miércoles, julio 23, 2008

William Carlos Williams / Cada día


Cada día

Cada día al ir hacia mi auto
atravieso un jardín
y a menudo querría que Aristóteles
se hubiera detenido a
considerar el poema ditarámbico,
o que se conservaran sus apuntes.

Rústica hierba afea el bello prado
mientras miro a diestra y siniestra
tic toc...
Y a diestra y siniestra las hojas
crecen en el joven duraznero
por el esbelto tronco.

Ninguna rosa es segura. Cada rosa es una
y esta, distinta de otra,
abierta del todo, casi como un plato
sin taza. Pero es una rosa, color
de rosa. Se la siente rotar lentamente
sobre su tallo espinoso.

William Carlos Williams (Nueva Jersey, 1883-1963). Versión de Alberto Girri en Homenaje a W. C. Williams, Sudamericana, Buenos Aires, 1981.


Every day
Every day that I go out to my car/ I walk trough a garden/ and wish often that Aristotle/ had gone on/ to a consideration of the dithyrambic/ poem - or that his notes had survived// Coarse grass mars the fine lawn/ as I look about right and left/ tic toc -/ And right and left the leaves/ upon the yearling peach grow along/ the slender stem // No rose is sure. Each is one rose/ and this, unlike another,/ opens flat, almost as saucer without/ a cup. But it is a rose, rose/ pink. One can feel is turning slowly/ upon its thorny stem

Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams, Volume II, 1939-1962. New Directions, Nueva York, 1988

Foto: Bettmann/Getty Images

1 comentario:

  1. the descent

    The descent beckons
    as the ascent beckoned.
    Memory is a kind
    of accomplishment,
    a sort of renewal
    even
    an initiation, since the spaces it opens are new places
    inhabited by hordes
    heretofore unrealized,
    of new kinds-
    since their movements
    are toward new objectives
    (even though formerly they were abandoned).

    No defeat is made up entirely of defeat -since
    the world it opens is always a place
    formerly
    unsuspected. A
    world lost,
    a world unsuspected,
    beckons to new places
    and no whiteness (lost) is so white as memory
    of whiteness.

    With evening, love wakens
    though its shadows
    which are alive by reason
    of the sun shining-
    grow sleepy now and drop away
    from desire.

    Love without shadows stirs now
    beginning to awaken
    as night
    advances.

    The descent
    made up of despairs
    and without accomplishment
    realizes a new awakening:
    which is a reversal
    of despair.
    For what we cannot accomplish, what
    is denied to love,
    what we have lost in the anticipation-
    a descent follows,
    endless and indestructible.


    para escucharlo, sitio recomendado:
    http://writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/x/Williams-WC.html

    me disculpo por la extensión del poema, pero vale la pena.

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