miércoles, 28 de diciembre de 2011
Edgar Allan Poe // El cuervo
lunes, 14 de noviembre de 2011
Billy Collins
Japan
Today I pass the time reading
a favorite haiku,
saying the few words over and over.
the same small, perfect grape
again and again.
I walk through the house reciting it
and leave its letters falling
through the air of every room.
I stand by the big silence of the piano and say it.
I say it in front of a painting of the sea.
I tap out its rhythm on an empty shelf.
I listen to myself saying it,
then I say it without listening,
then I hear it without saying it.
And when the dog looks up at me,
I kneel down on the floor
and whisper it into each of his long white ears.
It's the one about the one-ton temple bell
with the moth sleeping on its surface,
and every time I say it, I feel the excruciating
pressure of the moth
on the surface of the iron bell.
When I say it at the window,
the bell is the world
and I am the moth resting there.
When I say it at the mirror,
I am the heavy bell
and the moth is life with its papery wings.
And later, when I say it to you in the dark,
you are the bell,
and I am the tongue of the bell, ringing you,
and the moth has flown
from its line
and moves like a hinge in the air above our bed.
lunes, 10 de octubre de 2011
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
en Irlanda
sino en New York en pleno verano
leyendo aquel libro que me encontré
en el El* de la Tercera Avenida
el El
con sus abanicos espantamoscas y sus letreros que decían
PROHIBIDO ESCUPIR
el El
bamboleándose en su mundo de tercer piso
con su gente de tercer piso
en sus puertas de tercer piso
con aire de no haber oído nunca
una anciana
regando su planta
o un tipo con sombrero de paja
poniendo un alfiler en su corbata a rayas
y luciendo como si no tuviera otro sitio adonde ir
salvo coneyisland
o un sujeto en camiseta
meciéndose en su mecedora
viendo pasar el El
como si esperase que fuera distinto
cada vez
Leyendo a Yeats no pienso
en Arcadia
y sus bosques, que Yeats creía muertos
pienso en cambio
en todos los rostros idos
bajando en un lugar del centro
con sus sombreros y sus empleos
y en aquel libro perdido que yo tenía
con su tapa azul y su guarda blanca
donde un lápiz había escrito
¡PASA DE LARGO, JINETE!
Reading Yeats I do not think...
Reading Yeats I do not think
of Ireland
but of midsummer New York
and of myself back then
reading that copy I found
on the Thirdavenue El
the El
with its flyhung fans and its signs reading
SPITTING IS FORBIDDEN
the El
careening thru it thirdstory world with its thirdstory people
in their thirdstory doors
looking as if they had never heard
of the ground
an old dame
watering her plant
or a joker in a straw
putting a stickpin in his peppermint tie
and looking just like he had nowhere to go
but coneyisland
or an undershirted guy
rocking in his rocker
watching the El pass by
as if he expected it to be different
each time
Reading Yeats I do not think
of Arcady
and of its woods which Yeats thought dead
I think instead
of all the gone faces
getting off at midtown place
with their hats and their jobs
and of that lost book I had
with its blue cover and its white inside
where a pencil had written
HORSEMAN, PASS BY!
domingo, 2 de octubre de 2011
Ezra Pound
oh, remanente esclavizado!
descarriados, perdidos en los pueblos,
recelados, criticados,
decepcionados con los sistemas,
impotentes ante el control;
insistiendo hasta triunfar,
vosotros que sólo sabéis hablar,
que no sabéis concentraros en la reiteración;
que chocáis contra el falso conocimiento,
vosotros que podéis saber de primera mano,
odiados, cercados, recelados,
yo he capeado la tormenta,
yo he vencido mi exilio.
O helpless few in my country,
O remnant enslaved!
