A Dream

Light, darkness

Goddess Persephone  

Light of the enlightened

Imagen extraida de este sitio

Literature Makes Nothing Happen

[i]...In the physical realm, say reality, literature has had but little effect throughout history. By a poem such as "Easter, 1916", William B. Yeats could not bring back to life the dead rioters, not even could he heal the injured. At this level, literature becomes a null, useless tool. It had never, and will never have any effect at this level. "Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry./Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still." (Auden-34-35). Auden could not be more accurate, although powerfully written as it might be; poetry is hopeless at transforming the physical realm.[ii]

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[i] Fragmento de un ensayo encontrado en un bolsillo de una campera que hacia como tres años que no usaba, el invierno trae sus recuerdos con olor a viejo.

[ii] No voy a traducir todo el fragmento, solo les dejo la mejor frase “la desvariante Irlanda te hirió a la poesía./ Ahora Irlanda tiene su locura y su clima como siempre". No lean todo el fragmento, les resalto que esa es la única línea que vale la pena.

Pensamientos oscuros en una soleada tarde de verano

Fragmentos e imágenes que ilustran el día:

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

(Hemos permanecido en las cámaras marinas

por mujeres-marinas envueltas de algas rojas y marrones

hasta que la voz humana nos despierta, y nos ahogamos)

Aubade

That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade

Created to pretend we never die

(Ese vasto y apolillado brocado musical

creado para pretender que nunca morimos)

The Second Coming

... twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle

(... Veinte siglos de un pétreo sueño

fueron contrariados hasta la pesadilla por el mecer de una cuna)

Que todos ustedes tengan un día hermoso! 

Empty Buildings

Is there still anywhere a place
in which a palace has any use?
The splendid fortifications of yesterday
have no longer anima or significance.
There are not any fortresses
whose foundations aren’t corrupted.
Our past shelters are dumb and numb,
though their eye still speak volumes
we have lost – we were amputated –
the ability to listen to their eyes.

Void, emptiness, vacuum in their carcasses
is all we can find? It seems no building can
empower us to be as we used to be.
They are unable; they are handicaps,
whose only hope lies in
that those who once crowded them
can find a cure to dumbness.

These creatures still hope that
the great creation reveals to them.
But they do not but grope
in the purple glade of stars
to listen to the word of the wise.
Wise who, by its own wisdom,
know better than to be bearer of news
to that tart race of social animals who
emptied society of its reason of being.

Those animals are done for
because when the sun walks into
they become as blind as their
former fortifications are speechless.
No way out can they find. Hopeless,
meaningless if they cannot appreciate
the magnificence of the edifices.

Locked into their basements,
left aside as a forgotten toy
they hope some wise child comes,
and by ploy of the universe’s will,
the artificer plays with us, and
takes us to the luminosity they once shut
away of those great castles of meaning.