(1903-1950)
POESÍA
Eres la compañía con quien hablo
de pronto, a solas.
te forman las palabras
que salen del silencio
y del tanque de sueño en que me ahogo
libre hasta despertar.
Tu mano metálica
endurece la prisa de mi mano
y conduce la pluma
que traza en el papel su litoral.
Tu voz, hoz de eco
es el rebote de mi voz en el muro,
y en tu piel de espejo
me estoy mirando mirarme por mil Argos,
por mí largos segundos.
Pero el menor ruido te ahuyenta
y te veo salir
por la puerta del libro
o por el atlas del techo,
por el tablero del piso,
o la página del espejo,
y me dejas
sin más pulso ni voz y sin más cara,
sin máscara como un hombre desnudo
en medio de una calle de miradas.
Reflejos, 1926
NOCTURNO SUEÑO
A Jules Supervielle
Abría las salas
profundas el sueño
y voces delgadas
corrientes de aire
entraban
Del barco del cielo
del papel pautado
caía la escala
por donde mi cuerpo
bajaba
El cielo en el suelo
como en un espejo
la calle azogada
dobló mis palabras
Me robó mi sombra
la sombra cerrada
Quieto de silencio
oí que mis pasos
pasaban
El frío de acero
a mi mano ciega
armó con su daga
Para darme muerte
la muerte esperaba
Y al doblar la esquina
un segundo largo
mi mano acerada
encontró mi espalda
Sin gota de sangre
sin ruido ni peso
a mis pies clavados
vino a dar mi cuerpo
Lo tomé en los brazos
lo llevé a mi lecho
Cerraba las alas
profundas el sueño
Nostalgia de la muerte, 1938
NOCTURNO ETERNO
Cuando los hombres alzan los hombros y pasan
o cuando dejan caer sus nombres
hasta que la sombra se asombra
cuando un polvo más fino aún que el humo
se adhiere a los cristales de la voz
y a la piel de los rostros y las cosas
cuando los ojos cierran sus ventanas
al rayo del sol pródigo y prefieren
la ceguera al perdón y el silencio al sollozo
cuando la vida o lo que así llamamos inútilmente
y que no llega sino con un nombre innombrable
se desnuda para saltar al lecho
y ahogarse en el alcohol o quemarse en la nieve
cuando la vi cuando la vid cuando la vida
quiere entregarse cobardemente y a oscuras
sin decirnos siquiera el precio de su nombre
cuando en la soledad de un cielo muerto
brillan unas estrellas olvidadas
y es tan grande el silencio del silencio
que de pronto quisiéramos que hablara
o cuando de una boca que no existe
sale un grito inaudito
que nos echa a la cara su luz viva
y se apaga y nos deja una ciega sordera
o cuando todo ha muerto
tan dura y lentamente que da miedo
alzar la voz y preguntar "quién vive"
dudo si responder
a la muda pregunta con un grito
por temor de saber que ya no existo
porque acaso la voz tampoco vive
sino como un recuerdo en la garganta
y no es la noche sino la ceguera
lo que llena de sombra nuestros ojos
y porque acaso el grito es la presencia
de una palabra antigua
opaca y muda que de pronto grita
porque vida silencio piel y boca
y soledad recuerdo cielo y humo
nada son sino sombras de palabras
que nos salen al paso de la noche
Nostalgia de la muerte, 1938
NOCTURNO MUERTO
Primero un aire tibio y lento que me ciña
como la venda al brazo enfermo de un enfermo
y que me invada luego como el silencio frío
al cuerpo desvalido y muerto de algún muerto.
Después un ruido sordo, azul y numeroso,
preso en el caracol de mi oreja dormida
y mi voz que se ahogue en ese mar de miedo
cada vez más delgada y más enardecida.
¿Quién medirá el espacio, quién me dirá el momento
en que se funda el hielo de mi cuerpo y consuma
el corazón inmóvil como la llama fría?
La tierra hecha impalpable silencioso silencio,
la soledad opaca y la sombra ceniza
caerán sobre mis ojos y afrentarán mi frente.
Nostalgia de la muerte, 1938
DÉCIMA MUERTE
A Ricardo de Alcázar
I
¡Qué prueba de la existencia
habrá mayor que la suerte
de estar viviendo sin verte
y muriendo en tu presencia!
