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The Sonnets
This landmark collection brings together for the first time in any language all of the sonnets of Jorge Luis Borges. More intimate and personally revealing than his fiction, and more classical in form than the inventive metafictions that are his hallmark, the sonnets reflect Borges in full maturity, paying homage to many of his literary and philosophical paragons-Cervantes, Milton, Whitman, Emerson, Joyce, Spinoza-while at the same time engaging the mysteries immanent in the quotidian. A distinguished team of translators-Edith Grossman, Willis Barnstone, John Updike, Mark Strand, Robert Fitzgerald, Alastair Reid, Charles Tomlinson, and Stephen Kessler-lend their gifts to these sonnets, many of which appear here in English for the first time, and all of which accompany their Spanish originals on facing pages.
For more than seventy years, Penguin has been the leading publisher of classic literature in the English-speaking world. With more than 1,700 titles, Penguin Classics represents a global bookshelf of the best works throughout history and across genres and disciplines. Readers trust the series to provide authoritative texts enhanced by introductions and notes by distinguished scholars and contemporary authors, as well as up-to-date translations by award-winning translators.
336 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2010
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About the author
Jorge Luis Borges
1,589 books14.3k followersJorge Francisco Isidoro Luis Borges Acevedo was an Argentine short-story writer, essayist, poet and translator regarded as a key figure in Spanish-language and international literature. His best-known works, Ficciones (transl. Fictions) and El Aleph (transl. The Aleph), published in the 1940s, are collections of short stories exploring motifs such as dreams, labyrinths, chance, infinity, archives, mirrors, fictional writers and mythology. Borges's works have contributed to philosophical literature and the fantasy genre, and have had a major influence on the magic realist movement in 20th century Latin American literature.
Born in Buenos Aires, Borges later moved with his family to Switzerland in 1914, where he studied at the Collège de Genève. The family travelled widely in Europe, including Spain. On his return to Argentina in 1921, Borges began publishing his poems and essays in surrealist literary journals. He also worked as a librarian and public lecturer. In 1955, he was appointed director of the National Public Library and professor of English Literature at the University of Buenos Aires. He became completely blind by the age of 55. Scholars have suggested that his progressive blindness helped him to create innovative literary symbols through imagination. By the 1960s, his work was translated and published widely in the United States and Europe. Borges himself was fluent in several languages.
In 1961, he came to international attention when he received the first Formentor Prize, which he shared with Samuel Beckett. In 1971, he won the Jerusalem Prize. His international reputation was consolidated in the 1960s, aided by the growing number of English translations, the Latin American Boom, and by the success of Gabriel García Márquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude. He dedicated his final work, The Conspirators, to the city of Geneva, Switzerland. Writer and essayist J.M. Coetzee said of him: "He, more than anyone, renovated the language of fiction and thus opened the way to a remarkable generation of Spanish-American novelists."
Born in Buenos Aires, Borges later moved with his family to Switzerland in 1914, where he studied at the Collège de Genève. The family travelled widely in Europe, including Spain. On his return to Argentina in 1921, Borges began publishing his poems and essays in surrealist literary journals. He also worked as a librarian and public lecturer. In 1955, he was appointed director of the National Public Library and professor of English Literature at the University of Buenos Aires. He became completely blind by the age of 55. Scholars have suggested that his progressive blindness helped him to create innovative literary symbols through imagination. By the 1960s, his work was translated and published widely in the United States and Europe. Borges himself was fluent in several languages.
In 1961, he came to international attention when he received the first Formentor Prize, which he shared with Samuel Beckett. In 1971, he won the Jerusalem Prize. His international reputation was consolidated in the 1960s, aided by the growing number of English translations, the Latin American Boom, and by the success of Gabriel García Márquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude. He dedicated his final work, The Conspirators, to the city of Geneva, Switzerland. Writer and essayist J.M. Coetzee said of him: "He, more than anyone, renovated the language of fiction and thus opened the way to a remarkable generation of Spanish-American novelists."
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Displaying 1 - 26 of 26 reviews
November 13, 2011
I was quite surprised to find these – I hadn’t really thought about Borges the poet, certainly not Borges the writer of sonnets. Borges wrote these mostly after he had gone blind – the mnemonic qualities of sonnets, and poetry more generally, being an aid that allowed him to write in his mind. You know, of course, that all writing is rewriting. My favourite line about poetry is and probably always will be – one never finishes a poem, one abandons it.
And since these are written by a blind poet it is hardly surprising that there should be allusions to Milton and Homer. The poems on his own blindness are among the most interesting and moving in the collection.
Some of the poems in this volume are really remarkably good. Even the overtly religious poems are interesting in ways I didn’t expect. There are writers who are obsessed with images, that spend a lifetime thinking about the implications of a narrow collection of images that haunt them – here we find time and again the labyrinth, the mirror, oblivion, the shape of water, knifes and sword fights and, endlessly, time. And, of course, light and sight and inescapable and infinite darkness.
