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
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
the descent
ResponderBorrarThe 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.