Archive for June, 2010

24
Jun
10

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

T.S. Eliot (1888–1965). Prufrock and Other Observations. 1917.

24
Jun
10

Rilke’s Requiem for a friend

Denn das ist Schuld, wenn irgendeines Schuld ist:
die Freiheit eines Lieben nicht vermehren
um alle Freiheit, die man in sich aufbringt.

Fragment from Rilke’s Requiem for a friend. For Paula Modersohn-Becker 1876-1907. Two translations.

Whatever is deleted comes in the original poem, however I deleted those tiny sections because of personal reasons/preferences. Fundamentally, it would only not be accurate in terms of the reasons I am citing/quoting it in my blog, but certainly would express quite the opposite of what really is happening here.

For this suffering has lasted far too long; none of us can bear it; it is too heavy — this tangled suffering of spurious love which, building on convention like a habit, calls itself just, and fattens on injustice. Show me a man with a right to his possession. Who can posses what cannot hold its own self, but only, now and then, will blissfully catch itself, then quickly throw itself away, like a child playing with a ball. As little as a captain can hold the carved Nike facing outward from his ship’s prow when the lightness of her godhead suddenly lifts her up, into the bright sea-wind: so little can one of us call back the woman who, now no longer seeing us, walks on along the narrow strip of her existence as though by miracle, in perfect safety — unless, that is, he wishes to do wrong. For this is wrong, if anything is wrong: not to enlarge the freedom of a love with all the inner freedom one can summon. We need, in love, to practice only this: letting each other go. For holding on comes easily; we do not need to learn it.

Are you still here ? Are you standing in some corner ? You knew so much of all this, you were able to do so much; you passed through life so open to all things, like an early morning.

Trad. Stephen Mitchell

Because this suffering’s lasted far too long,
and no one can bear it: it’s too heavy for us,
this confused suffering of false love,
that builds on imitation, like a custom,
calls itself right and makes profit out of wrong.
Where is the man who has the right of possession?
Who can possess what cannot hold its own self,
what only from time to time catches itself happily,
and throws itself down again, as a child does a ball.
No more than the captain of the ship can grasp
the Nike jutting outwards from the prow
when the secret lightness of her divinity
lifts her suddenly into the bright ocean-wind:
no more can one of us call back the woman
who walks on, no longer seeing us,
along a small strip of her being
as if by a miracle, without disaster:
unless his desire and trade is in crime.
For this is a crime, if anything’s a crime:
not to increase the freedom of a Love
with all the freedom we can summon in ourselves.
We have, indeed, when we love, only this one thing:
to loose one another: because holding on to ourselves
comes easily to us, and does not first have to be learned.

Are you still there? Are you in some corner? –
You understood all of this so well
and used it so well, as you passed through
open to everything, like the dawn of a day.

Trad. Tony Kline.

Last but not least, two Spanish translations of that tiny part that brought me back to this beautiful poem.

Sólo existe una culpa: el no multiplicar la libertad de lo amado
por toda la libertad de la que uno es capaz.

Trad. Oswaldo Barreto Miliani

Porque la culpa es eso, si es que de algún modo la culpa existe:
no acrecentar la libertad del ser al que se ama
por la libertad que de uno mismo surge

Trad. Isaías Garde

Original German text.

Denn dieses Leiden dauert schon zu lang,
und keiner kanns; es ist zu schwer für uns,
das wirre Leiden von der falschen Liebe,
die, bauend auf Verjährung wie Gewohnheit,
ein Recht sich nennt und wuchert aus dem Unrecht.
Wo ist ein Mann, der Recht hat auf Besitz?
Wer kann besitzen, was sich selbst nicht hält,
was sich von Zeit zu Zeit nur selig auffängt
und wieder hinwirft wie ein Kind den Ball.
Sowenig wie der Feldherr eine Nike
festhalten kann am Vorderbug des Schiffes,
wenn das geheime Leichtsein ihrer Gottheit
sie plötzlich weghebt in den hellen Meerwind:
so wenig kann einer von uns die Frau
anrufen, die uns nicht mehr sieht und die
auf einem schmalen Streifen ihres Daseins
wie durch ein Wunder fortgeht, ohne Unfall:
er hätte denn Beruf und Lust zur Schuld.

Denn das ist Schuld, wenn irgendeines Schuld ist:
die Freiheit eines Lieben nicht vermehren
um alle Freiheit, die man in sich aufbringt.
Wir haben, wo wir lieben, ja nur dies:
einander lassen; denn dass wir uns halten,
das fallt uns leicht und ist nicht erst zu lernen.

Bist du noch da? In welcher Ecke bist du? –
Du hast so viel gewusst von alledem
und hast so viel gekonnt, da du so hingingst
für alles offen, wie ein Tag, der anbricht.

06
Jun
10

Paréntesis

Hoy tu silencio se ha encontrado con el mío.
Tu silencio sella mis labios,
pone fin a mis palabras.
Me ha convertido como en un hombre viejo
que ya comunicó sus últimos deseos
y que sabe que aquellos
fueron sus últimos juramentos.

No miento:
espero en la resurrección del habla,
creo en la vocalización sin fin de tu nombre,
regidor eterno,
salvoconducto, mantra, conjuro,
memoria que persiste
ante la afrenta del pseudónimo y la chanza,
efigie urgente de ti misma,
evocador de espejos y figuras
dueño del festín de los sonidos y los vocablos.