Esta lúcida conciencia
de amar a lo nunca visto
y de esperar lo imprevisto;
este caer sin llegar
es la angustia de pensar
que puesto que muero existo.
II
Si en todas partes estás,
en el agua y en la tierra,
en el aire que me encierra
y en el incendio voraz;
y si a todas partes vas
conmigo en el pensamiento,
en el soplo de mi aliento
y en mi sangre confundida,
¿no serás, Muerte, en mi vida,
agua, fuego, polvo y viento?
III
si tienes manos, que sean
de un tacto sutil y blando,
apenas sensible cuando
anestesiado me crean;
y que tus ojos me vean
sin mirarme, de tal suerte
que nada me desconcierte
ni tu vista ni tu roce,
para no sentir un goce
ni un dolor contigo, Muerte.
IV
Por caminos ignorados,
por hendiduras secretas,
por las misteriosas vetas
de troncos recién cortados,
te ven mis ojos cerrados
entrar en mi alcoba oscura
a convertir mi envoltura
opaca, febril, cambiante,
en materia de diamante
luminosa, eterna y pura.
V
No duermo para que al verte
llegar lenta y apagada,
para que al oír pausada
tu voz que silencios vierte,
para que al tocar la nada
que envuelve tu cuerpo yerto,
para que a tu olor desierto
pueda, sin sombra de sueño,
saber que de ti me adueño,
sentir que muero despierto.
VI
La aguja del instantero
recorrerá su cuadrante,
todo cabrá en un instante
del espacio verdadero
que, ancho, profundo y señero,
será elástico a tu paso
de modo que el tiempo cierto
prolongará nuestro abrazo
y será posible, acaso,
vivir después de haber muerto.
VII
En el roce, en el contacto,
en la inefable delicia
de la suprema caricia
que desemboca en el acto,
hay un misterioso pacto
del espasmo delirante
en que un cielo alucinante
y un infierno de agonía
se funden cuando eres mía
y soy tuyo en un instante.
VIII
¡Hasta en la ausencia estás viva!
Porque te encuentro en el hueco
de una forma y en el eco
de una nota fugitiva;
porque en mi propia saliva
fundes tu sabor sombrío,
y a cambio de lo que es mío
me dejas sólo el temor
de hallar hasta en el sabor
la presencia del vacío.
IX
Si te llevo en mí prendida
y te acaricio y escondo,
si te alimento en el fondo
de mi más secreta herida;
si mi muerte te da vida
y goce mi frenesí,
¡qué será, Muerte, de ti
cuando al salir yo del mundo,
deshecho el nudo profundo,
tengas que salir de mí?
X
En vano amenazas, Muerte,
cerrar la boca a mi herida
y poner fin a mi vida
con una palabra inerte.
¡Qué puedo pensar al verte,
si en mi angustia verdadera
tuve que violar la espera;
si en vista de tu tardanza
para llenar mi esperanza
no hay hora en que yo no muera!
Décima muerte y otros poemas no coleccionados, 1941
AMOR CONDUSSE NOI AD UNA MORTE
Amar es una angustia, una pregunta,
una suspensa y luminosa duda;
es un querer saber todo lo tuyo
y a la vez un temor de al fin saberlo.
Amar es reconstruir, cuando te alejas,
tus pasos, tus silencios, tus palabras,
y pretender seguir tu pensamiento
cuando a mi lado, al fin inmóvil, callas.
Amar es una cólera secreta,
una helada y diabólica soberbia.
Amar es no dormir cuando en mi lecho
sueñas entre mis brazos que te ciñen,
y odiar el sueño en que, bajo tu frente,
acaso en otros brazos te abandonas.
Amar es escuchar sobre tu pecho,
hasta colmar la oreja codiciosa,
el rumor de tu sangre y la marea
de tu respiración acompasada.
Amar es absorber tu joven savia
y juntar nuestras bocas en un cauce
hasta que de la brisa de tu aliento
se impregnen para siempre mis entrañas.
Amar es una envidia verde y muda,
una sutil y lúcida avaricia.
Amar es provocar el dulce instante
en que tu piel busca mi piel despierta;
saciar a un tiempo la avidez nocturna
y morir otra vez la misma muerte
provisional, desgarradora, oscura.
Amar es una sed, la de la llaga
que arde sin consumirse ni cerrarse,
y el hambre de una boca atormentada
que pide más y más y no se sacia.
