on situar el que hem viscut, el que podem pensar tot el que hi ha, hi ha hagut, el que voldria recordar o tornar a veure
The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found
A hedgehog jammed up against the blades,
Killed. It had been in the long grass.
I had seen it before, and even fed it, once.
Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world
Unmendably. Burial was no help:
Next morning I got up and it did not.
The first day after a death, the new absence
Is always the same; we should be careful
Of each other, we should be kind
While there is still time.
[ara jo havia esclafat sense remei el seu món discret]
On this day tradition allots
to taking stock of our lives,
my greetings to all of you, Yeasts,
Bacteria, Viruses,
Aerobics and Anaerobics:
A Very Happy New Year
to all for whom my ectoderm
is as Middle-Earth to me.
For creatures your size I offer
a free choice of habitat,
so settle yourselves in the zone
that suits you best, in the pools
of my pores or the tropical
forests of arm-pit and crotch,
in the deserts of my fore-arms,
or the cool woods of my scalp.
Build colonies: I will supply
adequate warmth and moisture,
the sebum and lipids you need,
on condition you never
do me annoy with your presence,
but behave as good guests should,
not rioting into acne
or athlete’s-foot or a boil.
Does my inner weather affect
the surfaces where you live?
Do unpredictable changes
record my rocketing plunge
from fairs when the mind is in tift
and relevant thoughts occur
to fouls when nothing will happen
and no one calls and it rains.
I should like to think that I make
a not impossible world,
but an Eden it cannot be:
my games, my purposive acts,
may turn to catastrophes there.
If you were religious folk,
how would your dramas justify
unmerited suffering?
By what myths would your priests account
for the hurricanes that come
twice every twenty-four hours,
each time I dress or undress,
when, clinging to keratin rafts,
whole cities are swept away
to perish in space, or the Flood
that scalds to death when I bathe?
Then, sooner or later, will dawn
a Day of Apocalypse,
when my mantle suddenly turns
too cold, too rancid, for you,
appetising to predators
of a fiercer sort, and I
am stripped of excuse and nimbus,
a Past, subject to Judgement.
After an article by Mary J. Marples
in Scientific American, January, 1969
En aquest dia la tradició assenyala
fer inventari de les nostres vides,
salutacions a tots vosaltres, Llevats,
Bactèries, Virus,
Aeròbics i Anàeròbics:
un Molt Feliç Any Nou
a tots aquells per a qui el meu ectoderma
és com l’Orient Mitjà per a mi.
Per a criatures de la vostra mida ofereixo
un hàbitat que podeu escollir,
de manera que instal·leu-vos a la zona
que més us convingui, a les basses
dels meus porus o als boscos
tropicals de l’aixella i l’entrecuix,
als deserts dels meus avantbraços,
o als boscos càlids de la meva cabellera.
Construïu colònies: us subministraré
la humitat i l’escalfor adequades,
la seborrea i els lípids que us calguin,
amb la condició que no m’amoïneu
mai amb la vostra presència
i us comporteu com a bons hostes,
sense que l’acne es revolti,
ni els peus d’atleta, ni un furòncol.
¿Creieu que la meva temperatura
interna afecta les superfícies on viviu?
Una canvis imprevisibles
documenten la meva immersió propulsada
des de fires on la ment s’angunieja
i als miserables se’ls acuden pensaments
rellevants quan no passa res de res
i ninú no truca i va plovent.
M’agradaria pensar que estic fent
un món que no és impossible,
però que no pot ser un êden:
els meus jocs, els meus actes resoluts,
allà poden esdevenir catastròfics.
Si tu fossis un tipus religiós,
els teus drames ¿com justificarien
un patiment immerescut?
¿D’acord amb quins mites els teus sacerdots
explicarien que els huracans arribin
dues vegades cada vint-i-quatre hores,
cada cop que em vesteixo i desvesteixo,
quan, aferrades a rais de queratina,
ciutats snceres són esbandides
i van a morir en l’espai, o bé a la marea
que m’escalda fins a la mort quan em banyo?
Després, més tard o més d’hora, clarejarà
el Dia de l’Apocalipsi,
quan el meu mantell tot d’una es tornarà
massa fred, massa ranci per a tu,
apetitós per als predadors
d’una espècie més ferotge, i jo
estaré despullat d’excuses i nimbres,
amb un passat pendent de judici.
