Divagues

Acá recuerdo lo que leo

Apr 9

Doña rata

Doña Rata salió de paseo
por los prados que esmalta el estío,
son sus ojos tan viejos, tan viejos,
que no puede encontrar el camino.

Demandóle a una flor de los campos:
“Guíame hasta el lugar en que vivo”.
Mas la flor no podía guiarla
con los pies en la tierra cautivos.

Sola va por los campos perdida,
ya la noche la envuelve en su frío,
ya se moja su traje de lana
con las gotas del fresco rocío.

A las ranas que halló en una charca,
Doña Rata pregunta el camino,
mas las ranas no saben que exista
nada más que su canto y su limo.

A buscarlas salieron los gnomos,
que los gnomos son buenos amigos.
en la mano luciérnagas llevan
para ver en la noche el camino.

Doña Rata regresa trotando
entre luces y barbas de lino.
¡Qué feliz dormirá cuando llegue
a las pajas doradas del nido!

Conrado Nalé Roxlo


Puentes

Yo dibujo puentes
para que me encuentres:

Un puente de tela,
con mis acuarelas…

Un puente colgante,
con tiza brillante…

Puentes de madera,
con lápiz de cera…

Puentes levadizos,
plateados, cobrizos…

Puentes irrompibles,
de piedra, invisibles…

Y Tú…¡Quién creyera!
¡No los ves siquiera!

Hago cien, diez, uno…
¡No cruzas ninguno!

Más… como te quiero…
dibujo y espero.

¡Bellos, bellos puentes
para que me encuentres!

Elsa Bonerman


Apr 1

The Stolen Child

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we’ve hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that dropp their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he’s going,
The solemn-eyed:
He’ll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than he can understand.

W.B. Yeats


Mar 30

Musee des Beaux Arts

About suffering they were never wrong,
The old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position: how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer’s horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

W.H. Auden


Mar 28

“Eric Schmidt of Google says that his company’s researchers reckon that between the birth of the world and 2003, 5 exabytes of information were created (an exabyte is 1 billion gigabytes and written with 18 zeroes). The human race is now, according to Google, creating 5 exabytes every two days. “.

George Brock, Out of Print: Newspapers, Journalism and the Business of News in the Digital Age


“As research has more often indicated, the news media’s influence lies more in defining the agenda of what is important or in marginalizing either debates or opinions. It is for that reason that plurality of voices and ownership became, in early 20th-century Britain, a contested discussion for the first time. If one editor or publisher can exclude or minimize an issue as being uninteresting to the public, are there enough alternatives who can test that conclusion?”.

George Brock, Out of Print: Newspapers, Journalism and the Business of News in the Digital Age


Mar 25

Cuarta Poesía Vertical

Si conociéramos el punto
donde va a romperse algo,
donde se cortará el hilo de los besos,
donde una mirada dejará de encontrarse con otra mirada,
donde el corazón saltará hacia otro sitio,
podríamos poner otro punto sobre ese punto
o por lo menos acompañarlo al romperse.

Si conociéramos el punto
donde algo va a fundirse con algo,
donde el desierto se encontrará con la lluvia,
donde el abrazo se tocará con la vida,
donde mi muerte se aproximara a la tuya,
podríamos desenvolver ese punto como una serpentina
o por lo menos cantarlo hasta morirnos.

Si conociéramos el punto
donde algo será siempre ese algo,
donde el hueso no olvidará a la carne,
donde la fuente es madre de otra fuente,
donde el pasado nunca será pasado,
podríamos dejar sólo ese punto y borrar todos los otros
o guardarlo por lo menos en un lugar más seguro.

Roberto Juarroz


Feb 17

Sonnet XLIII

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

Edna St. Vicent Millay


Feb 12

“It is in the nature of republican government, James Madison said in 1794, that ‘censorial power is in the hands of the people over the government’ and not the other way round”.

George Brock, Out of Print: Newspapers, Journalism and the Business of News in the Digital Age


“A French scholar lists almost 120 surviving reports on battles printed in France between 1498 and 1559. None report the heavy French defeat at Pavia in 1525 when the French king was taken prisoner”.

George Brock, Out of Print: Newspapers, Journalism and the Business of News in the Digital Age.