There are poems in honour of other writers, Keats, Joyce, Cervantes. There are journeys into the minds of people we might not want to inhabit – The Inquisitor, for example, “In the autos-da-fe I saw what my tongue / has put to death. I saw the righteous / pyres blazing and the tortured flesh, / the agony, the moaning and the stench.” I wonder if the forever-new shock of the merciless faithful calling the burning alive of heretics ‘autos-da-fe’ (acts of faith) will ever leave our nightmares?
I’ve always loved Blake’s The Sick Rose – as much for its ambiguity as anything else. So it is hardly surprising I would find this one interesting:
Blake
I wonder where the rose is that your hand
unknowingly uses to lavish intimate gifts?
Not in its color, as the flower is blind,
nor in its sweet, inexhaustible fragrance,
nor in the weight of a petal. All those things
are no more than a few of its lost echoes.
The real rose is very far away.
It can be a pillar or a battle
or a firmament of angels or an infinite
hidden yet necessary world,
or the joy of a god we will never see
or a silver planet in another sky
or a terrible archetype that doesn’t take
the form of a rose.
But mostly these are poems obsessed with our transience. I'm not sure I would call the attitude of these poems stoic, there is an anger to them too, about the ephemeral nature of our being that, even if ultimately pointless, is no less fierce. I think this is my favourite:
We Are Rivers
We are made of time. We are the famed
parable of Heraclitus the Obscure.
We are water, not the diamond that endures,
we get lost, not what finds repose.
We are the river and we are that old Greek
who sees himself in the river. His reflection
changes in the water of a changing mirror,
in glass that changes just the same as fire.
We’re the vain river on its fated course
towards the sea. Darkness closes in.
Everything says goodbye and flows away.
Memory will never mint its coin.
And nonetheless there’s something that remains.
And nonetheless there’s something that complains.
I read these in one sitting - I suspect I will read some of them again in many sittings.
And since these are written by a blind poet it is hardly surprising that there should be allusions to Milton and Homer. The poems on his own blindness are among the most interesting and moving in the collection.
Some of the poems in this volume are really remarkably good. Even the overtly religious poems are interesting in ways I didn’t expect. There are writers who are obsessed with images, that spend a lifetime thinking about the implications of a narrow collection of images that haunt them – here we find time and again the labyrinth, the mirror, oblivion, the shape of water, knifes and sword fights and, endlessly, time. And, of course, light and sight and inescapable and infinite darkness.
There are poems in honour of other writers, Keats, Joyce, Cervantes. There are journeys into the minds of people we might not want to inhabit – The Inquisitor, for example, “In the autos-da-fe I saw what my tongue / has put to death. I saw the righteous / pyres blazing and the tortured flesh, / the agony, the moaning and the stench.” I wonder if the forever-new shock of the merciless faithful calling the burning alive of heretics ‘autos-da-fe’ (acts of faith) will ever leave our nightmares?
I’ve always loved Blake’s The Sick Rose – as much for its ambiguity as anything else. So it is hardly surprising I would find this one interesting:
Blake
I wonder where the rose is that your hand
unknowingly uses to lavish intimate gifts?
Not in its color, as the flower is blind,
nor in its sweet, inexhaustible fragrance,
nor in the weight of a petal. All those things
are no more than a few of its lost echoes.
The real rose is very far away.
It can be a pillar or a battle
or a firmament of angels or an infinite
hidden yet necessary world,
or the joy of a god we will never see
or a silver planet in another sky
or a terrible archetype that doesn’t take
the form of a rose.
But mostly these are poems obsessed with our transience. I'm not sure I would call the attitude of these poems stoic, there is an anger to them too, about the ephemeral nature of our being that, even if ultimately pointless, is no less fierce. I think this is my favourite:
We Are Rivers
We are made of time. We are the famed
parable of Heraclitus the Obscure.
We are water, not the diamond that endures,
we get lost, not what finds repose.
We are the river and we are that old Greek
who sees himself in the river. His reflection
changes in the water of a changing mirror,
in glass that changes just the same as fire.
We’re the vain river on its fated course
towards the sea. Darkness closes in.
Everything says goodbye and flows away.
Memory will never mint its coin.
And nonetheless there’s something that remains.
And nonetheless there’s something that complains.
I read these in one sitting - I suspect I will read some of them again in many sittings.
July 7, 2011
I have now completed the five collections of poems, essays, and short stories published by Penguin in 2010. There was a time, not too long ago, when I would never have read a book of poetry from cover to cover. It is only recently that I discovered that each reading harvests new visions, unseen or unheard of in previous readings. If you do not "get" a particular poem, come back to it later. It will lie there waiting, and it may reveal its secret to you next time. Or it may not.
