Un campesino
Iago
Prytherch su nombre, aunque, admitámoslo,
sólo un hombre común de las desnudas colinas galesas
que encierra unas pocas ovejas en un claro de nubes.
Cortando remolacha forrajera, quitando la piel verde
de los huesos amarillos con una tonta sonrisa
sólo un hombre común de las desnudas colinas galesas
que encierra unas pocas ovejas en un claro de nubes.
Cortando remolacha forrajera, quitando la piel verde
de los huesos amarillos con una tonta sonrisa
de
satisfacción, o removiendo la tierra tosca
hasta
hacer un rígido mar de terrones
que
brillan bajo el viento —
Así
pasa sus días, su babosa alegría
más infrecuente que el sol que curte las mejillas
de un cielo demacrado quizás una vez por semana.
Y luego, a la noche, vedlo clavado en su silla
sin moverse, salvo cuando se inclina a escupir en el fuego.
Hay algo aterrador en el vacío de su mente.
Su ropa, rancia por años de sudor
y contacto animal, ofende el refinado,
pero afectado, sentido común con su cruda naturalidad.
Pero este, sin embargo, es vuestro arquetipo, alguien que
más infrecuente que el sol que curte las mejillas
de un cielo demacrado quizás una vez por semana.
Y luego, a la noche, vedlo clavado en su silla
sin moverse, salvo cuando se inclina a escupir en el fuego.
Hay algo aterrador en el vacío de su mente.
Su ropa, rancia por años de sudor
y contacto animal, ofende el refinado,
pero afectado, sentido común con su cruda naturalidad.
Pero este, sin embargo, es vuestro arquetipo, alguien que
/ estación tras estación,
contra
el asedio de la lluvia y el desgaste del viento
preserva su ganado, una fortaleza inexpugnable
que no será asaltada, ni aun en la confusión de la muerte.
Recordadlo, entonces, porque él también es un ganador de guerras,
preserva su ganado, una fortaleza inexpugnable
que no será asaltada, ni aun en la confusión de la muerte.
Recordadlo, entonces, porque él también es un ganador de guerras,
que
resiste como un árbol bajo las estrellas curiosas.
R. S. Thomas, tal el nombre bajo el que publicó, fue
además sacerdote anglicano.
Muchos de sus poemas están dedicados o referidos a
“Prytherch”, personaje ficticio que encarna al típico granjero galés de las
colinas. “Un campesino”, escrito en 1942, fue el primer poema sobre Iago
Prytherch, que continuó sirviéndole de modelo poético durante aproximadamente
dos décadas. En 1996, a los 83 años, Thomas fue nominado para el Nobel de
Literatura, otorgado finalmente a Seamus Heaney, quien elogió posteriormente a
Thomas en un homenaje efectuado en la Abadía de Westminster.
A Peasant
Iago Prytherch his name, though, be it allowed,
Just an ordinary man of the bald Welsh hills,
Who pens a few sheep in a gap of cloud.
Docking mangels, chipping the green skin
From the yellow bones with a half-witted grin
Of satisfaction, or churning the crude earth
To a stiff sea of clods that glint in the wind—
So are his days spent, his spittled mirth
Rarer than the sun that cracks the cheeks
Of the gaunt sky perhaps once in a week.
And then at night see him fixed in his chair
Motionless, except when he leans to gob in the fire.
There is something frightening in the vacancy of his mind.
His clothes, sour with years of sweat
And animal contact, shock the refined,
But affected, sense with their stark naturalness.
Yet this is your prototype, who, season by season
Against siege of rain and the wind’s attrition,
Preserves his stock, an impregnable fortress
Not to be stormed, even in death’s confusion.
Remember him, then, for he, too, is a winner of wars,
Enduring like a tree under the curious stars.
Just an ordinary man of the bald Welsh hills,
Who pens a few sheep in a gap of cloud.
Docking mangels, chipping the green skin
From the yellow bones with a half-witted grin
Of satisfaction, or churning the crude earth
To a stiff sea of clods that glint in the wind—
So are his days spent, his spittled mirth
Rarer than the sun that cracks the cheeks
Of the gaunt sky perhaps once in a week.
And then at night see him fixed in his chair
Motionless, except when he leans to gob in the fire.
There is something frightening in the vacancy of his mind.
His clothes, sour with years of sweat
And animal contact, shock the refined,
But affected, sense with their stark naturalness.
Yet this is your prototype, who, season by season
Against siege of rain and the wind’s attrition,
Preserves his stock, an impregnable fortress
Not to be stormed, even in death’s confusion.
Remember him, then, for he, too, is a winner of wars,
Enduring like a tree under the curious stars.
No
siempre será así,
el
aire sin viento, unas últimas hojas
añadiendo
su decoración
a los
hombros de los árboles, trenzando de dorado
los
puños de las ramas; un ave acicalándose
en el
espejo del prado. Luego de alzar la vista
de las
tareas del día, deténte un instante,
deja
que la mente tome su fotografía
de la
escena radiante, algo que usar
sobre
el corazón, con el extenso frío.
A day in autumn
It will not always be like this,
The air windless, a few last
Leaves adding their decoration
To the trees’ shoulders, braiding the cuffs
Of the boughs with gold; a bird preening
In the lawn’s mirror. Having looked up
From the day’s chores, pause a minute,
Let the mind take its photograph
Of the bright scene, something to wear
Against the heart in the long cold.
The air windless, a few last
Leaves adding their decoration
To the trees’ shoulders, braiding the cuffs
Of the boughs with gold; a bird preening
In the lawn’s mirror. Having looked up
From the day’s chores, pause a minute,
Let the mind take its photograph
Of the bright scene, something to wear
Against the heart in the long cold.