Sin embargo,
abro mi boca y
descubro que mi habla se ha desvanecido,
mi fe carece de la materia con la que está hecha,
y una suerte de horror se apodera de mis sentidos.

Estas noches callas
y pierdo la voz,
veo mi garganta escurrir por el tamiz de un colador
perdiéndose en el drenaje,
encuentro mi lengua seccionada en trozos
dispersos en diferentes rincones de mi casa.
No encuentro forma de articular mi quijada
la tengo partida
y no puedo volver a asociar sus partes conmovidas.

Ya no puedo hablar
ni de ti
ni de mí
me falta tu voz de la que hablo cuando hablo de ti
y la mía parece extraviada
con la mirada perdida,
como encerrada en un faro de un puerto fantasma,
nadie más la oye,
y ella misma se desconoce.

No puedo llamarte más.
Somos del silencio.
Somos criaturas de la pausa,
del paréntesis indomable y necesario.

04
Jun
10

Tu tiempo

Arte exacto el de este tiempo sin ti. (Junio 2, 4:46 AM)

Hay una estela inconmesurable que irá a quemar calorías esta mañana. (Junio 2, 4:51 AM)

Después de 25 años de escuchar la Eroica de Beethoven, hoy le encuentro nuevos sentidos.
Quizá sea por el silencio heróico de estos días. (Junio 3, 10:48 AM)

Tu silencio de cristal,
tu tiempo
como la órbita de un ser celeste
hoy forman tu alimento.
Encuentras el significado unívoco a tu historia. (Junio 3, 11:18 PM)

(Léase muy lento)
Estoy urdiendo,
hilo a hilo,
la memoria de tu rostro,
el olor de tus ideas.
Como en un telar,
sutilmente
voy reconstruyendo toda tu figura. (Junio 4, 8:56 AM)

Me haces falta. No sabes cuánto. (Junio 5, 00:35 AM)

De postre: el Vino dulce de GEWÜRZTRAMINER que hace Gramona con un gorgonzola. ¡Uffff! (@ Tierra de Vinos) http://4sq.com/4LNhBk (Junio 5, 00:37 AM)

Este y todos los postres los quiero compartir contigo. (Junio 5, 00:38 AM)

03
Jun
10

Tuits de abril

Abril 11, 7:34 PM
Comes sin hambre.
Tu boca está sellada con maple
y amalgama de ajo.
Te buscas el alimento por el ombligo.

Abril 17, 3:00 AM
Dije adiós sin querer despedirme. Oí su adiós que tampoco quería ser adiós. Un adiós que no querríamos ejecutar. Pero ya está ejecutado.

Abril 19, 10:16 PM
A veces me pregunto si estás como yo viendo la ventana del chat decidiendo si abrir fuego o no. Creo que en más de una ocasión coincidimos.

Abril 20, 7:02 PM
‎​Pareciera que quieres que te dé el tiro de gracia.
Y te muevas hacia esta vida después de esa muerte.

Abril 20, 7:04 PM
Quisieras leerme
para encontrar entre mis sílabas
el coraje para luego tomarme.

Abril 21, 8:41 PM
El mundo se descompone en hechos (1.2), pero mi mundo se descompone por algo que no hice. Tu mundo también. Y eso me descompone más.

Abril 21, 11:30 PM
El mundo viene determinado por los hechos, y por ser éstos todos los hechos (1.11). No hice algo, por eso no está en el mundo. Simple.

Abril 26, 4:30 AM
Toda inferencia sucede a priori (5.133): ella supo que no iba a llegar sino muy tarde esa noche. Esta relación es tautológica.

Abril 26, 10:20 PM
Me gusta leer y reírme contigo de y con la Nueva gramática de la lengua española. Complicidad, secreto de amor a la lengua.

Abril 27, 8:17 PM
Un lugar de fusión para mezclar un final y un principio. El final es claro; el principio, enigma.

Abril 30, 3:17 AM
Sigo disfrutando de una noche que debí haber disfrutado hace años #retrasadoemocional

Abril 30, 11:03 PM
Y hoy que tuve tu piel sobre mis yemas,
ya siento mi aire delgado
sin tu aliento en el ahogo de mi aliento.

Abril 30, 11:16 PM
Valentía e insolencia,
con ellas transito de la fantasía al acto.
Con ellas, sí,
pero sobretodo contigo.

02
Jun
10

Silencio

¿Qué palabras te estaré diciendo en tu silencio?
¿Cómo estaré articulando la elocuencia dentro de tu pensamiento?
¿Dónde es que apoyaré la eficacia de mis afectos en los tuyos?

¡Pero qué pienso!
Nada está en mis manos ni en mis palabras.
Todo vivirá o morirá en ti.

02
Jun
10

Poemínimos

Colibríes volando
suspensión de mi cuerpo:
tus labios en mis labios.

Pelícano acuático
niños jugando:
nostalgia de la vista.

Amanecer
luz a través del rocío:
boca de un ángel.

Tu dulzura
es como el agua
en el instante del deshielo.

Eres mi deshielo
mi pozo de roca y miel;
la coincidencia de los dioses.




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