Borges's sonnets are miraculous. They are divided by the poet's loss of his sight in the 1950s. Before the shades descended, there was the old vivieza criolla, the tango, the obscure thieves' dialect of lunfardo, and the vision of knives flashing in the shabby suburbs of Buenos Aires. Here is a typical product of the first period:
In his blindness, Borges turned into the Tiresias of poetry, as in this lovely sonnet:
Borges's sonnets are miraculous. They are divided by the poet's loss of his sight in the 1950s. Before the shades descended, there was the old vivieza criolla, the tango, the obscure thieves' dialect of lunfardo, and the vision of knives flashing in the shabby suburbs of Buenos Aires. Here is a typical product of the first period:
Sonnet for a Tango in the TwilightWith the onset of blindness, all that streetcorner nostalgia turned into something more profound as Borges had to re-invent himself. In one of his last sonnets, he writes:
Who was it that said it all in a homegrown tango
Whose drawn-out, lovely sweetness made me pause
Under some unassuming little balconies
In that leafy neighborhood that isn't even yours?
All I know is that in its sorrow I saw a simple yard
Within whose earthen walls the whole sunset fit,
A place I'd glimpsed a few months ago in some slum,
And that I loved you more than ever, hearing it.
Caught in that music, I stayed there on the sidewalk
Facing the lonesome moon, the heart of the street,
In the relentless wind that came down driving the night.
That infinite tango pulled me toward everything,
Toward the fresh stars. Toward the chance of being a man,
And toward that clear memory my eyes kept seeking.
I want to forget my mild-mannered pastIt is sad to see the blind poet in the prime of his life -- still living with his mother -- and with little to recall by way of a love life except several instances of unrequited love. Toward he end, he married Maria Kodama, but he was well into old age by that time.
and to enjoy these years, which are my best,
of blindness I've accepted, and no greed
for love I haven't earned.
In his blindness, Borges turned into the Tiresias of poetry, as in this lovely sonnet:
We Are RiversAfter the knives and tangos and the slums of Palermo (in Buenos Aires), there are now mirrors, philosophy, darkness, philosophy, and a growing realization of man's insubstantiality.
We are made of time. We are the famed
parable of Heraclitus the Obscure.
We are water, not the diamond that endures,
what gets lost, not what finds repose.
We are the river and we are that old Greek
who sees himself in the river. His reflection
changes in the water of a changing mirror,
in glass that changes just the same as fire.
We're the vain river on its fated course
toward the sea. Darkness closes in.
Everything says goodbye and flows away.
Memory will never mint its coin.
And nonetheless there's something that remains,
And nonetheless there's something that complains.
May 13, 2022
Beautiful, all of them. I've translated my favourite, structured in the convention of Nordic skalds, after Borges had gone blind and found mnemonics to be an undemanding medium for organizing his great chain of memory.
FRAGMENTO
Una espada,
una espada de hierro forjado en el frío del alba
una espada con runas
que nadie podrá desoír ni descifrar del todo,
Una espada del Báltico que será cantada en Nortumbria.
Una espada que los poetas
igualarán al hielo y al fuego,
una espada que un rey dará a otro rey
y este rey a un sueño,
una espada que será leal
hasta una hora que ya sabe el Destino,
una espada que iluminará la batalla.
Una espada para la mano
que regirá la hermosa batalla, el tejido de hombres,
una espada para la mano
que enrojecerá los dientes del lobo
y el despiadado pico del cuervo,
una espada para la mano
que prodigará el oro rojo,
una espada para la mano
que dará muerte a la serpiente en su lecho de oro,
una espada para la mano
que ganará un reino y perderá un reino,
una espada para la mano
que derribará la selva de lanzas.
Una espada para la mano de Beowulf.
FRAGMENT
A sword,
An iron sword forged in the cold of dawn
A sword carved with runes
which no one shall neither overlook nor decypher in full,
A sword from the Baltic that will be honoured in Northumbria.
A sword which skalds
will equate to ice and fire,
a sword that will be passed from king to king
and from king to dream,
a sword that will be loyal
To an hour known only to Destiny,
a sword that will light up the battle.
A sword for the hand
that will guide this beautiful battle, the fabric of men,
a sword for the hand
that will redden the fangs of the wolf
and the merciless beak of the raven
that will lavishly give the red gold,
a sword for the hand,
that will slay the serpent in her golden lair,
a sword for the hand,
that will gain a kingdom and lose a kingdom,
a sword for the hand
that shall bring down the jungle of spears.
A sword for the hand of Beowulf.
FRAGMENTO
Una espada,
una espada de hierro forjado en el frío del alba
una espada con runas
que nadie podrá desoír ni descifrar del todo,
Una espada del Báltico que será cantada en Nortumbria.
Una espada que los poetas
igualarán al hielo y al fuego,
una espada que un rey dará a otro rey
y este rey a un sueño,
una espada que será leal
hasta una hora que ya sabe el Destino,
una espada que iluminará la batalla.