If the hill overlooking our city has always been known as Adam’s Grave, only at dusk can you see the recumbent giant, his head turned to the west, his right arm resting for ever on Eve’s haunch,
can you learn, from the way he looks up at the scandalous pair, what a citizen really thinks of his citizenship,
just as now you can hear in a drunkard’s caterwaul his rebel sorrows crying for a parental discipline, in lustful eyes perceive a disconsolate soul,
scanning with desperation all passing limbs for some vestige of her faceless angel who in that long ago when wishing was a help mounted her once and vanished:
For Sun and Moon supply their conforming masks, but in this hour of civil twilight all must wear their own faces.
And it is now that our two paths cross.
Both simultaneously recognise his Anti-type: that I am an Arcadian, that he is a Utopian.
He notes, with contempt, my Aquarian belly: I note, with alarm, his Scorpion’s mouth.
He would like to see me cleaning latrines: I would like to see him removed to some other planet.
Neither speaks. What experience could we possibly share?
Glancing at a lampshade in a store window, I observe it is too hideous for anyone in their senses to buy: He observes it is too expensive for a peasant to buy.
Passing a slum child with rickets, I look the other way: He looks the other way if he passes a chubby one.
I hope our senators will behave like saints, provided they don’t reform me: He hopes they will behave like baritoni cattivi, and, when lights bum late in the Citadel, I (who have never seen the inside of a police station) am shocked and think: ‘Were the city as free as they say, after sundown all her bureaus would be huge black stones’:
He (who has been beaten up several times) is not shocked at all but thinks: ‘One fine night our boys will be working up there.’
You can see, then, why, between my Eden and his New Jerusalem, no treaty is negotiable.
In my Eden a person who dislikes Bellini has the good manners not to get born: In his New Jerusalem a person who dislikes work will be very sorry he was born.
In my Eden we have a few beam-engines, saddle-tank locomotives, overshot waterwheels and other beautiful pieces of obsolete machinery to play with: In his New Jerusalem even chefs will be cucumber-cool machine minders.
In my Eden our only source of political news is gossip: In his New Jerusalem there will be a special daily in simplified spelling for non-verbal types.
In my Eden each observes his compulsive rituals and superstitious tabus but we have no morals: In his New Jerusalem the temples will be empty but all will practise the rational virtues.
One reason for his contempt is that I have only to close my eyes, cross the iron footbridge to the tow-path, take the barge through the short brick tunnel and
there I stand in Eden again, welcomed back by the krumhorns, doppions, sordumes of jolly miners and a bob major from the Cathedral (romanesque) of St Sophie (Die Kalte):
One reason for my alarm is that, when he closes his eyes, he arrives, not in New Jerusalem, but on some august day of outrage when hellikins cavort through ruined drawing-rooms and fish-wives intervene in the Chamber or
some autumn night of deletions and noyades when the unrepentant thieves (including me) are sequestered and those he hates shall hate themselves instead.
So with a passing glance we take the other’s posture; already, our steps recede, heading, incorrigible each, towards his kind of meal and evening.
Was it (as it must look to any god of cross-roads) simply a fortuitous intersection of life-paths, loyal to different fibs ?
or also a rendezvous between accomplices who, in spite of themselves, cannot resist meeting
to remind the other (do both, at bottom, desire truth?) of that half of their secret which he would most like to forget
forcing us both, for a fraction of a second, to remember our victim (but for him I could forget the blood, but for me he could forget the innocence)
on whose immolation (call him Abel, Remus, whom you will, it is one Sin Offering) arcadias, utopias, our dear old bag of a democracy, are alike founded:
For without a cement of blood (it must be human, it must be innocent) no secular wall will safely stand.
Per bé que el turó que domina la ciutat ha estat sempre conegut amb el nom de Tomba d’Adam, és només a hora foscant que es veu el gegant jacent, ambm el cap girat a ponent i a la dreta descansant per sempre més damunt l’anca d’Eva.
que hom pot descobrir, per la manera en què contempla la desedificant parella, quin concepte té el ciutadà de la ciutadania.
Talment com ara es pot sentir en el marrameu de l’embriac el dolor rebel que clama disciplina paternal, en l’esguard lasciu apercebre una ànima inconsolable,
que escodrinya desesperadament els gambirots que passen i hi cerca vestigis del seu Àngel sense cara que molt de temps ha quan desitjar servia d’alguna cosa la va cavalcar una vegada i desaparegué:
Car el sol i la lluna forneixen llurs màscares igualadores, però en aquesta hora de crepuscle civil tots han de dur posades llurs pròpies cares.