Amar es una insólita lujuria
y una gula voraz, siempre desierta.
Pero amar es también cerrar los ojos,
dejar que el sueño invada nuestro cuerpo
como un río de olvido y de tinieblas,
y navegar sin rumbo, a la deriva:
porque amar es, al fin, una indolencia.
Canto a la primavera y otros poemas, 1948
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Anne Carson
FATHER'S OLD BLUE CARDIGAN
Now it hangs on the back of the kitchen chair
where I always sit, as it did
on the back of the kitchen chair where he always sat.
I put it on whenever I come in,
as he did, stamping
the snow from his boots.
I put it on and sit in the dark.
He would not have done this.
Coldness comes from paring down from the moonbone in the sky.
His laws were a secret.
But I remember the moment at which I knew
he was going mad inside his laws.
He was standing at the turn of the driveway when I arrived.
He had on the blue cardigan with the buttons done up all the way
to the top.
Not only because it was a hot July afternoon
but the look on his face—
as a small child who has been dressed by some aunt early in the morning
for a long trip
on cold trains and windy platforms
will sit very straight at the edge of his seat
while the shadows like long fingers
over the haystacks that sweep past
keep shocking him
because he is riding backwards.
Now it hangs on the back of the kitchen chair
where I always sit, as it did
on the back of the kitchen chair where he always sat.
I put it on whenever I come in,
as he did, stamping
the snow from his boots.
I put it on and sit in the dark.
He would not have done this.
Coldness comes from paring down from the moonbone in the sky.
His laws were a secret.
But I remember the moment at which I knew
he was going mad inside his laws.
He was standing at the turn of the driveway when I arrived.
He had on the blue cardigan with the buttons done up all the way
to the top.
Not only because it was a hot July afternoon
but the look on his face—
as a small child who has been dressed by some aunt early in the morning
for a long trip
on cold trains and windy platforms
will sit very straight at the edge of his seat
while the shadows like long fingers
over the haystacks that sweep past
keep shocking him
because he is riding backwards.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Leopardi
L'infinito
Sempre caro mi fu quest'ermo colle
E questa siepe che da tanta parte
De'l ultimo orrizonte il guarde esclude.
Ma sedendo e mirando interminati
Spazi di la da quella, e sovrumani
Silenzi, e profondissima quiete,
Io nel pensier mi fingo, ove per poco
Il cor non si spaura. E come il vento
Odo stormir tra queste piante, io quello
Infinito silenzio a questa voce
Vo comparando; e mi sovvien l'eterno,
E le morte stagioni, e la presente
E viva, e'l suon di lei. Cosi tra questa
Immensita s'annega il pensier mio:
E'l naufragar m'e dolce in questo mare.
THE INFINITE
It was always dear to me, this solitary hill,
and this hedgerow here, that closes out my view,
from so much of the ultimate horizon.
But sitting here, and watching here, in thought,
I create interminable spaces,
greater than human silences, and deepest
quiet, where the heart barely fails to terrify.
When I hear the wind, blowing among these leaves,
I go on to compare that infinite silence
with this voice, and I remember the eternal
and the dead seasons, and the living present,
and its sound, so that in this immensity
my thoughts are drowned, and shipwreck seems sweet
to me in this sea.
Sempre caro mi fu quest'ermo colle
E questa siepe che da tanta parte
De'l ultimo orrizonte il guarde esclude.
Ma sedendo e mirando interminati
Spazi di la da quella, e sovrumani
Silenzi, e profondissima quiete,
Io nel pensier mi fingo, ove per poco
Il cor non si spaura. E come il vento
Odo stormir tra queste piante, io quello
Infinito silenzio a questa voce
Vo comparando; e mi sovvien l'eterno,
E le morte stagioni, e la presente
E viva, e'l suon di lei. Cosi tra questa
Immensita s'annega il pensier mio:
E'l naufragar m'e dolce in questo mare.
THE INFINITE
It was always dear to me, this solitary hill,
and this hedgerow here, that closes out my view,
from so much of the ultimate horizon.
But sitting here, and watching here, in thought,
I create interminable spaces,
greater than human silences, and deepest
quiet, where the heart barely fails to terrify.
When I hear the wind, blowing among these leaves,
I go on to compare that infinite silence
with this voice, and I remember the eternal
and the dead seasons, and the living present,
and its sound, so that in this immensity
my thoughts are drowned, and shipwreck seems sweet
to me in this sea.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
Romance Sonámbulo
By Federico García Lorca
Verde que te quiero verde.
Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
El barco sobre la mar
y el caballo en la montaña.
Con la sombra en la cintura
ella sueña en su baranda,
verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de fría plata.
Verde que te quiero verde.
Bajo la luna gitana,
las cosas la están mirando
y ella no puede mirarlas.
Verde que te quiero verde.
Grandes estrellas de escarcha
vienen con el pez de sombra
que abre el camino del alba.
La higuera frota su viento
con la lija de sus ramas,
y el monte, gato garduño,
eriza sus pitas agrias.
¿Pero quién vendra? ¿Y por dónde...?
Ella sigue en su baranda,
Verde came, pelo verde,
soñando en la mar amarga.
--Compadre, quiero cambiar
mi caballo por su casa,
mi montura por su espejo,
mi cuchillo per su manta.
Compadre, vengo sangrando,
desde los puertos de Cabra.
--Si yo pudiera, mocito,
este trato se cerraba.
Pero yo ya no soy yo,
ni mi casa es ya mi casa.
--Compadre, quiero morir
decentemente en mi cama.
De acero, si puede ser,
con las sábanas de holanda.
¿No ves la herida que tengo
desde el pecho a la garganta?
--Trescientas rosas morenas
lleva tu pechera blanca.
Tu sangre rezuma y huele
alrededor de tu faja.
Pero yo ya no soy yo,
ni mi casa es ya mi casa.
--Dejadme subir al menos
hasta las altas barandas;
¡dejadme subir!, dejadme,
hasta las verdes barandas.
Barandales de la luna
por donde retumba el agua.
Ya suben los dos compadres
hacia las altas barandas.
Dejando un rastro de sangre.
Dejando un rastro de lágrimas.
Temblaban en los tejados
farolillos de hojalata.
Mil panderos de cristal
herían la madrugada.
Verde que te quiero verde,
verde viento, verdes ramas.
Los dos compadres subieron.
El largo viento dejaba
en la boca un raro gusto
de hiel, de menta y de albahaca.
¡Compadre! ¿Donde está, díme?
¿Donde está tu niña amarga?
¡Cuántas veces te esperó!
¡Cuántas veces te esperara,
cara fresca, negro pelo,
en esta verde baranda!
Sobre el rostro del aljibe
se mecía la gitana.
Verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de fría plata.
Un carámbano de luna
la sostiene sobre el agua.
La noche se puso íntima
como una pequeña plaza.
Guardias civiles borrachos
en la puerta golpeaban.
Verde que te qinero verde.
Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
El barco sobre la mar.
Y el caballo en la montaña.
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea
and the horse on the mountain.
With the shade around her waist
she dreams on her balcony,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
Green, how I want you green.
Under the gypsy moon,
all things are watching her
and she cannot see them.
Green, how I want you green.
Big hoarfrost stars
come with the fish of shadow
that opens the road of dawn.
The fig tree rubs its wind
with the sandpaper of its branches,
and the forest, cunning cat,
bristles its brittle fibers.
But who will come? And from where?
She is still on her balcony
green flesh, her hair green,
dreaming in the bitter sea.
--My friend, I want to trade
my horse for her house,
my saddle for her mirror,
my knife for her blanket.
My friend, I come bleeding
from the gates of Cabra.
--If it were possible, my boy,
I'd help you fix that trade.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--My friend, I want to die
decently in my bed.
Of iron, if that's possible,
with blankets of fine chambray.
Don't you see the wound I have
from my chest up to my throat?
--Your white shirt has grown
thirsy dark brown roses.
Your blood oozes and flees a
round the corners of your sash.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--Let me climb up, at least,
up to the high balconies;
Let me climb up! Let me,
up to the green balconies.
Railings of the moon
through which the water rumbles.
Now the two friends climb up,
up to the high balconies.
Leaving a trail of blood.
Leaving a trail of teardrops.
Tin bell vines
were trembling on the roofs.
A thousand crystal tambourines
struck at the dawn light.
Green, how I want you green,
green wind, green branches.
The two friends climbed up.
The stiff wind left
in their mouths, a strange taste
of bile, of mint, and of basil
My friend, where is she--tell me--
where is your bitter girl?
How many times she waited for you!
How many times would she wait for you,
cool face, black hair,
on this green balcony!