Una espada para la mano
que regirá la hermosa batalla, el tejido de hombres,
una espada para la mano
que enrojecerá los dientes del lobo
y el despiadado pico del cuervo,
una espada para la mano
que prodigará el oro rojo,
una espada para la mano
que dará muerte a la serpiente en su lecho de oro,
una espada para la mano
que ganará un reino y perderá un reino,
una espada para la mano
que derribará la selva de lanzas.
Una espada para la mano de Beowulf.
FRAGMENT
A sword,
An iron sword forged in the cold of dawn
A sword carved with runes
which no one shall neither overlook nor decypher in full,
A sword from the Baltic that will be honoured in Northumbria.
A sword which skalds
will equate to ice and fire,
a sword that will be passed from king to king
and from king to dream,
a sword that will be loyal
To an hour known only to Destiny,
a sword that will light up the battle.
A sword for the hand
that will guide this beautiful battle, the fabric of men,
a sword for the hand
that will redden the fangs of the wolf
and the merciless beak of the raven
that will lavishly give the red gold,
a sword for the hand,
that will slay the serpent in her golden lair,
a sword for the hand,
that will gain a kingdom and lose a kingdom,
a sword for the hand
that shall bring down the jungle of spears.
A sword for the hand of Beowulf.
Read
September 16, 20212021 reads, #84. DID NOT FINISH. Friends know that I've been doing my first-ever explorations this year into the world of formal poetry, in an attempt to re-engage with creativity just for the sake of being creative, four years after the failure and closure of my old small press left me just entirely burned out on the subject of creativity and monetization. After spending the month of August taking a wide look at the entire history of English-language poetry from Shakespeare to now, I'm spending September reading through as many "modern" collections of sonnets (by which I mean the year 1900 to now) as the Chicago Public Library carries, since this is the poetry form I find myself most attracted to right now as a writer myself. I'm desperate to see how poets of our current age have tackled this form, since the majority of the most famous sonnets in the world actually go all the way back to the Early Romantic period of the late 1700s (encompassing people like John Keats and Percy Shelley), and all of those sonnets are filled with archaic "thee" and "thou" language and are always about, you know, how pretty flowers are and crap like that.
I've so far been 100% disappointed in all the modern sonnets I've read, because I've been looking for ones that adhere strictly to the traditional rules of the form: 14 lines, arranged as three quatrains and one couplet; a traditional rhyming scheme, whether "Shakespearean" [ABAB CDCD EFEF GG] or "Spenserian" [ABAB BCBC CDCD EE]; written in iambic pentameter; and with the poem's theme established and expanded in the first eight lines, then with a "turn" on the 9th line that introduces a conflict to the theme or turns the theme on its head, and an ending couplet that sums up what we learned. But as most of us know, the poets of the 20th and 21st centuries have largely abandoned the entire concept of rules for formal poetry, to instead unleash the literary plague known as "free verse" poetry; and almost all of the "sonnets" I've read from 1900 to now are in fact just stupid little mediocre short stories, that the author just happened to arbitrarily cut up into 14 lines and then declared, "Ta-dah! It's a sonnet!" even though it's not even close to being a sonnet as they're traditionally defined. And I have no interest in this, because it's my opinion that so-called "free verse" poetry is what has largely killed the genre over the last 120 years, to the point where the vast majority of the human race now furiously roll their eyeballs at the very concept of trying to read a book of poetry.
I had held out a lot of hope, though, when I discovered that revered Latin American author Jorge Luis Borges actually wrote several hundred sonnets during the last decades of his life; and that, although his earlier prose work is notoriously known for being emotionally cold intellectual exercises, apparently the sonnets he wrote as an elderly man are warm, easily approachable, and actually written in the traditional meter and rhyming scheme that define sonnets in the first place, supposedly because he had become blind by this point in his life, and he found it easier to compose poems in his head when they contained traditional meter and rhyme. (That said, be aware that Borges actually wrote his in the Italian style, also known as "Petrarchan" sonnets, which defines a meter and rhyme scheme entirely differently than the English style, and which actually constitutes the very first form of sonnets that ever existed, in that this particular poetry form was originally invented in Sicily in the 1200s.)
But alas, although the original Spanish versions seem to exactly fit these kinds of traditional rules (printed on the left side of every page in the Penguin Classics version I read), the English translations on the right sides of the pages are exactly the kind of unstructured, unrhyming "free verse" bullshit that I'm trying everything I can do to avoid these days, mostly because the team of English translators for this edition are a who's-who of smartypants little MFA Postmodernist circle-jerk professors, the exact group of people who ruined poetry in the first place. And that made this English translation unreadable in my particular eyes, so I quickly gave up after just a handful of them. I'll continue my trawling of the Chicago Public Library for modern sonnets that actually manage to follow the rules that define what a sonnet is (and for God's sake, please recommend some in the comments if you know of any yourself); but so far I've been intensely disappointed by the results, and this facile, useless English translation of Borges' pieces just added to the disappointment. Avoid altogether if like me you're on the lookout for actual, real sonnets, and not just flash fiction that's been randomly cut up into 14 lines.