I és ara que els nostres dos camins s’encreuen.
Tots dos reconeixem alhora l’antitipus de l’altre: que jo sóc un arcàdic, que ell és un utopista.
El s’adona amb menyspreu del meu ventre d’Aquari; i jo, alarmat, de la seva boca d’Escorpió.
Li agradaria veure’n netejant latrines; i a mi veure’l traslladat a un altre planeta.
Cap dels dos no parla. Quina experiència podríem compartir?
Mirant una pantalla que hi ha en un aparador, faig notar que és massa horrible perquè ningú en bon seny la compri; ell fa notar que és massa cara per que la pugui comprar un pagès.
Passant prop d’un vailet de suburbi malalt de raquitisme, jo miro cap a l’altre costat; ell hi mira, si en passa un de galtaplè.
Jo espero que els nostres senadors es captindran com sants, posat que no em vulguin reformar; ell espera que es captindran com baritoni cattivi, i, quan els llums cremen a la Ciutadella a gran hora de la nit,
a mi (que no he estat mai en una comissaria de policia) em xoca i penso: “Si la ciutat fos lliure com diuen, a sol colgat totes les oficines serien grans blocs de pedra negra”;
ell (que ha estat atonyinat diverses vegades) no se n’estranya gens ni mica, ans pensa: “un gran vespre la nostra gent hi treballarà”.
Ja veieu, doncs, per què entre el meu Edèn i la seva Nova Jerusalem cap tracte no es pot negociar.
Al meu Edèn qui avorreix Bellini té la bona educació de no haver nascut; a la seva Nova Jerusalem qui avorreix el treball, li sabrà força greu haver nascut.
A meu Edèn tenim unes quantes màquines de balancí, locomotores amb tènder, rodes hidràuliques i alres ginys antiquats amb els quals jugar; a la seva Nova Jerusalem àdhuc els xefs seran com qui, amb la sang més fresa que un peix, vigila una màquina.
Al meu Edèn l’única font d’informació política que tenim és el xafardeig; a la seva Nova Jerusalem, hi haurà un diari especial en ortografia simplificada per a gent no gaire enlletrada.
Al meu Edèn tothom observa rituals compulsius i tabús supersticiosos, però ens manca sentit moral; a la seva Nova Jerusalem els temples seran buits però tothom practicarà les virtuts racionals.
Una de les raons del seu menspreu és que no haig de fer sinó tancar els ulls, travessar el pont de ferro fins al camí de sirga, passar amb la gavarra pel curt túnel de maons, i ve-te’m aquí de nou a l’Edèn, on em tornen a acollir els corns, doppioni i fagots de xalestos minaires, i el tritlleig de la catedral (romànica) de Santa Sofia (Die Kalte):
Una de els raons del meu esverament és que quan ell tanca els ulls entra, no a la Nova Jerusalem, ans en un dia august d’atrocitats en què diablons guimben per sales atrotinades i peixateres intervenen a la Cambra o
en una nit tardorenca de delacions i rivals ofegats, en què lladres impenitents (jo mateix inclòs) són arrestats i aquells que ell odia s’han d’odiar ells mateixos.
Així, doncs, amb un ràpid cop d’ull determinem l’actitud de l’altre; les nostres passes reculen, i ens aviem, inesmenables, cadascú al seu àpat i la seva vetllada.
Fou simplement (com deu semblar a qualsevol déu de cruïlla) un encreuament fortuït de camins de vida, lleials a diferents faules?
O bé una cita entre còmplices que, malgrat ells, no se saben estar de trobar-se.
Per fer memòria a l’altre (delegem tots dos, en el fons, la veritat?) d’aquella meitat de llur secret que ell més voldria oblidar, obligant-nos als dos, per una fracció de segon, a recordar la nostra víctima (si no fos per ell, jo oblidaria la sang; si no fos per mi, ell oblidaria la innocència).
Damunt la immolació de la qual (diguem-li Abel, Remus o qui vulgueu, és el mateix Sacrifici pels Pecats) arcàdies, utopies, el nostre vell sarró de la democràcia, es fonamenten semblantment:
Car sense ciment de sang (cal que sigui humana, cal que sigui innocent) cap mur secular no pot sostenir-se amb seguretat.
