9/28/2009

No te acerques




No te acerques.

Tu frente, tu ardiente frente,
tu encendida frente
las huellas de unos besos,
ese resplandor que aún de día se siente
si te acercas,
ese resplandor contagioso que me queda
en las manos,
ese río luminoso en que hundo mis brazos,
en el que casi no me atrevo a beber, por temor
después a ya una dura vida de lucero.


VICENTE ALEIXANDRE

Haiku




Cada mañana

¿dónde va pensativa

la primavera?


BUSON

Haiku




Hoy no me alegran

los almendros del huerto.

Son tu recuerdo.



Jorge Luis Borges

9/27/2009

Ode on Melancholy





I

No, no, go not to Lethe,

neither twist

Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted,

for its poisonous wine;

Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d

By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;

Make not your rosary of yew-berries,

Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be

Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl

A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries;

For shade to shade will come too drowsily,

And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.


II

But when the melancholy fit shall fall

Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,

That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,

And hides the green hill in an April shroud;

Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,

Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,

Or on the wealth of globed peonies;

Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,

Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,

And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.


III

She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die;

And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips

Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,

Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:

Ay, in the very temple of delight

Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine,

Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue

Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine;

His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,

And be among her cloudy trophies hung.


John Keats

9/26/2009

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

Ode to a nightingale


MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:

’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,

But being too happy in thine happiness,—

That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,

In some melodious plot

Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,

Singest of summer in full-throated ease.


O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been

Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country green,

Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth!

O for a beaker full of the warm South,

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

And purple-stained mouth;

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,

And with thee fade away into the forest dim:


3.Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

What thou among the leaves hast never known,

The weariness, the fever, and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

And leaden-eyed despairs,

Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,

Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.


4.Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,

But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:

Already with thee! tender is the night,

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,

Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays;

But here there is no light,

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.




5. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet

Wherewith the seasonable month endows

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;

Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves;

And mid-May’s eldest child,

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.



6.Darkling I listen; and, for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath;

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

In such an ecstasy!

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—

To thy high requiem become a sod.


7.Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

No hungry generations tread thee down;

The voice I hear this passing night was heard

In ancient days by emperor and clown:

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,

She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The same that oft-times hath

Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

8.Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

To toil me back from thee to my sole self!

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf.

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

Past the near meadows, over the still stream,

Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep

In the next valley-glades:

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?



John Keats

The wild swans at Coole





THE TREES are in their autumn beauty,

The woodland paths are dry,

Under the October twilight the water

Mirrors a still sky;

Upon the brimming water among the stones

Are nine and fifty swans.


The nineteenth Autumn has come upon me

Since I first made my count;

I saw, before I had well finished,

All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings

Upon their clamorous wings.


I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,

And now my heart is sore.

All’s changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,

The bell-beat of their wings above my head,

Trod with a lighter tread.


Unwearied still, lover by lover,

They paddle in the cold,
Companionable streams or climb the air;

Their hearts have not grown old;

Passion or conquest, wander where they will,

Attend upon them still.


But now they drift on the still water
Mysterious, beautiful;

Among what rushes will they build,

By what lake’s edge or pool

Delight men’s eyes, when I awake some day

To find they have flown away?


William Butler Yeats

9/21/2009

De "La gaviota"




"If you ever need my life, come take it"


Anton Chejov

9/20/2009

Writing




“Writing, is my vacation from living”


Eugene O'Neill

9/18/2009

Leonora




"¡Silencio las campanas!

Sus ecos plañideros

Acaso lo hagan mal.

No turben con sus voces

la beatitud de un alma

Que vaga sobre el mundo

con misteriosa calma

y en plena libertad.
Respeto para el alma que los terrenos lazos

Triunfante desató"


Edgar Allan Poe

9/13/2009

Una larga comunión


Me hice amigo de mis mismas cadenas,

Pues una larga comunión tiende

a hacernos lo que somos.


Lord Byron

Le pedí




Le pedí a mi Alma que cantara-

Dijo que sus cuerdas estaban rotas-

Su arco - saltado en Átomos-

Así que remendarla- me dio trabajo

Hasta otra Mañana


Emily Dickinson

El Infinito




Amé siempre esta colina,



y el cerco que me impide ver más allá del horizonte.



Mirando a lo lejos los espacios ilimitados,



los sobrehumanos silencios y su profunda quietud,



me encuentro con mis pensamientos,



y mi corazón no se asusta.



Escucho los silbidos del viento sobre los campos,



y en medio del infinito silencio tanteo mi voz:



me subyuga lo eterno, las estaciones muertas,



la realidad presente y todos sus sonidos.



Así, a través de esta inmensidad se ahoga mi pensamiento:



y naufrago dulcemente en este mar.






Giacomo Leopardi