I've so far been 100% disappointed in all the modern sonnets I've read, because I've been looking for ones that adhere strictly to the traditional rules of the form: 14 lines, arranged as three quatrains and one couplet; a traditional rhyming scheme, whether "Shakespearean" [ABAB CDCD EFEF GG] or "Spenserian" [ABAB BCBC CDCD EE]; written in iambic pentameter; and with the poem's theme established and expanded in the first eight lines, then with a "turn" on the 9th line that introduces a conflict to the theme or turns the theme on its head, and an ending couplet that sums up what we learned. But as most of us know, the poets of the 20th and 21st centuries have largely abandoned the entire concept of rules for formal poetry, to instead unleash the literary plague known as "free verse" poetry; and almost all of the "sonnets" I've read from 1900 to now are in fact just stupid little mediocre short stories, that the author just happened to arbitrarily cut up into 14 lines and then declared, "Ta-dah! It's a sonnet!" even though it's not even close to being a sonnet as they're traditionally defined. And I have no interest in this, because it's my opinion that so-called "free verse" poetry is what has largely killed the genre over the last 120 years, to the point where the vast majority of the human race now furiously roll their eyeballs at the very concept of trying to read a book of poetry.
I had held out a lot of hope, though, when I discovered that revered Latin American author Jorge Luis Borges actually wrote several hundred sonnets during the last decades of his life; and that, although his earlier prose work is notoriously known for being emotionally cold intellectual exercises, apparently the sonnets he wrote as an elderly man are warm, easily approachable, and actually written in the traditional meter and rhyming scheme that define sonnets in the first place, supposedly because he had become blind by this point in his life, and he found it easier to compose poems in his head when they contained traditional meter and rhyme. (That said, be aware that Borges actually wrote his in the Italian style, also known as "Petrarchan" sonnets, which defines a meter and rhyme scheme entirely differently than the English style, and which actually constitutes the very first form of sonnets that ever existed, in that this particular poetry form was originally invented in Sicily in the 1200s.)
But alas, although the original Spanish versions seem to exactly fit these kinds of traditional rules (printed on the left side of every page in the Penguin Classics version I read), the English translations on the right sides of the pages are exactly the kind of unstructured, unrhyming "free verse" bullshit that I'm trying everything I can do to avoid these days, mostly because the team of English translators for this edition are a who's-who of smartypants little MFA Postmodernist circle-jerk professors, the exact group of people who ruined poetry in the first place. And that made this English translation unreadable in my particular eyes, so I quickly gave up after just a handful of them. I'll continue my trawling of the Chicago Public Library for modern sonnets that actually manage to follow the rules that define what a sonnet is (and for God's sake, please recommend some in the comments if you know of any yourself); but so far I've been intensely disappointed by the results, and this facile, useless English translation of Borges' pieces just added to the disappointment. Avoid altogether if like me you're on the lookout for actual, real sonnets, and not just flash fiction that's been randomly cut up into 14 lines.
December 12, 2015
To the Other
Blind man of letters
Oblivion awaits
Reflections in rivers
God's timeless stranger face
Exists in elegy
Shadow of memory
Books lost in fires
Obliterate mirrors
Roses and hyacinths
Gardens and labyrinths
Echo past emptiness
Silence and nothingness
by Paul Hsu 12-12-15
Blind man of letters
Oblivion awaits
Reflections in rivers
God's timeless stranger face
Exists in elegy
Shadow of memory
Books lost in fires
Obliterate mirrors
Roses and hyacinths
Gardens and labyrinths
Echo past emptiness
Silence and nothingness
by Paul Hsu 12-12-15
May 4, 2016
When I started reading this book, I had decided to give it 4 stars. But as I kept going, the sonnets kept getting better and better. Seeing the improvement was really cool and really made this collection even more enjoyable.
May 15, 2023
This was a collection of poems from several of his collections spanning decades. A few of my favorite lines included:
"...zeal and passion are illusion,/armor is vanity..."
"The hazy light is delirious/and at the edge of the East rises a moon/dripping with mockery..."
"A year/is no less vanity than is history."
"The simple surprises are what unsettle me."
"The past is clay shaped by the present's whim."
Some of my favorite poems included:
"Waking Up"
"Poem Written in a Copy of Beowulf"
"Dream"
"Of Which Nothing is Known"
"...zeal and passion are illusion,/armor is vanity..."
"The hazy light is delirious/and at the edge of the East rises a moon/dripping with mockery..."
"A year/is no less vanity than is history."
"The simple surprises are what unsettle me."
"The past is clay shaped by the present's whim."