Artists broken against her,
A-stray, lost in the villages,
Mistrusted, spoken-against,
Lovers of beauty, starved,
Thwarted with systems,
Helpless against the control;
You who can not wear yourselves out
By persisting to successes,
You who can only speak,
Who can not steel yourselves into reiteration;
You of the finer sense,
Broken against false knowledge,
You who can know at first hand,
Hated, shut in, mistrusted:
Take thought:
I have weathered the storm,
I have beaten out my exile.
La zambullida
¡estas comodidades amontonadas sobre mí
¡Me consumo, ardo tanto por lo nuevo,
nuevos amigos, nuevas caras,
lugares!
Oh, estar fuera de esto,
esto que es todo lo que quería
— menos lo nuevo.
amor, tú la muy, la más deseada!
¿No detesto todas las paredes, las calles, las piedras,
todo barro, bruma, niebla,
toda clase de tráfico?
A ti, te quisiera fluyendo hacia mí como el agua,
¡oh, pero lejos de esto!
Hierba y llanos y colinas
y sol,
¡oh, bastante sol!
¡Lejos y solo, entre alguna
viernes, 5 de agosto de 2011
Emily Dickinson
To take us Lands away
Nor any Coursers like a Page
Of prancing Poetry —
This Traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of Toll —
How frugal is the Chariot
That bears the Human soul
jueves, 28 de julio de 2011
Hart Crane
Through much of what she would not understand;
And so I stumble. And the rain continues on the roof
With such a sound of gently pitying laughter.
sábado, 9 de julio de 2011
Richard Wilbur
Versión © Gerardo Gambolini
sábado, 2 de julio de 2011
Carl Sandburg
When the soft silver
Drips shimmering
Over the garden nights,
Death, the gray mocker,
Comes and whispers to you
As a beautiful friend
Who remembers.
Under the summer roses
When the flagrant crimson
Lurks in the dusk
Of the wild red leaves,
Love, with little hands,
Comes and touches you
With a thousand memories,
And asks you
Beautiful, unanswerable questions.
And is this your heart arithmetic?
This is the way the wind measures the weather.
jueves, 30 de junio de 2011
Kenneth Rexroth
Versión © Gerardo Gambolini
imagen: John James Audubon, Rose-Breasted Grosbeak
It is the time of rain and snow
I spend sleepless nights
And watch the frost
Frail as your love
Gathers in the dawn.
Versión © Gerardo Gambolini
An Excuse For Not Returning the Visit of a Friend
Versión © Gerardo Gambolini
martes, 24 de mayo de 2011
Thomas Merton
My eyes are flowers for your tomb
And if I cannot eat my bread,
If in the heat I find no water for my thirst
My thirst shall turn to springs for you, poor traveler
Where, in what desolate and smoky country,
And in what landscape of disaster
Come, in my labor find a resting place
And in my sorrows lay your head,
And buy yourself a better bed—
And buy yourself a better rest.
When all men of war are shot
And flags have fallen into dust,
Your cross and mine shall tell men still
Christ died on each, for both of us.
For in the wreckage of your April Christ lies slain,
And Christ weeps in the ruins of my spring:
The money of Whose tears shall fall
And buy you back to your own land:
The silence of Whose tears shall fall
Like bells upon your alien tomb.
Hear them and come: they call you home.
sábado, 7 de mayo de 2011
Charles Bukowski
and grandfathers and fathers
and all their lousy oil
and their seven lakes
and their wild turkey
and buffalo
and the whole state of Texas,
meaning, your crow-blasts
and your Saturday night boardwalks,
and your 2-bit library
and your crooked councilmen
and your pansy artists -
you can take all these
and your weekly newspaper
and your famous tornadoes,
and your filthy floods
and all your yowling cats
and your subscription to Time,
and shove them baby
shove them
and I can pick up
25 buck for a 4-rounder (maybe);
sure, I'm 38
but a little dye can pinch the gray
out of my hair;
and I can still write a poem (sometimes),
dont forget THAT, and even if
they dont pay off,
it's better than waiting for death and oil,
and shooting wild turkey,
and waiting for the world
to begin.
miércoles, 4 de mayo de 2011
Kenneth Rexroth
Al león lo llaman el rey
de los animales. Hoy hay casi
tantos leones en jaulas
como fuera de ellas.
