Cardenal and Whitacre – Ethereal creation

I was listening and doing a bit of night reading. This kind of struck me as a parallel experience. So, I suggest that you click the play button on the music included and listen to that as you read this one section from a book that I have by Cardenal. He is a Nicaraguan poet, but the book that I have is in English, so I typed up this chapter in English. Apologies for any typos.

Music by Eric Whitacre;
songs: Cloudburst, With a lily in your hand, This Marriage, Water Night

Ernesto Cardenal – Cosmic Canticle

Translation by John Lyons

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CANTIGA 2 – The Word

In the beginning
pp -before spacetime-
ppppp was the Word
All that is then is true.
pppppppppppp Poem.
Things exist in the form of word.
All was night, etc.
ppppppp There was no sun, nor moon, nor people, nor animals, nor plants.
The word was. (Amorous word.)
Mystery and at the same time expression of that mystery.
What is and at the same time expresses what it is.
“When in the beginning there was not yet anyone
ppppppppppppppp he created the words (naikino)
and gave them to us, just like the yucca”
in that anonymous yellowing translation from the German
of a part of that massive book by Presuss
which I came across in Bogota’s Museum of Ethnography
ppppppp Spanish translation of Presuss translating from Witoto into German:
ppp The word in their songs, which he gave them, they say,
is the same with which he made the rain
pppppppppp (he made it rain with his word and a drum),
the dead go to a region where “they speak words well”
downriver: the river is very big,
ppppppp (what they’ve heard of the Amazon according to Presuss)
there they haven’t died again
ppppppp and they are well downriver without dying.
The day will come when we will head downriver ourselves.
In the beginning then was the word.
The one that is and communicates what it is.
ppppppppppppp That is:
the one that totally expresses itself.
ppppppppp Secret that surrenders itself. A yes.
ppppppp He in himself is a yes.
Reality revealed.
ppppppppp Eternal reality which eternally reveals itself.
At the beginning . . .
pppppppppppppp Before spacetime,
before there was before,
at the beginning, when there wasn’t even beginning,
at the beginning,
ppppppppppppp was the reality of the word.
When all was night, when
all beings were still obscure, before being beings,
a voice existed, a clear word,
pppppppppp a song in the night.

In the beginning was the Song.
pppppp Singing he created the cosmos.
And for that reason all things sing.
They don’t dance except through words (through which the world was
ppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp created)

say the Witotos. “We do not dance without a reason.”
And the huge trees of the forest were born,
the canaguche palm, with its fruit for us to drink,
likewise the choruco-monkey to eat the trees,
the tapir that eats the fruit on the ground,
the small parrot, the borugo to eat the jungle,
he created all the animals like the otter, that eats fish,
and the small otter,
he made all the animals like the stag and the chonta-stag,
in the air the royal eagle that eats the chorucos,
he created the sidyi, the picon, the kuyudo parakeet,
the eifoke and forebeke turkey, the chilanga, the hokomaike,
the patilico, the sarok parakeet,
the kuikudyo, the fuikango, the siva and the tudyagi,
the stinking duck, the mariana that has learned now to eat fish,
the dyivuise, the siada, the hirina and the himegisinyos
and the Witoto poem goes on
in the anonymous Spanish translation
from Presuss’s German translation of the Witoto
pppppppppppppp filed away in the Museum.
pppp “Even if they say: they dance for no reason. We
pppp in our festivities tell the tales.”
Which Presuss patiently gathered on a gramophone years ago
and translated into German.
The dead: they have returned to the creative word
whence they sprang with the rain, the fruit and the songs.
pppp “If our traditions were merely absurd,
pppp we would be sad in our feasts.”
ppppppppp And the rain a word from his mouth.
He created the world by means of a dream.
And he himself is something like a dream. A dream that dreams.
They call him Nainuema, according to Presuss:
pppppppp “The one who is (or has) something non-existent.”
Or like a dream that became real without losing its dreamy mystery.
Nainuema: “The one who is something very real non-existent.”
And the earth is Nicarani, “that dreamed,” or “the vision dreamed”:
that born from nothing like a dream of the Father.
Genesis according to the Witoto or Huitoto or Uitoto.
In the beginning
ppp before Big Bang
ppppppp was the Word.
There was no light
light was within the darkness
and he brought the light out of the darkness
drew the two apart
and that was Big Bang
or the first Revolution.
pppppppp Word that never passes
pppppppppppppp (“heaven and earth will pass away…”)
A distant murmur from that explosion
lingers on in the universe
pppp like radio static.