Over the mouth of the cistern
the gypsy girl was swinging,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
An icicle of moon
holds her up above the water.
The night became intimate
like a little plaza.
Drunken "Guardias Civiles"
were pounding on the door.
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea.
And the horse on the mountain.
From The Selected Poems of Federico García Lorca, translated by William Logan. Published by New Directions, 1955.
Verde que te quiero verde.
Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
El barco sobre la mar
y el caballo en la montaña.
Con la sombra en la cintura
ella sueña en su baranda,
verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de fría plata.
Verde que te quiero verde.
Bajo la luna gitana,
las cosas la están mirando
y ella no puede mirarlas.
Verde que te quiero verde.
Grandes estrellas de escarcha
vienen con el pez de sombra
que abre el camino del alba.
La higuera frota su viento
con la lija de sus ramas,
y el monte, gato garduño,
eriza sus pitas agrias.
¿Pero quién vendra? ¿Y por dónde...?
Ella sigue en su baranda,
Verde came, pelo verde,
soñando en la mar amarga.
--Compadre, quiero cambiar
mi caballo por su casa,
mi montura por su espejo,
mi cuchillo per su manta.
Compadre, vengo sangrando,
desde los puertos de Cabra.
--Si yo pudiera, mocito,
este trato se cerraba.
Pero yo ya no soy yo,
ni mi casa es ya mi casa.
--Compadre, quiero morir
decentemente en mi cama.
De acero, si puede ser,
con las sábanas de holanda.
¿No ves la herida que tengo
desde el pecho a la garganta?
--Trescientas rosas morenas
lleva tu pechera blanca.
Tu sangre rezuma y huele
alrededor de tu faja.
Pero yo ya no soy yo,
ni mi casa es ya mi casa.
--Dejadme subir al menos
hasta las altas barandas;
¡dejadme subir!, dejadme,
hasta las verdes barandas.
Barandales de la luna
por donde retumba el agua.
Ya suben los dos compadres
hacia las altas barandas.
Dejando un rastro de sangre.
Dejando un rastro de lágrimas.
Temblaban en los tejados
farolillos de hojalata.
Mil panderos de cristal
herían la madrugada.
Verde que te quiero verde,
verde viento, verdes ramas.
Los dos compadres subieron.
El largo viento dejaba
en la boca un raro gusto
de hiel, de menta y de albahaca.
¡Compadre! ¿Donde está, díme?
¿Donde está tu niña amarga?
¡Cuántas veces te esperó!
¡Cuántas veces te esperara,
cara fresca, negro pelo,
en esta verde baranda!
Sobre el rostro del aljibe
se mecía la gitana.
Verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de fría plata.
Un carámbano de luna
la sostiene sobre el agua.
La noche se puso íntima
como una pequeña plaza.
Guardias civiles borrachos
en la puerta golpeaban.
Verde que te qinero verde.
Verde viento. Verdes ramas.
El barco sobre la mar.
Y el caballo en la montaña.
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea
and the horse on the mountain.
With the shade around her waist
she dreams on her balcony,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
Green, how I want you green.
Under the gypsy moon,
all things are watching her
and she cannot see them.
Green, how I want you green.
Big hoarfrost stars
come with the fish of shadow
that opens the road of dawn.
The fig tree rubs its wind
with the sandpaper of its branches,
and the forest, cunning cat,
bristles its brittle fibers.
But who will come? And from where?
She is still on her balcony
green flesh, her hair green,
dreaming in the bitter sea.
--My friend, I want to trade
my horse for her house,
my saddle for her mirror,
my knife for her blanket.
My friend, I come bleeding
from the gates of Cabra.
--If it were possible, my boy,
I'd help you fix that trade.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--My friend, I want to die
decently in my bed.
Of iron, if that's possible,
with blankets of fine chambray.
Don't you see the wound I have
from my chest up to my throat?
--Your white shirt has grown
thirsy dark brown roses.
Your blood oozes and flees a
round the corners of your sash.
But now I am not I,
nor is my house now my house.
--Let me climb up, at least,
up to the high balconies;
Let me climb up! Let me,
up to the green balconies.
Railings of the moon
through which the water rumbles.
Now the two friends climb up,
up to the high balconies.
Leaving a trail of blood.
Leaving a trail of teardrops.
Tin bell vines
were trembling on the roofs.