Some of my favorite poems included:
"Waking Up"
"Poem Written in a Copy of Beowulf"
"Dream"
"Of Which Nothing is Known"
July 11, 2024
I only read a few of the sonnets every day, but I am so happy I expereience all these poems, no matter how long it took. Borges was so masterful at creating worlds in a small amount of words and these sonnets shows how he can postulate mortaliity and place with these poems. Theere were a lot of them focused on other writers. There were others about Borges's blindness. They were all incredible and I am happy I have no experienced his skill at this form.
August 21, 2019
There is nothing that Jorge Luis Borges has written that isn't pure perfection.
I was moved countless times reading the sonnets and poetry of the man. I wish I could find more of his poetry, as much as I love his fictions, I believe his poetry is just as timeless. I wish more people knew.
I was moved countless times reading the sonnets and poetry of the man. I wish I could find more of his poetry, as much as I love his fictions, I believe his poetry is just as timeless. I wish more people knew.
February 15, 2021
J. — I surrender to your indifference. But what an enchanting parting gift this anthology was. I never knew I was one for Borges nor for the sonnet, but I will forever hold this in the highest esteem.
August 3, 2024
I picked this book up for a few dollars because his name was familiar and I thought it would help me learn Spanish- I got out of it a love for his writing and his mind. This book although I understand it’s not his usual method of writing is unlike any poetry I’ve read before. I was caught reading this without page markers and I committed the cardinal sin of dogearring sonnets I loved or wanted to come back to to digest and I ended up reading more than 100 pages straight twice in both languages with more pages dogmarked than not. This is a perfect introduction to his poetry (for me anyway) and I will be reading this until it falls apart.
August 18, 2020
Det är Borges som skriver poesi. Det kan inte bli annat än bra.
October 10, 2020
Lots of good poems but few great ones. Adam Cast Forth was the best.
December 31, 2021
Borges is marvelous, witty, funny, and a master craftsman. Writing and poetry is so lucky to share talents like Borges.
October 6, 2011
Jorge Luis Borges
The Sonnets
Penguin Classics, 2010
The Sonnets
Jorge Luis Borges
The Sonnets, is a compilation of Borges best work, in this compilation Borges draws inspiration from every aspect of his life. The years he lived in Europe, especially in Geneva where he discovered German Expressionism and where he composes his first poems in English and French. During his early writing his sonnets were an imitation of Wordsworth and Symbolists. In Spain he was influenced by Rafael Cansinos-Assens who was the leader of a movement called Ultraismo, is it there in Spain where Borges writes his first poems in Spanish. Borges time in Europe gave him enough knowledge about European life styles and an inside into a society that was seem as “upper-class” by Latin American countries.
During his return to Buenos Aires as a young adult Borges brought with him the doctrine of Ultraism and launched his career publishing surreal poems and essays in literary journals.
In The Sonnets we find an array of poems that varies in style, theme, genre and composition. Borges puts a lot of great effort and though into all of his work and that is something that we can come to see in each of his poem in “The Sonnets”.
14 lines, iambic pentameter, end-stopped lines and rhetorical structure are the key elements of Borges sonnets and that we can easily identify in his work. The rhythm use by Borges in each of his poems is well crafted and very though out to make a lasting impression on the reader; in the poem named Edgar Allan Poe", Borges uses rhythm in a extraordinary form which helps the reader understand the message, in this case a portray about Allan Poe. It should be noticed that the Spanish version of the poem brings out all the elements that Borges intended to used an that make this one fabulous piece of writing. The first four stanza of the poem rhyme among them, the first stanza with the last stanza and the second stanza with the third stanza. Borgers repeat that same technique in the next four stanzas. The next paragraph is composed on only three stanza in which the first two rhyme and the last one rhymes with the last stanza of the following paragraph which has three stanzas as well. A fantastic piece of writing is the final result.
Borges was known to have his own styles of writing never adhering too much to a single styles and never following the rules step by step, instead he would used the models as structural frameworks for his own technique. We see a clear example of this when we compare his work to the Petrarchan or Italian model or even the Shakespearean or English model. We can see this in Borges poem The Sea, where the lines rhyme among them but in a somewhat unorderly manner and the rhymes are consecutives as (abab cddc effe gg) this is somewhat closed to the English model but not exactly the same. It is this type of writing that identifies Borges as a very talented poet.
In conclusion “The Sonnets” is worth a reading or two. I find it a very useful and inspiring book to read an one that I will refer back to whenever I might encounter a obstacle in my own writing.
“The past is clay shaped by the present’s whim,
Then shaped again, and reshaped without end.”
The Sonnets
Penguin Classics, 2010
The Sonnets
Jorge Luis Borges
The Sonnets, is a compilation of Borges best work, in this compilation Borges draws inspiration from every aspect of his life. The years he lived in Europe, especially in Geneva where he discovered German Expressionism and where he composes his first poems in English and French. During his early writing his sonnets were an imitation of Wordsworth and Symbolists. In Spain he was influenced by Rafael Cansinos-Assens who was the leader of a movement called Ultraismo, is it there in Spain where Borges writes his first poems in Spanish. Borges time in Europe gave him enough knowledge about European life styles and an inside into a society that was seem as “upper-class” by Latin American countries.