Si te ofrecen una corona, recházala.
Ciervo
Los ciervos son gráciles y mansos
No dañan a nadie salvo a sí mismos,
los machos, y sólo por amor.
Los hombres inventaron varios miles
de métodos para matarlos.
Lobo
Nunca creas todo lo que escuchas.
Buitre
Santo Tomás de Aquino pensaba
que los buitres eran lesbianas
fertilizadas por el viento.
Si miras los hechos de la vida,
los intelectuales papistas
pueden ser muy engañosos.
Foca
Cuando está en el agua
The lion is called the king
Of beasts. Nowadays there are
Almost as many lions
In cages as out of them. If offered a crown, refuse.
Deer are gentle and graceful
And they have beautiful eyes.
They hurt no one but themselves,
The males, and only for love.
Men have invented several
Thousand ways of killing them.
Wolf
Wolves are not as bad as lambs.
I've been a wolf all my life,
And have two lovely daughters
To show for it, while I could
Tell you sickening tales of
Lambs who got their just deserts.
Seal
The seal when in water,
Is a slippery client
To catch. But when he makes love
He goes on dry land, and men
Kill him with clubs.
To have a happy love life,
Control your environment.
lunes, 28 de febrero de 2011
T. S. Eliot
Has cometido —
fornicación: pero fue en otro país
y, además, la muchacha ha muerto.
— Marlowe, El judío de Malta [IV, 1]
I
Entre el humo y la niebla de una tarde de diciembre
dejas que la escena se arme sola —como ha de parecer—
con un “He reservado esta tarde para usted”;
y cuatro velas tenues en la sala oscurecida,
cuatro círculos de luz dibujándose en el techo,
un atmósfera de tumba de Julieta
preparada para todas las cosas a decir, o no decir.
Fuimos, digamos, a escuchar al polaco de moda
transmitir los Preludios, por el cabello y los dedos.
“Tan íntimo, este Chopin, que creo que su alma
debería resucitar sólo entre amigos,
dos o tres, que no tocaran la frescura
manoseada y cuestionada en las salas de concierto.”
— Y la charla así va derivando
entre deseos vacíos y lamentos elegidos con cuidado
sobre un fondo de atenuados tonos de violines
mezclados con débiles cornetas,
y comienza.
“No sabé cuánto significan mis amigos para mí,
y qué raro, qué raro y extraño es encontrar,
en una vida hecha de tantos, tantos fragmentos
(y eso por supuesto no me gusta... ¿lo sabía? ¡Usted no es ciego!
¡Es tan perceptivo!),
encontrar un amigo que tenga esas cualidades,
que tenga y ofrezca
esas cualidades de las que vive la amistad.
Cuánto significa para mí decirle esto...
sin esas amistades... la vida, ¡qué cauchemar!”
Entre el devaneo de los violines
y los solos fugaces
de cornetas entrecortadas,
un sordo tambor en mi cerebro
empieza a martillear absurdamente
su propio preludio,
caprichoso y monocorde,
que es al menos una clara, definida “nota falsa”.
— Tomemos aire, en un trance de tabaco,
admiremos los monumentos,
discutamos los últimos sucesos,
pongamos en hora nuestro reloj con un reloj de la calle
y sentémonos un rato a tomar nuestra cerveza.
II
Ahora que las lilas están en flor
tiene un jarrón de lilas en la sala
y gira con los dedos una lila mientras habla.
“Ah, amigo mío, usted no sabe, usted no sabe
lo que es la vida, debería retenerla entre sus manos”;
(girando lentamente cada tallo)
“La deja fluir de usted, la deja fluir,
y la juventud es cruel, y no tiene remordimientos
y se ríe de las cosas que no puede ver.”