A thousand crystal tambourines
struck at the dawn light.
Green, how I want you green,
green wind, green branches.
The two friends climbed up.
The stiff wind left
in their mouths, a strange taste
of bile, of mint, and of basil
My friend, where is she--tell me--
where is your bitter girl?
How many times she waited for you!
How many times would she wait for you,
cool face, black hair,
on this green balcony!
Over the mouth of the cistern
the gypsy girl was swinging,
green flesh, her hair green,
with eyes of cold silver.
An icicle of moon
holds her up above the water.
The night became intimate
like a little plaza.
Drunken "Guardias Civiles"
were pounding on the door.
Green, how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.
The ship out on the sea.
And the horse on the mountain.
From The Selected Poems of Federico García Lorca, translated by William Logan. Published by New Directions, 1955.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
XENIA (1964-1966)
By Eugenio Montale, Translated from the Italian by Camillo Pennati, Frank Kermode
To My Wife
Dear little insect
whom for some reason they called fly[1]
this evening almost at dark
while I was reading the Deuteroisaiah
you reappeared beside me,
but without your glasses
you could not see me
nor could I without their glitter
recognize you in the dusk.
Without either glasses or antennae,
poor insect with wings
only in imagination,
a broken-backed bible but not all that
reliable either, the black of the night,
lightning, thunder and then
no storm. Or was it that
you had left so soon without
speaking? But it is ridiculous
to think you still had lips.
At the Saint James in Paris I shall have to ask
for a "single" room. (They do not like
unpaired guests.) So too
in the false Byzantium of your Venice
hotel; then at once to seek out
the telephone girls at their switchboard,
ever your friends; and off again,
the clockwork spring run down,
the longing to have you again, even if only
in a single gesture or habit.
We had planned a whistle
for the hereafter, a sign of recognition.
I try it out in the hope
that we are all dead already without knowing it.
I never understood if it were I who was
your faithful and distempered dog
or whether you were mine.
You weren't like that to others—rather a myopic insect
not at home amid the chatter
of high society. How naïve
those smart ones were—not knowing
that it was they who were your laughing-stock
nor that they were seen in the dark and detected
by an unerring sense of yours, by your
bat-like radar.
You never thought of leaving any trace
of yourself by writing prose or verse. It was
your charm—and then my self-disgust.
It was my dread as well: to be afterwards
pushed back by you into the croaking
slime of the neoterics.
The self-pity, the endless grief and anguish
of him who worships the down here yet hopes for and despairs
of another…. (Who dares say of another world?)
"Strange pity…." (Azucena, second act).[2]
Your speech so scanted, so unwary,
remains the only one I am satisfied with.
But its accent is changed, its color different.
I shall get used to hearing or deciphering you
in the ticking of the teleprinter,
in the coiling smoke of my Brissago
cigars.
Listening was your only way of seeing.
The telephone bill is next to nothing now.
"Used she to pray?" "Yes, she prayed to St. Anthony
because he helps one find
lost umbrellas and other items
of St. Hermes' wardrobe."
"Only for that?" "For her own dead too,
and for me." "That is enough," said the priest.
The memory of your weeping (mine was double)
is not enough to extinguish your bursts of laughter.
They were, so to speak, a foretaste of your private
Judgment Day, never, alas, to happen.
Spring comes out with its mole-like pace.
I shall no longer hear you talk of poisonous
antibiotics, of the ache in your thighbone,
or of your goods and chattels that a crafty legalism
fleeced you of.
Spring comes on with its fat mists,
with its long daylight, its unbearable hours.
I shall no longer hear you struggle with the gushing back
of time, of phantasms, of the logistical problems
of Summer.
Your brother died young; you were
the unkempt little girl staring at me
posed in the portrait's oval.
He wrote music, never published or performed,
now buried in a trunk or gone
for pulp. Perhaps someone is unconsciously
re-creating it, if what is written is written.
I loved him though I never knew him.
Except for you nobody remembered him.
I made no enquiries: now there is no point.
After you I was the only one left
for whom he ever existed. But we are able,
shadows ourselves—as you know—to love a shadow.
They say mine
is a poetry of unpertainingness.
But if it was yours it was someone's:
yours, who are no longer form but essence.
They say that poetry at its highest
praises the Whole in its flight;
they deny that the tortoise
can be faster than lightning.
