sun:  
He brightens the mountain and valley.

Translation by Ana Mora

Io sono la Madre

Io sono la Madre…
Per sempre, per sempre è partito
Il Figliuolo mio crocefisso.
Io sono la Madre…
Ho le pupille, ho le pupille fisse
Su la strada senza fine,
Dov'è passato il mio Signore.
Io sono il Cuore, dolore e lagrima,
Il pianto di colui ch'è morto.
Io sono la Madre, Mariam,
L'ora dell'angoscia che freme d'intorno,
La mano lucente del mio Figliuolo  
Che si è crocefisso. Io sono la Madre.

Anonymous

I am the Mother

I am the Mother…
Forever, forever is departed
My crucified son.
I am the Mother…
I have my eyes, I have my eyes fixed
On the street without end
Where my Lord passed.
I am the Heart, sad and weeping,
The tear of he who is dead.
I am the Mother, Mary,
The hour of agony which chills the inside,
The illuminated hand of my son
Who is crucified. I am the Mother. 

Translation by Ana Mora

The flute of Pan

For Hyacinthus day he gave me a syrinx
made ofcarefully cut reeds, bonded with
white wax which tastessweet to my lips like
honey.

He teaches me to play, as I sit on his lap; but I
ama little fearful. He plays it after me, so
gently that Iscarcely hear him.

We have nothing to say, so close are we one
toanother, but our songs try to answer each
other, andour mouths join in turn on the
flute. 

It is late; here is the song of the green frogs
that begins with the night. My mother will
never believe I stayed out so long to look for
my lost sash.

La chevelure

Il m’a dit: «Cette nuit, j’ai rêvé. J’avais ta chevelure
autour de mon cou. J’avais tes cheveux comme un
collier noir autour de ma nuque et sur ma poitrine.


«Je les caressais, et c’étaient les miens; et nous 
étions liés pour toujours ainsi, par la même
chevelurela bouche sur la bouche, ainsi que deux
lauriers n’ont souvent qu’une racine.

«Et peu à peu, il m’a semblé, tant nos membres
étaient confondus, que je devenais toi-même ou que
tu entrais en moi comme mon songe.»


Quand il eut achevé, il mit doucement ses mains
surmes épaules, et il me regarda d’un regard si
tendre,que je baissai les yeux avec un frisson.

The tresses of hair

He said to me: ‘Last night I dreamed. I had
yourtresses around my neck. I had your hair
like a blacknecklace all round my nape and
over my breast.

‘I caressed it and it was mine; and we
were united thus for ever by the same tresses, 
mouth on mouth, just as two laurels often
share one root. 

‘And gradually it seemed to me, so inter-
twined were our limbs, that I was becoming
you, or you were entering into me like a
dream.’

When he had finished, he gently set his hands
on my shoulders and gazed at me so tenderly
that I lowered my eyes with a shiver.

Le tombeau des Naïades

Le long du bois couvert de givre, je marchais; mes
cheveuxdevant ma bouche se fleurissaient de petits
glaçons, etmes sandales étaient lourdes de neige
fangeuse et tassée.

Il me dit: «Que cherches-tu?»—«Je suis la trace du
satyre.Ses petits pas fourchus alternent comme des
trous dansun manteau blanc.» Il me dit: «Les
satyres sont morts.

«Les satyres et les nymphes aussi. Depuis trente
ans iln’a pas fait un hiver aussi terrible. La trace
que tu vois estcelle d’un bouc. Mais restons ici, où
est leur tombeau.»

Et avec le fer de sa houe il cassa la glace de la
sourceoù jadis riaient les naïades. Il prenait de
grandsmorceaux froids, et les soulevant vers le ciel
pâle, ilregardait au travers.


Pierre Louÿs

The tomb of the Naiads

Along the frost-bound wood I walked; my
hair acrossmy mouth, blossomed with tiny
icicles, and mysandals were heavy with
muddy, packed snow.

He said to me: ‘What do you seek?’ ‘I follow
the satyr’s track.His little cloven hoof-marks
alternate like holes ina white cloak.’ He said
to me: ‘The satyrs are dead.

‘The satyrs and the nymphs too. For thirty
years therehas not been so harsh a winter.
The tracks you see are thoseof a goat. But let
us stay here, where their tomb is.’

And with the iron head of his hoe he broke
the ice ofthe spring, where the naiads used to
laugh. He picked upsome huge cold
fragments, and, raising them to the pale sky, 
gazed through them.

Translation © Richard Stokes, from A French Song Companion (Oxford, 2000) provided courtesy of Oxford Lieder-www.oxfordlieder.co.uk

Cuba dentro de un piano

Cuando mi madre llevaba un sorbete de fresa por
sombreroy el humo de los barcos aún era humo de
habanero.

Mulata vueltabajera … 
Cádiz se adormecía entre fandangos y habaneras
y un lorito al piano quería hacer de tenor.
… dime dónde está la flor que el hombre tanto
venera.
Mi tío Antonio volvía con su aire de insurrecto.

La Cabaña y el Príncipe sonaban por los patios del        Puerto.
(Ya no brilla la Perla azul del mar de las Antillas.
|Ya se apagó, se nos ha muerto.)
Me encontré con la bella Trinidad …
Cuba se había perdido y ahora era verdad.
Era verdad,
no era mentira.
Un cañonero huido llegó cantándolo en guajira.
La Habana ya se perdió.
Tuvo la culpa el dinero …
Calló,
cayó el cañonero.
Pero después, pero ¡ah! después
fue cuando al SÍ
lo hicieron YES.