Yo sonrío, por supuesto,
y sigo tomando el té.
“Pero con estos atardeceres de abril, que por alguna razón
me traen a la memoria mi vida enterrada, y París en primavera,
me siento inmensamente en paz, y encuentro que el mundo
es espléndido y joven, después de todo.”
La voz prosigue como el terco disonar
de un violín roto, en una tarde de agosto:
“Siempre estoy segura de que usted
entiende mis sentimientos, segura de que siente,
de que tiende su mano, al otro lado del abismo.
Usted es invulnerable, no tiene talón de Aquiles.
Seguirá avanzando, y cuando haya triunfado
podrá decir: en este punto muchos fracasaron.
¿Pero qué tengo yo, qué tengo yo que ofrecerle,
amigo mío, qué puede usted recibir de mí?
Sólo la amistad y la comprensión
de alguien que se acerca al final del camino.
Yo estaré sentada aquí, sirviendo el té a los amigos...”
Tomo el sombrero: ¿cómo compensar cobardemente
lo que ella me dijo?
Me verán en el parque, de mañana,
leyendo los chistes y la página deportiva.
Observo en particular:
una condesa inglesa sube al escenario,
matan a un griego en un baile de polacos,
otro estafador de bancos que confiesa.
Mantengo la compostura, el dominio de mí mismo,
excepto cuando un organillo, mecánico y cansado,
reitera una gastada tonada popular
con aroma a jacintos del jardín,
evocando cosas que otros han deseado.
¿Están bien o están mal estas ideas?
III
Cae la noche de octubre; regreso igual que antes
excepto por una leve sensación de incomodidad,
subo la escalera y giro el picaporte
y siento como si hubiera subido a gatas.
“Así que se está yendo al extranjero... ¿Y cuándo vuelve?
Pero esa pregunta no tiene sentido.
Difícilmente sepa cuándo volverá,
hallará tanto que ver...”
Mi sonrisa cae de golpe entre los adornos.
“Quizás me pueda escribir.”
Mi aplomo se reaviva por un instante;
esto es lo que esperaba.
“Me estuve preguntando con frecuencia últimamente
(¡pero el principio jamás sabe el final!)
por qué no hemos llegado a ser amigos.”
Yo me siento como alguien que sonríe, y al volverse
observa de repente su expresión en un espejo.
Mi aplomo se desvanece; estamos verdaderamente a oscuras.
“Porque todos lo decían, todos nuestros amigos,
¡todos estaban seguros de que nuestros sentimientos
nos unirían tanto! Yo misma apenas si lo entiendo.
Ahora debemos dejárselo al destino.
Me escribirá, al menos.
Quizás no sea demasiado tarde.
Yo estaré sentada aquí, sirviendo el té a los amigos.”
Y yo debo adoptar una forma diferente cada vez
para hallar expresión... bailar, bailar
como un oso bailarín,
chillar como un loro, parlotear como un mono.
Tomemos aire, en un trance de tabaco —
¡Bien! ¿Y si ella muriera una tarde,
una tarde gris y neblinosa, un anochecer amarillento y rosa;
si muriese dejándome sentado pluma en mano
con la niebla que baja a los tejados;
dudando, por un buen rato,
sin saber qué sentir o si comprendo
o si soy sagaz o necio, tarde o muy temprano...
no llevaría ella la ventaja, al fin y al cabo?
La música concluye con una “cadencia moribunda”,
ya que hablamos de morir —
¿Y tendría yo derecho a sonreír?
Thomas Stearn Eliot, St. Louis, Missouri, 1888 - Londres, 1965
versión © Gerardo Gambolini
imagen: s/d
Portrait of a lady
Thou hast committed —
fornication: but that was in another country
and besides, the wench is dead.