You alone knew that motion
is not different from stillness,
that the void is fullness and the clear sky
the most diffused of clouds.
Thus I understand better your long journey
imprisoned in your bandages and plasters,
Yet it gives me no rest
to know that apart or together we are but one thing.
Notes
[1] Montale's wife was known to close friends as "La Mosca," the fly.
[2] The reference is to a character in Verdi's "Il Trovatore ."
To My Wife
Dear little insect
whom for some reason they called fly[1]
this evening almost at dark
while I was reading the Deuteroisaiah
you reappeared beside me,
but without your glasses
you could not see me
nor could I without their glitter
recognize you in the dusk.
Without either glasses or antennae,
poor insect with wings
only in imagination,
a broken-backed bible but not all that
reliable either, the black of the night,
lightning, thunder and then
no storm. Or was it that
you had left so soon without
speaking? But it is ridiculous
to think you still had lips.
At the Saint James in Paris I shall have to ask
for a "single" room. (They do not like
unpaired guests.) So too
in the false Byzantium of your Venice
hotel; then at once to seek out
the telephone girls at their switchboard,
ever your friends; and off again,
the clockwork spring run down,
the longing to have you again, even if only
in a single gesture or habit.
We had planned a whistle
for the hereafter, a sign of recognition.
I try it out in the hope
that we are all dead already without knowing it.
I never understood if it were I who was
your faithful and distempered dog
or whether you were mine.
You weren't like that to others—rather a myopic insect
not at home amid the chatter
of high society. How naïve
those smart ones were—not knowing
that it was they who were your laughing-stock
nor that they were seen in the dark and detected
by an unerring sense of yours, by your
bat-like radar.
You never thought of leaving any trace
of yourself by writing prose or verse. It was
your charm—and then my self-disgust.
It was my dread as well: to be afterwards
pushed back by you into the croaking
slime of the neoterics.
The self-pity, the endless grief and anguish
of him who worships the down here yet hopes for and despairs
of another…. (Who dares say of another world?)
"Strange pity…." (Azucena, second act).[2]
Your speech so scanted, so unwary,
remains the only one I am satisfied with.
But its accent is changed, its color different.
I shall get used to hearing or deciphering you
in the ticking of the teleprinter,
in the coiling smoke of my Brissago
cigars.
Listening was your only way of seeing.
The telephone bill is next to nothing now.
"Used she to pray?" "Yes, she prayed to St. Anthony
because he helps one find
lost umbrellas and other items
of St. Hermes' wardrobe."
"Only for that?" "For her own dead too,
and for me." "That is enough," said the priest.
The memory of your weeping (mine was double)
is not enough to extinguish your bursts of laughter.
They were, so to speak, a foretaste of your private
Judgment Day, never, alas, to happen.
Spring comes out with its mole-like pace.
I shall no longer hear you talk of poisonous
antibiotics, of the ache in your thighbone,
or of your goods and chattels that a crafty legalism
fleeced you of.
Spring comes on with its fat mists,
with its long daylight, its unbearable hours.
I shall no longer hear you struggle with the gushing back
of time, of phantasms, of the logistical problems
of Summer.
Your brother died young; you were
the unkempt little girl staring at me
posed in the portrait's oval.
He wrote music, never published or performed,
now buried in a trunk or gone
for pulp. Perhaps someone is unconsciously
re-creating it, if what is written is written.
I loved him though I never knew him.
Except for you nobody remembered him.
I made no enquiries: now there is no point.
After you I was the only one left
for whom he ever existed. But we are able,
shadows ourselves—as you know—to love a shadow.
They say mine
is a poetry of unpertainingness.
But if it was yours it was someone's:
yours, who are no longer form but essence.
They say that poetry at its highest
praises the Whole in its flight;
they deny that the tortoise
can be faster than lightning.
You alone knew that motion
is not different from stillness,
that the void is fullness and the clear sky
the most diffused of clouds.
Thus I understand better your long journey
imprisoned in your bandages and plasters,
Yet it gives me no rest
to know that apart or together we are but one thing.
Notes
[1] Montale's wife was known to close friends as "La Mosca," the fly.
[2] The reference is to a character in Verdi's "Il Trovatore ."
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Eugenio Montale
LA BUFERA
"Les princes n'ont point d'yeux pour voir ces grands merveilles Leurs mains ne servent plus qu'à nous persecuter…."
