Rima XXI

¿Qué es poesía?, dices mientras clavas en mi pupila tu pupila azul. ¿Que es poesía?, Y tú me lo preguntas?     Poesía... eres tú.			What is poetry?, you ask while your blue eyes rivet mine. What is poetry? And you ask this?     Poetry... is you.
Translations by others:
What is poetry? thou say'st, and meanwhile fixest On mine eye thine eye of deepest blue; What is poetry? And canst thou ask it?     Why, - poetry - is - thou! Translated by Owen Innsly Copyright ©1882 by A. Williams & Company			"What is poesy," you ask While you fix your pupil blue On my own. - An easy task To reply; but why should you Put this question unto me?     - You, yourself, are poesy. Translated by Jules Renard Copyright ©1908 by Richard G. Badger
"What is poesy?" you ask me, gazing Into mine eyes with your eyes blue. What is poesy? And do you truly ask me?     Poesy . . . are you. Translated by Young Allison Copyright ©1924 by Young Allison			"What is poetry?" you ask, as you hold My eyes with your eyes of blue; "What is poetry? Well, since you ask me,     It's you." Translated by Rupert Croft-Cooke Copyright ©1927 by Rupert Croft-Cooke
What is poetry? you say, Holding my eyes with yours of blue, What is poetry? . . . You ask that?     Poetry . . . it is you! Translated by Ina D. Singleton Copyright uncertain - from Poet Lore magazine circa 1939?

This poem needs to be understood as a compression of Bécquer's Literary Letters to a Woman, the first of which begins:

Once you asked me: "What is poetry?"

Do you remember? I know not in what connection I had just spoken of my passion for it.

"What is poetry?" you asked me; and I, who am not strong in the matter of definitions, answered you, hesitatingly, "Poetry is . . . is . . . " and without ending the sentence sought vainly in my memory some term of comparison, without succeeding in finding it.

You had leaned forward a little, the better to hear my words; the dark locks of your hair, shading your brow in that capricious artistry you so well know, flowed from your forehead and fell carressingly over your cheek, to rest upon your bosom; in your eyes, moist and blue as the sky at night, gleamed a point of light; and your lips were parted with a fragrant and gentle breathing.

My gaze, which from the confusion I felt had wandered for a moment without pausing anywhere, returned instinctively to your eyes, and I exclaimed all at once: "Poetry . . . poetry . . . you are poetry!"

Do you remember?