—Marlowe, The Jew of Malta [IV, 1]
I
Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon
You have the scene arrange itself —as it will seem to do—
With “I have saved this afternoon for you”;
And four wax candles in the darkened room,
Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead,
An atmosphere of Juliet’s tomb
Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid.
We have been, let us say, to hear the latest Pole
Transmit the Preludes, through his hair and finger-tips.
“So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul
Should be resurrected only among friends
Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom
That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room.”
—And so the conversation slips
Among velleities and carefully caught regrets
Through attenuated tones of violins
Mingled with remote cornets
And begins.
“You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends,
And how, how rare and strange it is, to find
In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends,
(For indeed I do not love it ... you knew? you are not blind!
How keen you are!)
To find a friend who has these qualities,
Who has, and gives
Those qualities upon which friendship lives.
How much it means that I say this to you—
Without these friendships—life, what cauchemar!”
Among the windings of the violins
And the ariettes
Of cracked cornets
Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins
Absurdly hammering a prelude of its own,
Capricious monotone
That is at least one definite “false note.”
—Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance,
Admire the monuments
Discuss the late events,
Correct our watches by the public clocks.
Then sit for half an hour and drink our bocks.
II
Now that lilacs are in bloom
She has a bowl of lilacs in her room
And twists one in her fingers while she talks.
“Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know
What life is, you should hold it in your hands”;
(Slowly twisting the lilac stalks)
“You let it flow from you, you let it flow,
And youth is cruel, and has no remorse
And smiles at situations which it cannot see.”
I smile, of course,
And go on drinking tea.
“Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall
My buried life, and Paris in the Spring,
I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world
To be wonderful and youthful, after all.”
The voice returns like the insistent out-of-tune
Of a broken violin on an August afternoon:
“I am always sure that you understand
My feelings, always sure that you feel,
Sure that across the gulf you reach your hand.
You are invulnerable, you have no Achilles’ heel.
You will go on, and when you have prevailed
You can say: at this point many a one has failed.
But what have I, but what have I, my friend,
To give you, what can you receive from me?
Only the friendship and the sympathy
Of one about to reach her journey’s end.
I shall sit here, serving tea to friends....”
I take my hat: how can I make a cowardly amends
For what she has said to me?
You will see me any morning in the park
Reading the comics and the sporting page.
Particularly I remark An English countess goes upon the stage.
A Greek was murdered at a Polish dance,
Another bank defaulter has confessed.
I keep my countenance, I remain self-possessed
Except when a street piano, mechanical and tired
Reiterates some worn-out common song
With the smell of hyacinths across the garden
Recalling things that other people have desired.
Are these ideas right or wrong?
III
The October night comes down; returning as before
Except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease
I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door
And feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees.
“And so you are going abroad; and when do you return?
But that’s a useless question.
You hardly know when you are coming back,
You will find so much to learn.”
My smile falls heavily among the bric-à-brac.
“Perhaps you can write to me.”
My self-possession flares up for a second;
This is as I had reckoned.
“I have been wondering frequently of late
(But our beginnings never know our ends!)
Why we have not developed into friends.”
I feel like one who smiles, and turning shall remark
Suddenly, his expression in a glass.
My self-possession gutters; we are really in the dark.
“For everybody said so, all our friends,
They all were sure our feelings would relate
So closely! I myself can hardly understand.
We must leave it now to fate.
You will write, at any rate.
Perhaps it is not too late.
I shall sit here, serving tea to friends.”
And I must borrow every changing shape
To find expression ... dance, dance
Like a dancing bear,
Cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape.
Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance—
Well! and what if she should die some afternoon,
Afternoon grey and smoky, evening yellow and rose;
Should die and leave me sitting pen in hand
With the smoke coming down above the housetops;
Doubtful, for quite a while
Not knowing what to feel or if I understand
Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon...
Would she not have the advantage, after all?
This music is successful with a “dying fall”
Now that we talk of dying—
And should I have the right to smile?