Feb 11

Valentine

The things about you I appreciate
may seem indelicate:
I’d like to find you in the shower
and chase the soap for half an hour.
I’d like to have you in my power
and see your eyes dilate.
I’d like to have your back to scour
and other parts to lubricate.
Sometimes I feel it is my fate
to chase you screaming up a tower
or make you cower
by asking you to differentiate
Nietzsche from Schopenhauer.
I’d like successfully to guess your weight
and win you at a fete.
I’d like to offer you a flower.

I like the hair upon your shoulders
falling like water over boulders.
I like the shoulders, too: they are essential.
Your collar-bones have great potential
(I’d like all your particulars in folders
marked Confidential).

I like your cheeks, I like your nose,
I like the way your lips disclose
the neat arrangement of your teeth
(half above and half beneath)
in rows.

I like your eyes, I like their fringes.
The way they focus on me gives me twinges.
Your upper arms drive me berserk
I like the way your elbows work,
on hinges.

I like your wrists, I like your glands,
I like the fingers on your hands.
I’d like to teach them how to count,
and certain things we might exchange,
something familiar for something strange.
I’d like to give you just the right amount
and give some change.

I like it when you tilt your cheek up.
I like the way you hold a teacup.
I like your legs when you unwind them,
even in trousers I don’t mind them.
I’d always know, without a recap,
where to find them.

I like the sculpture of your ears.
I like the way your profile disappears
Whenever you decide to turn and face me.
I’d like to cross two hemispheres
and have you chase me.
I’d like to smuggle you across frontiers
or sail with you at night into Tangiers.
I’d like you to embrace me.

I’d like to see you ironing your skirt
and cancelling other dates.
I’d like to button up your shirt.
I like the way your chest inflates.
I’d like to soothe you when you’re hurt
or frightened senseless by invertebrates.

I’d like you even if you were malign
and had a yen for sudden homicide.
I’d let you put insecticide
into my wine.
I’d even like you if you were the Bride
of Frankenstein
or something ghoulish out of Mamoulian’s
Jekyll and Hyde.
I’d even like you as my Julian
of Norwich or Cathleen ni Houlihan.
How melodramatic
if you were something muttering in attics
like Mrs Rochester or a student of Boolean
Mathematics.

You are the end of self-abuse.
You are the eternal feminine.
I’d like to find a good excuse
to call on you and find you in.
I’d like to put my hand beneath your chin,
and see you grin.
I’d like to taste your Charlotte Russe,
I’d like to feel my lips upon your skin,
I’d like to make you reproduce.

I’d like you in my confidence.
I’d like to be your second look.
I’d like to let you try the French Defence
and mate you with my rook.
I’d like to be your preference
and hence
I’d like to be around when you unhook.
I’d like to be your only audience,
the final name in your appointment book,
your future tense.

John Fuller


Feb 10

I Don’t Miss It

But sometimes I forget where I am,
Imagine myself inside that life again.

Recalcitrant mornings. Sun perhaps,
Or more likely colorless light

Filtering its way through shapeless cloud.

And when I begin to believe I haven’t left,
The rest comes back. Our couch. My smoke

Climbing the walls while the hours fall.
Straining against the noise of traffic, music,

Anything alive, to catch your key in the door.
And that scamper of feeling in my chest,

As if the day, the night, wherever it is
I am by then, has been only a whir

Of something other than waiting.

We hear so much about what love feels like.
Right now, today, with the rain outside,

And leaves that want as much as I do to believe
In May, in seasons that come when called,

It’s impossible not to want
To walk into the next room and let you

Run your hands down the sides of my legs,
Knowing perfectly well what they know.

Tracy K. Smith


I am not yours

I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love — put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.

Sara Teasdale


The Taxi

When I go away from you
The world beats dead
Like a slackened drum.
I call out for you against the jutted stars
And shout into the ridges of the wind.
Streets coming fast,
One after the other,
Wedge you away from me,
And the lamps of the city prick my eyes
So that I can no longer see your face.
Why should I leave you,
To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?

Amy Lowell (audio version)


Sonnet 73

That time of year thou may’st in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day,
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by-and-by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long

William Shakespeare (audio version)


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