Rafael Alberti

Cuba in a piano

When my mother wore a strawberry ice for a
hatand the smoke from the boats was still
Havana smoke.

Mulata from Vuelta Abajo … 
Cadiz was falling asleep to fandango and habanera
and a little parrot at the piano tried to sing tenor.
… tell me, where is the flower that a man can really
respect.
My uncle Anthony would come home in his rebellious way.

The Cabaña and El Príncipe resounded in the
patios of the port.
(But the blue pearl of the Carribean shines no more.  Extinguished. For us no more.)
I met beautiful Trinidad …
Cuba was lost, this time it was true.
True
and not a lie.
A gunner on the run arrived, sang Cuban songs about it all.
Havana was lost
and money was to blame …
The gunner went silent,
and fell.
But later, ah, later
they changed SÍ
to YES.
 

Punto de Habañera

La niña criolla pasa con su miriñaque blanco.
¡Qué blanco!
¡Hola! Crespón de tu espuma;
¡Marineros, contempladla!
Va mojadita de lunas
que le hacen su piel mulata;
Niña no te quejes,
tan solo por esta tarde.
Quisiera mandar al agua que no se escape de pronto
de la cárcel de tu falda.
Tu cuerpo encierra esta tarde 
rumor de abrirse de dalia. 
Niña no te quejes,
tu cuerpo de fruta está
dormido en fresco brocado.
Tu cintura vibra fina
con la nobleza de un látigo,
toda tu piel huele alegre
a limonal y naranjo.
Los marineros te miran
y se te quedan mirando.
La niña criolla pasa con su miriñaque blanco.
¡Qué blanco!

Nestor Luján

Habanera Rhythm

The Creole girl goes by in her white crinoline.
How white!
The billowing spray of your crepe skirt!
Sailors, look at her!
She passes gleaming in the moonlight
which darkens her skin.
Young girl, do not complain,
only for tonight
do I wish the water not to suddenly escape
the prison of your skirt.
In your body this evening 
dwells the sound of opening dahlias.
Young girl, do not complain,
your ripe body
sleeps in fresh brocade,
your waist quivers
as proud as a whip,
every inch of you skin is gloriously fragrant
with orange and lemon trees.
The sailors look at you
and feast their eyes on you.
The Creole girl goes by in her white crinoline.
How white!

Chévere

Chévere del navajazo,
se vuelve él mismo navaja:
pica tajadas de luna,
mas la luna se le acaba;
pica tajadas de sombra,
mas la sombra se le acaba;
pica tajadas de canto,
mas el canto se le acaba;
y entonces pica que pica
carne de su negra mala. 

Nicolás Guillén

The Dandy

The dandy of the knife thrust
himself becomes a knife:
he cuts slices of the moon,
but the moon is fading on him;
he cuts slices of shadow,
but the shadow is fading on him,
he cuts slices of song,
but the song is fading on him;
and then he cuts up, cuts up
the flesh of his evil black woman.

Canción de cuna para dormir un negrito

Ninghe, ninghe, ninghe,
tan chiquitito,
el negrito
que no quiere dormir.
Cabeza de coco,
grano de café,
con lindas motitas,
con ojos grandotes
como dos ventanas
que miran al mar.
Cierra los ojitos,
negrito asustado;
el mandinga blanco
te puede comer. 
¡Ya no eres esclavo!
Y si duermes mucho,
el señor de casa
promete comprar
traje con botones
para ser un ‘groom’.
Ninghe, ninghe, ninghe,
duérmete, negrito,
cabeza de coco,
grano de café.

Ildefonso Pereda Valdés

Lullaby for a little black boy

Lullay, lullay, lullay,
tiny little child,
little boy,
who won’t go to sleep.
Head like a coconut,
head like a coffee bean,
with pretty freckles
and wide eyes
like two windows
looking out to sea.
Close your tiny eyes,
frightened little boy,
or the white devil
will eat you up. 
You’re no longer a slave!
And if you sleep soundly,
the master of the house
promises to buy
a suit with buttons
to make you a ‘groom’.
Lullay, lullay, lullay,
sleep, little boy,
head like a coconut,
head like a coffee bean.

Canto negro

¡Yambambó, yambambé!
Repica el congo solongo,
repica el negro bien negro.
congo solongo del Songo
baila yambó sobre un pie.

Mamatomba,
serembé cuserembá,

El negro canta y se ajuma.
el negro se ajuma y canta.
el negro canta y se va.

Acuememe serembó
aé,
yambó
aé.

Tamba, tamba, tamba, tamba,
tamba del negro que tumba,
tamba del negro, caramba,
caramba, que el negro tumba,
¡Yambá, yambó, yambambé!

Nicolás Guillén

Black Song

Yambambó, yambambé!
The congo solongo is ringing,
the black man, the real black man is ringing;
congo solongo from the Songo
is dancing the yambó on one foot.

Mamatomba,
Serembe cuserembá.

The black man sings and gets drunk,
the black man gets drunk and sings,
the black man sings and goes away.

Acuememe serembó
aé,
yambó
aé.

Bam, bam, bam, bam,
bam of the black man who tumbles;
drum of the black man, wow,
wow, how the black man's tumbling! 
¡Yambá, yambó, yambambé!

Translations by Jacqueline Cockburn and Richard Stokes published in The Spanish Song Companion (Gollancz, 1992, provided courtesy of Oxford Lieder (www.oxfordlieder.co.uk)