During his return to Buenos Aires as a young adult Borges brought with him the doctrine of Ultraism and launched his career publishing surreal poems and essays in literary journals.
In The Sonnets we find an array of poems that varies in style, theme, genre and composition. Borges puts a lot of great effort and though into all of his work and that is something that we can come to see in each of his poem in “The Sonnets”.
14 lines, iambic pentameter, end-stopped lines and rhetorical structure are the key elements of Borges sonnets and that we can easily identify in his work. The rhythm use by Borges in each of his poems is well crafted and very though out to make a lasting impression on the reader; in the poem named Edgar Allan Poe", Borges uses rhythm in a extraordinary form which helps the reader understand the message, in this case a portray about Allan Poe. It should be noticed that the Spanish version of the poem brings out all the elements that Borges intended to used an that make this one fabulous piece of writing. The first four stanza of the poem rhyme among them, the first stanza with the last stanza and the second stanza with the third stanza. Borgers repeat that same technique in the next four stanzas. The next paragraph is composed on only three stanza in which the first two rhyme and the last one rhymes with the last stanza of the following paragraph which has three stanzas as well. A fantastic piece of writing is the final result.
Borges was known to have his own styles of writing never adhering too much to a single styles and never following the rules step by step, instead he would used the models as structural frameworks for his own technique. We see a clear example of this when we compare his work to the Petrarchan or Italian model or even the Shakespearean or English model. We can see this in Borges poem The Sea, where the lines rhyme among them but in a somewhat unorderly manner and the rhymes are consecutives as (abab cddc effe gg) this is somewhat closed to the English model but not exactly the same. It is this type of writing that identifies Borges as a very talented poet.
In conclusion “The Sonnets” is worth a reading or two. I find it a very useful and inspiring book to read an one that I will refer back to whenever I might encounter a obstacle in my own writing.
“The past is clay shaped by the present’s whim,
Then shaped again, and reshaped without end.”
August 12, 2016
lovely
Waking up
Daylight leaks in, and sluggishly I surface
from my own dreams into the common dream
and things assume again their proper places
and their accustomed shapes. Into this present
the Past intrudes, in all its dizzying range--
the centuries-old habits of migration
in birds and men, the armies in their legions
all fallen to the sword, and Rome and Carthage.
The trappings of my day also come back:
my voice, my face, my nervousness, my luck.
If only Death, that other waking-up,
would grant me a time free of all memory
of my own name and all that I have been!
If only morning meant oblivion!
The Speck
You will not be saved by what was left
written by the ones your fear implores;
you are not the others and now you find
yourself in the center of a labyrinth
your steps designed. The agony of Jesus
will not save you, nor of Socrates, nor
strong, golden Siddhartha who accepted death
in a garden as the sun was going down.
Every word you have written turns to dust,
as does every word your mouth has spoken.
In Hades there is no such thing as pity
and God’s night is endless and infinite.
You are made of time, which never ceases.
You are every solitary instant.
Religio Medici, 1643
Save me, O Lord. (That I use a name for you
does not imply a Being. It’s just a word
from that vocabulary the tenuous use,
and that I use now, in an evening of panic.)
Save me from myself. Others have asked the same—
Montaigne, Sir Thomas Browne, an unknown Spaniard.
Something remains in me of these golden visions
That my fading eyesight can still recognize.
Save me, O Lord, from that impatient urge:
To yield myself to tombstones and oblivion.
Save me from facing all that I have been,
That person I have been irreparably.
Not from the sword-thrust or the bloodstained lance.
Save me, at least, from all those golden fictions.
Waking up
Daylight leaks in, and sluggishly I surface
from my own dreams into the common dream
and things assume again their proper places
and their accustomed shapes. Into this present
the Past intrudes, in all its dizzying range--
the centuries-old habits of migration
in birds and men, the armies in their legions
all fallen to the sword, and Rome and Carthage.
The trappings of my day also come back:
my voice, my face, my nervousness, my luck.
If only Death, that other waking-up,
would grant me a time free of all memory
of my own name and all that I have been!
If only morning meant oblivion!
The Speck
You will not be saved by what was left
written by the ones your fear implores;
you are not the others and now you find
yourself in the center of a labyrinth
your steps designed. The agony of Jesus
will not save you, nor of Socrates, nor
strong, golden Siddhartha who accepted death
in a garden as the sun was going down.
Every word you have written turns to dust,
as does every word your mouth has spoken.
In Hades there is no such thing as pity
and God’s night is endless and infinite.
You are made of time, which never ceases.
You are every solitary instant.
Religio Medici, 1643
Save me, O Lord. (That I use a name for you
does not imply a Being. It’s just a word
from that vocabulary the tenuous use,
and that I use now, in an evening of panic.)