Simultaneously, as soundlessly,
Spontaneously, suddenly
As, at the vaunt of the dawn, the kind
Gates of the body fly open
To its world beyond, the gates of the mind,
The horn gate and the ivory gate
Swing to, swing shut, instantaneously
Quell the nocturnal rummage
Of its rebellious fronde, ill-favored,
Ill-natured and second-rate,
Disenfranchised, widowed and orphaned
By an historical mistake:
Recalled from the shades to be a seeing being,
From absence to be on display,
Without a name or history I wake
Between my body and the day.
Holy this moment, wholly in the right,
As, in complete obedience
To the light’s laconic outcry, next
As a sheet, near as a wall,
Out there as a mountain’s poise of stone,
The world is present, about,
And I know that I am, here, not alone
But with a world and rejoice
Unvexed, for the will has still to claim
This adjacent arm as my own,
The memory to name me, resume
Its routine of praise and blame
And smiling to me is this instant while
Still the day is intact, and I
The Adam sinless in our beginning,
Adam still previous to any act.
I draw breath; this is of course to wish
No matter what, to be wise,
To be different, to die and the cost,
No matter how, is Paradise
Lost of course and myself owing a death:
The eager ridge, the steady sea,
The flat roofs of the fishing village
Still asleep in its bunny,
Though as fresh and sunny still are not friends
But things to hand, this ready flesh
No honest equal, but my accomplice now
My assassin to be, and my name
Stands for my historical share of care
For a lying self-made city,
Afraid of our living task, the dying
Which the coming day will ask.
Simultàniament, tan calladament,
espontàniament, sobtadament
com llavors que al fast de l’alba els gentils
portals del cos s’obren de bat a bat
al món d’enllà, els portals de la ment,
el portal de corn i el de vori,
es tanquen d’una revolada, tot d’una
sufoquen l’escorcoll nocturn
de la Fronda rebel, malcarada,
malintencionada i de poc braç,
sense dret de vot, vídua i òrfena
per un error històric:
evocat de l’ombra per veure-hi clar,
de l’absència a la manifestació,
sense nom ni història em desperto jo
entre el meu cos i el dia.
Sant aquest moment, perfectament a dins
del dret vial, llavors que en total
obediència al clam lacònic de la llum,
immediat com un llençol, prop com una paret,
allà fora, amb el petri aplom d’una muntanya
el món és present, circumstant,
i sé que no sóc sol, aquí,
ans amb un món i m’alegro,
sense cap greuge, que la voluntat no hagi reclamat
encara com a seu aquest braç que jeu al meu costat,
que la memòria no m’hagi anomenat, ni hagi reprès
la rutina del blasme i la lloança
i aquest instant em somrigui quan
el dia resta encara intacte i sóc
l’Adam sens pecat del nostre començament
l’Adam anterior a tot acte.
Prenc alè; i això vol dir, és clar, desitjar
sigui el que sigui, ésser assenyat,
ésser diferent, morir, i el preu que cal pagar,
comsevulla que sigui, és el Paradís
perdut, és clar, i la mort de què sóc deutor:
la carena desficiosa, el mar impertorbable,
les llises teulades del poblet de pescadors
encara adormit a la calanca,
bé que frescs i assolellats no són encara amics
sinó coses abstables, aquesta carn prompte
no és pas l’honrat igual ans el seu còmplice ara,
el meu futur assassí, i el meu nom
representa la part històrica de neguit que em toca
per un falsa ciutat feta sola,
esfereïda de la tasca del nostre viure, el morir
que el dia que s’apropa reclamarà.
We, too, had known golden hours
When body and soul were in tune,
Had danced with our true loves
By the light of a full moon,
And sat with the wise and good
As tongues grew witty and gay
Over some noble dish
Out of Escoffier;
Had felt the intrusive glory
Which tears reserve apart,
And would in the old grand manner
Have sung from a resonant heart.
But, pawed-at and gossiped-over
By the promiscuous crowd,
Concocted by editors
Into spells to befuddle the crowd,
All words like Peace and Love,
All sane affirmative speech,
Had been soiled, profaned, debased
To a horrid mechanical screech.
No civil style survived
That pandaemonioum
But the wry, the sotto-voce,
Ironic and monochrome:
And where should we find shelter
For joy or mere content
When little was left standing
But the suburb of dissent?
També nosaltres vam conèixer hores daurades
quan l’ànima i el cos eren amics,
i a la llum groga d’una lluna plena
havíem ballat lents amb els nostres amors,
quan sèiem amb els savis i amb els bons
i creixia l’enginy i l’alegria
després d’un menjar noble, preparat
amb els coneixements de l’Escoffier;
quan havíem sentit la intrusa glòria
que els plors ens tenen sempre reservada,
i a la vella manera tots gosàvem
cantar cançons amb un cor ressonant.