AGRIPPA D'AUBIGNE: "A Dieu"
La bufera che sgronda sulle foglie
dure della magnolia i lunghi tuoni
marzolini e la grandine,
(i suoni di cristallo nel tuo nido
notturno ti sorprendono, dell'oro
che s'è spento sui mógani, sul taglio
dei libri rilegati, brucia ancora
una grana di zucchero nel guscio
delle tue palpebre)
il lampo che candisce
alberi e muri e li sorprende in quella
eternità d'istante—marmo manna
e distruzione—ch'entro te scolpita
porti per tua condanna e che ti lega
piú che l'amore a me, strana sorella,—
e poi lo schianto rude, i sistri, il fremere
dei tamburelli sulla fossa fuia,
lo scalpicciare del fandango, e sopra
qualche gesto che annaspa…
Come quando
ti rivolgesti e con la mano, sgombra
la fronte dalla nube dei capelli,
mi salutasti—per entrar nel buio.
"Les princes n'ont point d'yeux pour voir ces grands merveilles Leurs mains ne servent plus qu'à nous persecuter…."
AGRIPPA D'AUBIGNE: "A Dieu"
La bufera che sgronda sulle foglie
dure della magnolia i lunghi tuoni
marzolini e la grandine,
(i suoni di cristallo nel tuo nido
notturno ti sorprendono, dell'oro
che s'è spento sui mógani, sul taglio
dei libri rilegati, brucia ancora
una grana di zucchero nel guscio
delle tue palpebre)
il lampo che candisce
alberi e muri e li sorprende in quella
eternità d'istante—marmo manna
e distruzione—ch'entro te scolpita
porti per tua condanna e che ti lega
piú che l'amore a me, strana sorella,—
e poi lo schianto rude, i sistri, il fremere
dei tamburelli sulla fossa fuia,
lo scalpicciare del fandango, e sopra
qualche gesto che annaspa…
Come quando
ti rivolgesti e con la mano, sgombra
la fronte dalla nube dei capelli,
mi salutasti—per entrar nel buio.
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Conrad Aiken
From Time in the Rock, or Preludes to Definition
XI
Mysticism, but let us have no words,
angels, but let us have no fantasies,
churches, but let us have no creeds,
no dead gods hung in crosses in shop,
nor beads nor prayers nor faith nor sin nor penance:
and yet, let us believe, let us believe.
Let it be the flower
seen by the child for the first time, plucked without
thought
broken for love and as soon forgotten:
and the angels, let them be our friends,
used for our needs with selfish simplicity,
broken for love and as soon forgotten;
and let the churches be our houses
defiled daily, loud with discord,–
where the dead gods that were our selves may hang,
our outgrown gods on every wall;
Christ on the mantelpiece, with downcast eyes;
Buddha above the stove;
the Holy Ghost by the hatrack, and God himself
staring like Narcissus from the mirror,
clad in a raincoat, and with hat and gloves.
Mysticism, but let it be a flower,
let it be the hand that reaches for the flower,
let it be the flower that imagined the first hand,
let it be the space that removed itself to give place
for the hand that reaches, the flower to be reached–
let it be self displacing self
as quietly as a child lifts a pebble,
as softly as a flower decides to fall,–
self replacing self
as seed follows flower to earth.
XI
Mysticism, but let us have no words,
angels, but let us have no fantasies,
churches, but let us have no creeds,
no dead gods hung in crosses in shop,
nor beads nor prayers nor faith nor sin nor penance:
and yet, let us believe, let us believe.
Let it be the flower
seen by the child for the first time, plucked without
thought
broken for love and as soon forgotten:
and the angels, let them be our friends,
used for our needs with selfish simplicity,
broken for love and as soon forgotten;
and let the churches be our houses
defiled daily, loud with discord,–
where the dead gods that were our selves may hang,
our outgrown gods on every wall;
Christ on the mantelpiece, with downcast eyes;
Buddha above the stove;
the Holy Ghost by the hatrack, and God himself
staring like Narcissus from the mirror,
clad in a raincoat, and with hat and gloves.
Mysticism, but let it be a flower,
let it be the hand that reaches for the flower,
let it be the flower that imagined the first hand,
let it be the space that removed itself to give place
for the hand that reaches, the flower to be reached–
let it be self displacing self
as quietly as a child lifts a pebble,
as softly as a flower decides to fall,–
self replacing self
as seed follows flower to earth.
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