Save me from myself. Others have asked the same—
Montaigne, Sir Thomas Browne, an unknown Spaniard.
Something remains in me of these golden visions
That my fading eyesight can still recognize.
Save me, O Lord, from that impatient urge:
To yield myself to tombstones and oblivion.
Save me from facing all that I have been,
That person I have been irreparably.
Not from the sword-thrust or the bloodstained lance.
Save me, at least, from all those golden fictions.
June 16, 2012
Great collection. My Spanish isn't fluent, so I read the English side of the page. Translating Sonnets is a tough gig, I'm sure the original Spanish is even better.
Remorse
I have committed the worse sin of all
That a man can commit. I have not been
Happy. Let the glaciers of oblivion
Drag me and mercilessly let me fall.
My parents bred and bore me for a higher
Faith in the human game of nights and days;
For earth, for air, for water, and for fire.
I let them down. I wasn't happy. My ways
Have not fulfilled their youthful hope. I gave
My mind to the symmetric stubbornness
Of art, and all its webs of pettiness.
They willed me bravery. I wasn't brave.
It never leaves my side, since I began:
This shadow of having been a brooding man.
Remorse
I have committed the worse sin of all
That a man can commit. I have not been
Happy. Let the glaciers of oblivion
Drag me and mercilessly let me fall.
My parents bred and bore me for a higher
Faith in the human game of nights and days;
For earth, for air, for water, and for fire.
I let them down. I wasn't happy. My ways
Have not fulfilled their youthful hope. I gave
My mind to the symmetric stubbornness
Of art, and all its webs of pettiness.
They willed me bravery. I wasn't brave.
It never leaves my side, since I began:
This shadow of having been a brooding man.
August 8, 2013
Dream
If dreaming really were a kind of truce
(as people claim), a sheer repose of mind,
why then if you should waken up abruptly,
do you feel that something has been stolen from you?
Why should it be so sad, the early morning?
It robs us of an inconceivable gift,
so intimate it is only knowable
in a trance which the nightwatch girls with dreams,
dreams that might very well be reflections,
fragments from the treasure-house of darkness,
from the timeless sphere that does not have a name,
and that the day distorts in its mirrors.
Who will you be tonight in your dreamfall
into the dark, on the other side of the wall?
I also really liked the poem: Edgar Allan Poe.
If dreaming really were a kind of truce
(as people claim), a sheer repose of mind,
why then if you should waken up abruptly,
do you feel that something has been stolen from you?
Why should it be so sad, the early morning?
It robs us of an inconceivable gift,
so intimate it is only knowable
in a trance which the nightwatch girls with dreams,
dreams that might very well be reflections,
fragments from the treasure-house of darkness,
from the timeless sphere that does not have a name,
and that the day distorts in its mirrors.
Who will you be tonight in your dreamfall
into the dark, on the other side of the wall?
I also really liked the poem: Edgar Allan Poe.
July 22, 2012
It's a shame most Borges readers only know his short stories and essays. His poetry is much more personal than his stories. Readers of Borges will recognize many of the themes and symbols - mirrors, labyrinths, etc. These do cast a new light on his talents and provide readers with a better understanding of his work. Since the sonnets are translations some of the nuance and beauty is lost, but since the original Spanish version accompanies them it's possible for the zealous reader to read them in the original.
Any lover of Borges must read these.
Any lover of Borges must read these.
September 3, 2014
I have read a lot of Borges' fiction, and non-fiction, but up until this point not a lot of his poetry. It is comforting to see all of his familiar themes and tropes at work here. Ideas such as the image of the labyrinth, greek mythology, John Keats, Kabbalah, and his admiration for his jewish heritage are represented in his poetry. Perhaps these sonnets are themselves short stories, or sketches of larger works, or maybe even the most concentrated form of storytelling there is. They are both universal and personal, further attesting to the universe that is Borges' work.
June 7, 2010
Another repackaging of Borges to make a buck. Poetry in translation is something I avoid when possible. But Borges is one of those few collegiate enthusiasms I've kept past age thirty (sorry Kerouac) and I'm a sucker for the sonnet. Some of the editor's own translations are flat, in my opinion, but the volume is saved by including the work of other translators, most notably (for me) Richard Wilbur - whose translations are among the most appealing here.
August 3, 2011
There is such a simple beauty and elegance to Borges' sonnet. Not as imaginative and 'out there' as his short stories, but just done with simple care and sensitivity. A pleasure to read.
May 24, 2012
Distillate of Borges.
April 16, 2013
Review coming soon.
May 29, 2014
Leer para 'The Travel Book Project.'
Leí las historias cortas de Borges y eran asi-asi, pero sus poemas es muy, muy buena.
Leí las historias cortas de Borges y eran asi-asi, pero sus poemas es muy, muy buena.
July 31, 2014
This was a lovely read; however, I think I prefer his essays.
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