martes, 16 de mayo de 2017

view with a grain of sand

We call it a grain of sand,
but it calls itself neither grain nor sand.
It does just fine, without a name,
whether general, particular,
permanent, passing,
incorrect, or apt.

Our glance, our touch means nothing to it.
It doesn't feel itself seen and touched.
And that it fell on the windowsill
is only our experience, not its.
For it, it is not different from falling on anything else
with no assurance that it has finished falling
or that it is falling still.

The window has a wonderful view of a lake,
but the view doesn't view itself.
It exists in this world
colorless, shapeless,
soundless, odorless, and painless.

The lake's floor exists floorlessly,
and its shore exists shorelessly.
The water feels itself neither wet nor dry
and its waves to themselves are neither singular nor plural.
They splash deaf to their own noise
on pebbles neither large nor small.

And all this beheath a sky by nature skyless
in which the sun sets without setting at all
and hides without hiding behind an unminding cloud.
The wind ruffles it, its only reason being
that it blows.

A second passes.
A second second.
A third.
But they're three seconds only for us.

Time has passed like courier with urgent news.
But that's just our simile.
The character is inverted, his hasts is make believe,
his news inhuman.



jueves, 11 de mayo de 2017

a callarse

Ahora contaremos doce
y nos quedamos todos quietos.
 


Por una vez sobre la tierra
no hablemos en ningún idioma,
por un segundo detengámonos,
no movamos tanto los brazos.

 

Sería un minuto fragante,
sin prisa, sin locomotoras,
todos estaríamos juntos
en un inquietud instantánea.

 

Los pescadores del mar frío
no harían daño a las ballenas
y el trabajador de la sal
miraría sus manos rotas.

 

Los que preparan guerras verdes,
guerras de gas, guerras de fuego,
victorias sin sobrevivientes,
se pondrían un traje puro
y andarían con sus hermanos
por la sombra, sin hacer nada.

 

No se confunda lo que quiero
con la inacción definitiva:
la vida es sólo lo que se hace,
no quiero nada con la muerte.

 

Si no pudimos ser unánimes
moviendo tanto nuestras vidas,
tal vez no hacer nada una vez,
tal vez un gran silencio pueda
interrumpir esta tristeza,
este no entendernos jamás
y amenazarnos con la muerte,
tal vez la tierra nos enseñe
cuando todo parece muerto
y luego todo estaba vivo.

 

Ahora contaré hasta doce
y tú te callas y me voy.

 

viernes, 28 de abril de 2017

the rain - la lluvia

All night the sound had
come back again,
and again falls
this quiet, persistent rain.

What am I to myself
that must be remembered,
insisted upon
so often? Is it

that never the ease,
even the hardness,
of rain falling
will have for me

something other than this,
something not so insistent --
am I to be locked in this
final uneasiness.


Love, if you love me
lie next to me.
Be for me, like rain,
the getting out

of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi-
lust of intentional indifference.
Be wet
with a decent happiness.












Toda la noche el sonido
ha vuelto nuevamente
y nuevamente cae
esta tranquila, persistente lluvia.

Qué soy para mi mismo,
que deba ser recordado
repetido
tan a menudo? Es

que nunca la paz,
aún la frialdad,
de la lluvia cayendo
tendrá para mí

algo más que esto,
algo tan insistente---
encerrado estaré en este
final desasosiego.

Amor, si me amas,
tiéndete junto a mí.
Sé para mí, como la lluvia,
la huida
del cansancio, la simplicidad, el mediano
ardor de intencional indiferencia.
Mójate
con una felicidad honesta.

(traducido del inglés por la autora de este blog.)


sábado, 15 de abril de 2017

the definition of love

My love is of a birth as rare 
As ’tis for object strange and high; 
It was begotten by Despair 
Upon Impossibility. 

Magnanimous Despair alone 
Could show me so divine a thing 
Where feeble Hope could ne’er have flown, 
But vainly flapp’d its tinsel wing. 

And yet I quickly might arrive 
Where my extended soul is fixt, 
But Fate does iron wedges drive, 
And always crowds itself betwixt. 

For Fate with jealous eye does see 
Two perfect loves, nor lets them close; 
Their union would her ruin be, 
And her tyrannic pow’r depose. 

And therefore her decrees of steel 
Us as the distant poles have plac’d, 
(Though love’s whole world on us doth wheel) 
Not by themselves to be embrac’d; 

Unless the giddy heaven fall, 
And earth some new convulsion tear; 
And, us to join, the world should all 
Be cramp’d into a planisphere. 

As lines, so loves oblique may well 
Themselves in every angle greet; 
But ours so truly parallel, 
Though infinite, can never meet. 

Therefore the love which us doth bind, 
But Fate so enviously debars, 
Is the conjunction of the mind, 
And opposition of the stars.


lunes, 3 de abril de 2017

street wise romantic

The streets are empty and still,
between the red time,
then start again.
Trucks bouncing by,
cars to work, work.
The farms are disappearing as I noticed
years ago along this old route.
Now the farms lie beneath
hotels, office complexes whose beauty
is beyond the senses
in some economic realm fortified
by the delusions of power and inequity.
But the farms are lying beneath
and large poisonous plants
fusing the electrical circuits beneath.
No there’s no death to evil,
it rises again, now in war, now in bucks
now in land, now in power,
it rises up forever until the end,
when the light may intercede and remain.
Seek refuge from the fantasy
into one other fantasy.
We see violence done on subways on streets
but we don’t see violence done
in a new class system or economic twist.
Does it murder just as well?
Nothing can be done.
It will go on and on
until the intercessions of the sun.
Everything else has failed, and will,
but the innocence of youth
and the momentum of dawn.

domingo, 26 de marzo de 2017

love

Nothing is without place,
in mind, in physical apprehension --

or if "a dagger of the mind" is the purpose,
hold on to it for dear life, or else kill somebody.

Just when I thought I had it made, I lost it.
Just when I knew what to do, I was an old man.

You hear that bird sing in the tree, there,
you know still what a tree is?

Love is a place, not a person, love is
a weather of time, a convenience to absent sorrows.

But talk is the cheapest of all, means what it wants to,

waits up for no one, always goes home alone.


domingo, 12 de marzo de 2017

de todos los objetos

De todos los objetos,  los que más amo
son los usados.
Las vasijas de cobre con abolladuras y bordes aplastados,
los cuchillos y tenedores cuyos mangos de madera
han sido cogidos por muchas manos. Éstas son las formas
que me parecen más nobles. Esas losas en torno a viejas casas,
desgastadas de haber sido pisadas tantas veces,
esas losas entre las que crece la hierba, me parecen
objetos felices.
Impregnados del uso de muchos,
a menudo transformados, han ido perfeccionando sus
formas y se han hecho preciosos
porque han sido apreciados muchas veces.

Me gustan incluso los fragmentos de esculturas
con los brazos cortados. Vivieron
también para mí. Cayeron porque fueron trasladados
si las derribaron, fue porque no estaban muy altas.
Las construcciones casi en ruinas
parecen todavía proyectos sin acabar,
grandiosos; sus bellas medidas
pueden ya imaginarse, pero aún necesitan
de nuestra comprensión. Y, además,
ya sirvieron, ya fueron superadas incluso. Todas estas cosas
me hacen muy feliz.