Sunday, June 14, 2015

Jorge Luis Borges: 1964


Ya no es mágico el mundo. Te han dejado. 
Ya no compartirás la clara luna 
ni los lentos jardines. Ya no hay una 
luna que no sea espejo del pasado,

cristal de soledad, sol de agonías. 
Adiós las mutuas manos y las sienes 
que acercaba el amor. Hoy sólo tienes 
la fiel memoria y los desiertos días.

Nadie pierde (repites vanamente) 
sino lo que no tiene y no ha tenido 
nunca, pero no basta ser valiente

para aprender el arte del olvido. 
Un símbolo, una rosa, te desgarra 
y te puede matar una guitarra.


Ya no seré feliz. Tal vez no importa. 
Hay tantas otras cosas en el mundo; 
un instante cualquiera es más profundo 
y diverso que el mar. La vida es corta

y aunque las horas son tan largas, una 
oscura maravilla nos acecha, 
la muerte, ese otro mar, esa otra flecha 
que nos libra del sol y de la luna

y del amor. La dicha que me diste 
y me quitaste debe ser borrada; 
lo que era todo tiene que ser nada.

Sólo que me queda el goce de estar triste, 
esa vana costumbre que me inclina 
al Sur, a cierta puerta, a cierta esquina.

Wednesday, June 3, 2015

Robert Graves: A Juan en el Solsticio de Invierno

A la memoria de Juan Graves
Fallecido el 1º de Junio de 2015

Juan Graves
Robert Graves en el sketch sobre la pared, obra de David Templeton

Hay una sola historia, una única historia
que pueda merecer que la relates,
ya sea como docto bardo o niño precoz;
a ella pertenecen todos los versos o dichos menores
que sobresalen por su brillo
y a los cuentos comunes cuando se extravía en ellos.
¿Hablas acaso de los árboles, sus meses y virtudes,
o de extrañas bestias que acechan,
de pájaros que te graznan el Triple Deseo?
¿O del zodiaco y lo lento que gira
bajo la Corona Boreal,
prisión de los verdaderos reyes que reinaron alguna vez?
Agua al agua, arca de nuevo en arca,
de mujer a mujer otra vez:
Así cada nueva víctima pisa con firmeza
el circuito inalterable de su sino,
trayendo a doce compañeros por testigos
tanto para su ascenso astral como su astral caída
¿O se trata de la belleza plateada de la Virgen,
toda pez bajo los muslos?
En su mano izquierda lleva un frondoso membrillo;
mientras que en la derecha dobla un dedo, sonriente,
¿cómo podría el Rey contenerse?
regiamente entonces trueca vida por amor.
¿O de la serpiente eterna nacida del caos,
cuyos anillos contienen el océano,
y de sus costados con espadas desnudas brota,
y después en el agua negra, enredada a las cañas,
combate durante tres días y tres noches,
para ser arrojada junto a su festoneada orilla?
Mucha nieve está cayendo, ruge cavernoso el viento,
el búho ulula en el saúco,
y en tu corazón el miedo llora a la amorosa copa:
de dolor en dolor como chispas saltando
El tronco gime y confiesa
hay una sola historia, una única historia.
Medita en su gracia, vive en su sonrisa,
no olvides qué flores
el gran jabalí pisoteó en el tiempo de la hiedra.
su frente era cremosa como la cresta de una ola,
Sus ojos mar azul salvaje
pero nada prometieron que no se realizara.

versión en español de Zyanya Mariana

Imágenes de The Robert Graves Society  Facebook Page & David Templeton.
Agradecimiento especial a Tomás Graves por la traducción del poema.

Sunday, May 31, 2015

Robert Graves: A Lover Since Childhood

Tangled in thought am I,
Stumble in speech do I?
Do I blunder and blush for the reason why?
Wander aloof do I,
Lean over gates and sigh,
Making friends with the bee and the butterfly?

If thus and thus I do,
Dazed by the thought of you,
Walking my sorrowful way in the early dew,
My heart cut through and through
In this despair of you,
Starved for a word or a look will my hope renew:

give then a thought for me
Walking so miserably,
Wanting relief in the friendship of flower or tree;
Do but remember, we
Once could in love agree,
Swallow your pride, let us be as we used to be. 

Robert Graves: About Shakespeare

The remarkable thing about Shakespeare is that he is really very good—in spite of all the people who say he is very good.

Thursday, May 21, 2015

Robert Graves: The Spoilsport

My familiar ghost again
Comes to see what he can see, 
Critic, son of Conscious Brain, 
Spying on our privacy. 

Slam the window, bolt the door,
Yet he’ll enter in and stay; 
In tomorrow’s book he’ll score 
Indiscretions of today. 

Whispered love and muttered fears, 
How their echoes fly about!
None escape his watchful ears, 
Every sigh might be a shout. 

No kind words nor angry cries 
Turn away this grim spoilsport; 
No fine lady’s pleading eyes,
Neither love, nor hate, nor … port. 

Critic wears no smile of fun, 
Speaks no word of blame nor praise, 
Counts our kisses one by one, 
Notes each gesture, every phrase.

My familiar ghost again 
Stands or squats where suits him best; 
Critic, son of Conscious Brain, 
Listens, watches, takes no rest.

Sunday, May 3, 2015

Robert Graves: Sospan Fach (The Little Saucepan)

Four collier lads from Ebbw Vale
Took shelter from a shower of hail,
And there beneath a spreading tree
Attuned their mouths to harmony.

With smiling joy on every face
Two warbled tenor, two sang bass,
And while the leaves above them hissed with
Rough hail, they started 'Aberystwyth.'

Old Parry's hymn, triumphant, rich,
They changed through with even pitch,
Till at the end of their grand noise
I called: 'Give us the 'Sospan' boys!'

Who knows a tune so soft, so strong,
So pitiful as that 'Saucepan' song
For exiled hope, despaired desire
Of lost souls for their cottage fire?

Then low at first with gathering sound
Rose their four voices, smooth and round,
Till back went Time: once more I stood
With Fusiliers in Mametz Wood.

Fierce burned the sun, yet cheeks were pale,
For ice hail they had leaden hail;
In that fine forest, green and big,
There stayed unbroken not one twig.

They sang, they swore, they plunged in haste,
Stumbling and shouting through the waste;
The little 'Saucepan' flamed on high,
Emblem of hope and ease gone by.

Rough pit-boys from the coaly South,
They sang, even in the cannon's mouth;
Like Sunday's chapel, Monday's inn,
The death-trap sounded with their din.


The storm blows over, Sun comes out,
The choir breaks up with jest and shout,
With what relief I watch them part--
Another note would break my heart! 

John McCrae: In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly.
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

It is believed that John McCrae wrote the famous poem ‘In Flanders Fields’ during the evening of May 3rd 1915 – after carrying out a funeral service for a friend during the Second Battle of Ypres.
John McCrae was a Canadian doctor, and is reported to have written the poem while sitting in the back of an ambulance near a battlefield casualty station just north of Ypres.
The poem was published in the British magazine Punch in December 1915, and went on to become highly popular and widely quoted.

Wednesday, April 8, 2015

Dylan Thomas: Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 

Dylan Thomas reading "Do not go gentle into that good night"