2 examenes y seré libre...

Una semana, dos examenes y un concierto... Entonces acabará todo y yo volveré por aqui. Mientras tanto os dejo un poema de T.S.Eliott, el primero de su libro "The Waste Land"...

I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out if this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Frish weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?

"You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
They called me the hyacinth girl."
--Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed' und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring,
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.

Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: "Stetson!
You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
'That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
O keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
'You! Hypocrite lecteur!---mon semblable,--mon frere!'

(T.S.Eliott, THE WASTE LAND, 1922)


Abrazos para todos!!!!

Queridos lectores,

 hoy os traigo un poema de Kailash Vajpeyi. A ver si os gusta...

Resignación

Te felicito, Siglo Veinte, por tus extravagancias.
Yo aquí me rindo.
noche y día
protestando contra tu demoniolatría
yo, que estoy reducido a una llaga
no tengo deseos de degradarme más.
Me retiro
como el dolor mudo y helado
bajo la costra de sangre seca.

¡Sigue con tus detonaciones, querido Siglo!
Vete a mamar a la madre tierra
o a fornicar con algún individuo anónimo.
No queda nadie que desafíe
tu suave arrogancia.
La poesía está en el exilio.

Te admiro, Siglo Veinte
por tus acrobacias.
Opaco y sólido,
tu gris razonamiento
me recuerda la edad de piedra
con innumerables brutos refinados.
En este laberinto tuyo
donde la bruma reflejaba la ignominia
yo era una rareza,
el vuelo sin sentido 
de una mariposa solitaria
en la selva de cactus estramonios.

Antes de volverme totalmente loco,
debo admitir
que te estoy agradecido
por la cosecha de nuestras miserias,
por el impecable transplante de corazón
con abundancia de monóxido para inhalar.

En tu régimen aséptico 
donde los desperdicios son el destino de todo talento
y las masas, como abejas asexuadas
forman el saldo en la cuenta bancaria de alguien más,
la sensibilidad de asfalto era un don
sólo que nunca lo pensé.

De otra forma, qué sentido tenía
arrullar a los bebes-robots.
Qué sentido tenía acariciar la espuma.

Como un reloj que aún golpea en la muñeca de un cadáver

seguí escribiendo poemas
seguí quemando inciensos
en una fábrica de armas

Aún así, no te culpo, querido Siglo
por mi derrota prematura.

Después de todo hay ríos 
que no llegan nunca al mar.

Kailash Vajpeyi nació en la India, en 1936. Poeta, ensayista, catedrático universitario y periodista. Su obra ha sido traducida y editada en inglés, alemán, ruso, danés, sueco, y español. Algunos de sus libros publicados en español son: El árbol de carne (1976); Visiones y mitos: una antología de poesía hindi contemporánea (Poesía contemporánea hindú, con poemas de amor); Visiones y mitos (1979); y Palabras de poder (1977).

Os ha gustado??? Pues en esta página teneis un par de poemas más, seguiré investigando a ver si encuentro más... Buenas noches y mañana más!