Però sempre atacats i retallats
per la turba promiscua,
i assaonats pels editors
com a encanteris per torbar les multituds,
paraules com Amor i Pau, tot el discurs
afirmatiu i sa va esdevenir groller,
com un horrible xirigueig mecànic.
Cap estil cívic no va sobreviure
a aquest terrabastall,
excepte el to pervers,
el sotaveu sorneguer i monocrom.
¿On trobarem, doncs, un recer
per la felicitat o la satisfacció
– quan ja tan poc queda d’empeus -,
tret dels suburbis del dissentiment?
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
El qui estima en excés [el qui estima més]
Miro les estrelles i em vaig adonant
que, per a elles, me’n puc anar a pastar fang.
Però a la terra la indiferència no és molèstia:
qui hem de témer és l’home o bé la bèstia.
¿Com ens sentiríem si les estrelles cremessin
amb una passió que no corresponguéssim?
Si cap dels dos no pot estimar més,
deixeu-me ser el que estima en excés.
[si afecte per igual no pot ser
que sigui jo el qui estima més]
Encara que em consideri un fan
d’uns estels que m’envien al botavant,
ara que els veig he de confessar
que avui no n’he trobat cap a faltar.
Si es fonguessin o morissin les estrelles,
hauria d’aprendre a mirar un cel sense elles
i adonar-me de com és de sublim la fosca total,
encara que em calgués un temps addicional.
As I listened from a beach-chair in the shade
To all the noises that my garden made,
It seemed to me only proper that words
Should be withheld from vegetables and birds.
A robin with no Christian name ran through
The Robin-Anthem which was all it knew,
And rustling flowers for some third party waited
To say which pairs, if any, should get mated.
Not one of them was capable of lying,
There was not one which knew that it was dying
Or could have with a rhythm or a rhyme
Assumed responsibility for time.
Let them leave language to their lonely betters
Who count some days and long for certain letters;
We, too, make noises when we laugh or weep:
Words are for those with promises to keep.
1950
Els seus superiors solitaris
Mentre escoltava des d’una gandula, a l’ombra,
els sorolls que al jardí se senten en gran nombre,
em semblà bé que d’aquells mots amb sons tan bells
n’haguessin estat privats vegetals i ocells.
Un pit-roig sense nom va cantar aquell dia
l’Himne del Pit-roig, que era tot el que ell sabia.
les flors feien xiu-xiu i paraven l’orella
per tal de dir qui amb qui trobaria parella.
Cap ocell no era capaç de piular cap mentida,
cap que sabés que se li escapava la vida
o que pogués, pel seu refilet, tal com sona,
assumir responsabilitats una estona.
Que deixin el llenguatge als seus superiors solitaris
que anhelen certes cartes i compten dies ordinaris;
nosaltres també fem sorolls amb el riure i el plor:
els mots són per als qui guarden promeses de debó.
If it form the one landscape that we, the inconstant ones,
Are consistently homesick for, this is chiefly
Because it dissolves in water. Mark these rounded slopes
With their surface fragrance of thyme and, beneath,
A secret system of caves and conduits; hear the springs
That spurt out everywhere with a chuckle,
Each filling a private pool for its fish and carving
Its own little ravine whose cliffs entertain
The butterfly and the lizard; examine this region
Of short distances and definite places:
What could be more like Mother or a fitter background
For her son, the flirtatious male who lounges
Against a rock in the sunlight, never doubting
That for all his faults he is loved; whose works are but
Extensions of his power to charm? From weathered outcrop
To hill-top temple, from appearing waters to
Conspicuous fountains, from a wild to a formal vineyard,
Are ingenious but short steps that a child’s wish
To receive more attention than his brothers, whether
By pleasing or teasing, can easily take.
Watch, then, the band of rivals as they climb up and down
Their steep stone gennels in twos and threes, at times
Arm in arm, but never, thank God, in step; or engaged
On the shady side of a square at midday in
Voluble discourse, knowing each other too well to think
There are any important secrets, unable
To conceive a god whose temper-tantrums are moral
And not to be pacified by a clever line
Or a good lay: for accustomed to a stone that responds,
They have never had to veil their faces in awe
Of a crater whose blazing fury could not be fixed;
Adjusted to the local needs of valleys
Where everything can be touched or reached by walking,
Their eyes have never looked into infinite space
Through the lattice-work of a nomad’s comb; born lucky,
Their legs have never encountered the fungi
And insects of the jungle, the monstrous forms and lives
With which we have nothing, we like to hope, in common.
