5/09/2008

Walking around (fragmento)




Sucede que me canso de mis pies y mis uñas
y mi pelo y mi sombra.
Sucede que me canso de ser hombre.

Pablo Neruda

La carencia




Yo no sé de pájaros,
no conozco la historia del fuego.
Pero creo que mi soledad debería tener alas.


Alejandra Pizarnik

Remember



Remember me when I am gone away,

Gone far away into the silent land;

When you can no more hold me by the hand,

Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.

Remember me when no more day by day

You tell me of our future that you planned:

Only remember me; you understand

It will be late to counsel then or pray.

Yet if you should forget me for a while

And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

For if the darkness and corruption leave

A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

Better by far you should forget and smile

Than that you should remember and be sad.


Christina Rossetti

5/08/2008

A broken appointment


You did not come,

And marching Time drew on,


and wore me numb.


Yet less for loss of your dear presence there


Than that I thus found lacking in your make


That high compassion which can overbear


Reluctance for pure lovingkindness' sake


Grieved I, when, as the hope-hour stroked its sum,


You did not come.





You love not me,


And love alone can lend you loyalty;


I know and knew it. But, unto the store


Of human deeds divine in all but name,


Was it not worth a little hour or more


To add yet this: Once, you, a woman, came


To soothe a time-torn man; even though it be


You love not me?





Thomas Hardy

When you are old



When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.


William Buler Yeats

Sonnet XVIII







Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?



Thou art more lovely and more temperate:



Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,



And summer's lease hath all too short a date.



Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,



And often is his gold complexion dimmed,



And every fair from fair sometime declines,



By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed.



But thy eternal summer shall not fade,



Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,



Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,



When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,



So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,



So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.






William Shakespeare

Lástima



Me haces daño, Señor. Quita tu mano

de encima. Déjame con mi vacío,

déjame. Para abismo, con el mío

tengo bastante. Oh, Dios, si eres humano,

compadécete ya, quita esa mano

de encima. No me sirve. Me da frío

y miedo...


Blas de Otero

5/07/2008

The lady of Shalott




She left the web, she left the loom,



she made three paces through the room,



she saw the water-lily bloom,



she saw the helmet and the plume,



se look'd down to Camelot.



Out flew the web and floated wide;



he mirror crack'd from side to side;



"The curse is come upon me," cried



The Lady of Shalott.


... down she came and found a boat



beneath a willow left afloat,



and around about the prow she wrote



The Lady of Shalott.





















And down the river's dim expanse



like some bold seer in a trance,



seeing all his own mischance --



with a glassy countenance



did she look to Camelot.



And at the closing of the day



she loosed the chain, and down she lay;



the broad stream bore her far away,




The Lady of Shalott.






Lying, robed in snowy white



that loosely flew to left and right --



the leaves upon her falling light --



thro' the noises of the night,



she floated down to Camelot:



and as the boat-head wound along



the willowy hills and fields among,



they heard her singing her last song,



The Lady of Shalott.





Heard a carol, mournful, holy,



Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,



till her blood was frozen slowly,



and her eyes were darkened wholly,



turn'd to tower'd Camelot.



For ere she reach'd upon the tide



the first house by the water-side,



singing in her song she died,



The Lady of Shalott.






A. Tennyson

No pudo ser


No pudimos ser. La tierra

no pudo tanto. No somos

cuanto se propuso el sol

en un anhelo remoto.

Un pie se acerca a lo claro.

En lo oscuro insiste el otro.

Porque el amor no es perpetuo

en nadie, ni en mí tampoco.

El odio aguarda un instante

dentro del carbón más hondo.

Rojo es el odio y nutrido.

El amor, pálido y solo.

Cansado de odiar, te amo.

Cansado de amar, te odio.



Miguel Hernández.

Haiku


Estoy aquí

por estar, y la nieve

sigue cayendo.


Issa

Proverbio




No hay árbol que el viento no haya sacudido.




Proverbio hindú

Quién


¿Quién nos devolverá aquel ramo de Ofelia

de la ribera ignota donde lo dejó el agua?


Alfred de Musset

No hay


No hay viento favorable

para el que no sabe dónde va.


Séneca

Pregunta

¿Cómo puede volar
quien tiene las alas cortadas?

Ibn Zaydun

Haiku


Una flor caída

regresa volando a su rama.

¡Una mariposa!


Moritake

Cerró la puerta


Cerró la puerta,

no para encadenar sus alegrías

sino para liberar sus tristezas.


Adonis

Mansamente

Mansamente,
insoportablemente,
me dueles.

Jaime Sabines

Es el amor


Es el amor. Tendré que ocultarme o que huir.


Jorge Luis Borges

Por ti, para que un día llegaras


Por ti, para que tú un día llegaras,

¿no respiraba yo a media noche

el flujo que ascendía de las noches?

Porque esperaba, con magnificencias

casi inagotables, saciar tu rostro

cuando reposó una vez contra el mío

en infinita suposición.

Silencioso se hizo espacio en mis rasgos;

para responder a tu gran mirada

se espejaba, se ahondaba mi sangre...

Pero tú no vienes, o vienes demasiado tarde.


Rainer Maria Rilke