ppppp And the celestial dialectical dance began.
“The yang calls;
ppp the yin responds.”
pppppp He is in that which each thing is.
pppppppppppp And in that which each thing enjoys.
pppp Each thing coitus.
pppppp The entire cosmos copulation.
All things love, and his is the love with which they love.
“The yang calls;
ppp the yin responds.”
ppppppppppppppppp They are the two choruses.
They are the two choruses which take turns to sing.
And Pythagorus discovered the harmony of the universe
pppp hearing a blacksmith hammer.
That is: the isotropic movement—uniform and harmonious—of the
ppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp universe.

Creation is a poem.
pppp Poem, which is “creation” in Greek and thus
St. Paul calls God’s Creation, POIEMA,
like a poem by homer, Padre Ángel used to say.
Each thing is like a “like.”
ppppppp Like a “like” in a Huidobro poem.
The entire cosmos copulation.
ppppppppp And each thing is word,
ppppppppppppppppppp word of love.
pppppppp Only love receals
ppppppppppppp but it veils what it reveals,
alone it reveals,
ppp alone lover and beloved
in the illuminated solitude,
ppppppp the nights of the lovers,
word that never passes
ppppppp while the water flows beneath the bridge
ppppppp and the slow moon above the houses passes.
The cosmos
ppppppp secret word in the nuptial chamber.
ppppppppppppp Each thing that is is verbal.
Lie is what is not.
ppppppppppppp And each thing is secret.
Listen to the murmer of things…
pppppppp They say it, but say it in secret.
Only alone is it revealed.
ppp Only at night in a secret place does it lay itself bare.
ppppppppppppp The cosmic blushing.
Nature: timid, bashful.
pppppppp All things lower their eyes in your presence.
pppppppppppp —My secret is for my beloved alone.
And space is not speechless.
ppp Who has ears to hear let him hear.
ppppppp We are surrounded by sound.
Everything existing united by rhythm.
ppp Cosmic jazz not chaotic or cacophonous.
In harmony. He made all things singing and the cosmos sings.
pppppppp Cosmos like a dark record that spins and sings
pppppppppppp in the dead of night
or romantic radio borne to us on the wind.
Each thing sings.
ppp Things, not created by calculus
ppppppppppppppppp but by poetry.
By the Poet (“Creator”=POIÊTÊS)
Creator of the POIEMA.
ppp With finite words and infinite meaning.
Things are words to whoever understands them.
ppppppppp As though everything were telephone or radio or t.v.
ppp Words in an ear.
Do you hear those frogs?
pppppppp and do you know what they wish to tell us?
Do you hear those stars? They have something to tell us.
pppppppp The chorus of things.
Secret melody of the night.
Aeolian harp that sounds alone at the mere brush of the air.
ppp The cosmos sings.

“The yang calls;
ppp the yin responds.”
pppppppppppppppp Dialectically.
Do you hear those stars? It is love that sings.
ppppp The silent music.
ppppppppp The sonorous solitude.
“The music in silence of the moon,” mad Cortés.
Matter is waves.
pppppppppppp And waves? Questions.
An I towards a you.
pppppppppppppp That is search for a you.
ppp And this because each being is word.
Because the word made the world
ppp we can communicate in the world.
ppppppppppppppppp —His word and a drum…
We are word
pppppppp in a world born of the word
and which exists only as something spoken.
ppppppp A secret of two lovers in the night.
The firmament announces it as with neon letters.
Each night swapping secrets with another night.
People are words.
pppppppppp And thus one is not if one is not dialogue.
And so then each one is two
or is not.
Each person is for another person.
ppppppppppp I am not I rather you are I!
One is the I of a you
ppppppppppp or one is nothing.
pppppppppp I am nothing more than you otherwise if not I am not!
I am yes. I am Yes to a you, to a you for me,
ppppppppppp to a you for me.
People are dialogue, I say,
if not their words would touch nothing
like waves in the cosmos picked up by no radio,
like messages to uninhabited planets,
or a bellowing in the lunar void
ppppppp or a telephone call to an empty house.
(A person alone does not exist.)
pppppppp I tell you again, my love:
ppppppppp I am you and you are me.
ppppppppppppp I am: love.