Queridos
padres,
les
perdono mi vida
engendrada
en un pueblo deprimente,
la
intención fue buena;
aún
veo los restos de sol
ahora
al atravesar la calle.
No fue
el hueso deforme;
me
dieron alimento suficiente
para
restablecerme.
Fue el
peso de la mente
lo que
me que mantuvo encorvado
mientras
crecía.
No fue
su culpa.
Lo que
debió avanzar,
una
flecha lanzada de un arco intentado
a un
blanco intentado, ha vuelto,
hiriéndose
a sí mismo
con
preguntas que ustedes no habían hecho.
Sorry
Dear parents,
I forgive you my life,
Begotten in a drab town,
The intention was good;
Passing the street now,
I see still the remains of sunlight.
It was not the bone buckled;
You gave me enough food
To renew myself.
It was the mind’s weight
Kept me bent, as I grew tall.
It was not your fault.
What should have gone on,
Arrow aimed from a tried bow
At a tried target, has turned back,
Wounding itself
With questions you had not asked.
I forgive you my life,
Begotten in a drab town,
The intention was good;
Passing the street now,
I see still the remains of sunlight.
It was not the bone buckled;
You gave me enough food
To renew myself.
It was the mind’s weight
Kept me bent, as I grew tall.
It was not your fault.
What should have gone on,
Arrow aimed from a tried bow
At a tried target, has turned back,
Wounding itself
With questions you had not asked.
Tan
hermosa — Dios mismo tembló
al
verla acercarse: el largo cuerpo curvado
como
el horizonte. ¿Por qué la había hecho
así?
¿Cómo sería, dijo ella
inclinándose
hacia él, si en vez de
disputárnoslo, lo dividiéramos
entre nosotros? Tú podrías tener todo el honor
de su
invención, si me dejaras ordenarlo
a mí.
Él la miró a los ojos
y vio
en lo profundo los huesos
de las
generaciones que navegarían
guiados
por esas dos grandes estrellas, pero
la
atracción de aquello era muy grande. Sí, pensó,
dame
el tributo de sus mentes, y lo que hagan con su cuerpo
no me
interesa. Se llevó la mano al costado
y sacó
la espina que haría fluir
la sangre
ordenada, y la tocó
con
ella. Ve, le dijo. Irán a ti eternamente
con su
deseo, y tú a cambio sangrarás por ellos.
The Woman
So beautiful — God himself quailed
at her approach: the long body curved
like the horizon. Why had he made
her so? How would it be, she said,
leaning towards him, if instead of
quarreling over it, we divided it
between us? You can have all the credit
for its invention, if you will leave the ordering
of it to me. He looked into her
eyes and saw far down the bones
of the generations that would navigate
by those great stars, but the pull of it
was too much. Yes, he thought, give me their minds’
tribute, and what they do with their bodies
is not my concern. He put his hand in his side
and drew out the thorn for the letting
of the ordained blood and touched her with
it. Go, he said. They shall come to you for ever
with their desire, and you shall bleed for them in return.
at her approach: the long body curved
like the horizon. Why had he made
her so? How would it be, she said,
leaning towards him, if instead of
quarreling over it, we divided it
between us? You can have all the credit
for its invention, if you will leave the ordering
of it to me. He looked into her
eyes and saw far down the bones
of the generations that would navigate
by those great stars, but the pull of it
was too much. Yes, he thought, give me their minds’
tribute, and what they do with their bodies
is not my concern. He put his hand in his side
and drew out the thorn for the letting
of the ordained blood and touched her with
it. Go, he said. They shall come to you for ever
with their desire, and you shall bleed for them in return.
A menudo trato
de analizar la
cualidad
de su silencio. ¿Es
allí donde Dios se esconde
de mi búsqueda?
Cuando la poca gente se va,
me quedo a escuchar el
aire calmándose otra vez
para la vigilia. Así
ha esperado
desde que las
piedras se agruparon alrededor de él.
Ellas son las duras costillas
de un cuerpo que
nuestros rezos
no lograron animar.
Las sombras avanzan
desde sus rincones
para tomar posesión
de lugares ocupados
por la luz
durante una hora.
Los murciélagos reanudan
sus tareas. La
inquietud de los bancos
cesa. No hay otro
sonido en la oscuridad
que el sonido de un
hombre
respirando, poniendo
a prueba su fe
en el vacío,
clavando sus preguntas
una por una en una
cruz deshabitada.
In Church
Often I try
To analyse the quality
Of its silences. Is this where God hides
From my searching? I have stopped to listen,
After the few people have gone,
To the air recomposing itself
For vigil. It has waited like this
Since the stones grouped themselves about it.
These are the hard ribs
Of a body that our prayers have failed
To animate. Shadows advance
From their corners to take possession
Of places the light held
For an hour. The bats resume
Their business. The uneasiness of the pews
Ceases. There is no other sound
In the darkness but the sound of a man
Breathing, testing his faith
On emptiness, nailing his questions
One by one to an untenanted cross.
Often I try
To analyse the quality
Of its silences. Is this where God hides
From my searching? I have stopped to listen,
After the few people have gone,
To the air recomposing itself
For vigil. It has waited like this
Since the stones grouped themselves about it.
These are the hard ribs
Of a body that our prayers have failed
To animate. Shadows advance
From their corners to take possession
Of places the light held
For an hour. The bats resume
Their business. The uneasiness of the pews
Ceases. There is no other sound
In the darkness but the sound of a man
Breathing, testing his faith
On emptiness, nailing his questions
One by one to an untenanted cross.
Ronald
Stuart Thomas, Cardiff, Gales, 1913-2000
imagen: http://crewswansea.blogspot.com.ar/
Versiones de Gerardo Gamboliniimagen: http://crewswansea.blogspot.com.ar/
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