So, when one of them goes to the bad, the way his mind works
Remains incomprehensible: to become a pimp
Or deal in fake jewellery or ruin a fine tenor voice
For effects that bring down the house, could happen to all
But the best and the worst of us…
That is why, I suppose,
The best and worst never stayed here long but sought
Immoderate soils where the beauty was not so external,
The light less public and the meaning of life
Something more than a mad camp. `Come!’ cried the granite wastes,
`How evasive is your humour, how accidental
Your kindest kiss, how permanent is death.’ (Saints-to-be
Slipped away sighing.) `Come!’ purred the clays and gravels,
`On our plains there is room for armies to drill; rivers
Wait to be tamed and slaves to construct you a tomb
In the grand manner: soft as the earth is mankind and both
Need to be altered.’ (Intendant Caesars rose and
Left, slamming the door.) But the really reckless were fetched
By an older colder voice, the oceanic whisper:
`I am the solitude that asks and promises nothing;
That is how I shall set you free. There is no love;
There are only the various envies, all of them sad.’
They were right, my dear, all those voices were right
And still are; this land is not the sweet home that it looks,
Nor its peace the historical calm of a site
Where something was settled once and for all: A back ward
And dilapidated province, connected
To the big busy world by a tunnel, with a certain
Seedy appeal, is that all it is now? Not quite:
It has a worldy duty which in spite of itself
It does not neglect, but calls into question
All the Great Powers assume; it disturbs our rights. The poet,
Admired for his earnest habit of calling
The sun the sun, his mind Puzzle, is made uneasy
By these marble statues which so obviously doubt
His antimythological myth; and these gamins,
Pursuing the scientist down the tiled colonnade
With such lively offers, rebuke his concern for Nature’s
Remotest aspects: I, too, am reproached, for what
And how much you know. Not to lose time, not to get caught,
Not to be left behind, not, please! to resemble
The beasts who repeat themselves, or a thing like water
Or stone whose conduct can be predicted, these
Are our common prayer, whose greatest comfort is music
Which can be made anywhere, is invisible,
And does not smell. In so far as we have to look forward
To death as a fact, no doubt we are right: But if
Sins can be forgiven, if bodies rise from the dead,
These modifications of matter into
Innocent athletes and gesticulating fountains,
Made solely for pleasure, make a further point:
The blessed will not care what angle they are regarded from,
Having nothing to hide. Dear, I know nothing of
Either, but when I try to imagine a faultless love
Or the life to come, what I hear is the murmur
Of underground streams, what I see is a limestone landscape.
Si forma l’únic paisatge que nosaltres, els inconstants,
constantment enyorem, és sobretot
perquè és dissol en l’aigua. Adona’t d’aquests vessants arrodonits
amb la fragància a flor de pell de la farigola i, a sota,
un sistema secret de coves i conductes; escolta les fonts
que brollen per tot arreu amb una rialleta,
cadascuna omplint un toll privat per als seus peixos i excavant
les seves petites gorges als cingles a les quals s’entretenen
la papallona i el llargandaix; fixa’t en aquesta regió
de distàncies curtes i llocs precisos:
¿què podria assemblar-se més a una mare o a un entorn adient
per al seu fill, el mascle que flirteja escarxofat
sobre una roca prenent el sol i que no dubta mai que l’estimen
malgrat tots els seus defectes; les obres del qual només són
perllongacions del seu poder de seducció? Des de l’aflorament
erosionat fins al temple del cim del turó, des de les aigües que
neixen fins a les deus conspícues, des de la vinya verge fins a la vinya endreçada,
són ingènues però curtes les passes que un infant desitjós
que esgtiguin més per ell que els seus germans pot fer
com si res, bé afalagant, be amoïnant.
Mira’t doncs, les bandes rivals, mentre pugen i baixen
pels seus costeruts carrerons de pedra de dos en dos o de tres en tres,
a vegades de bracet, però mai, gràcies a Déu, marcant el pas; o fent-la
petar al migdia al cantó ombrós d’una plaça, només xerrameca,
coneixent-se massa els uns als altres per pensar que hi hagi
cap secret important, incapaços de concebre
un déu que tingui enrabiades morals
i que no es calmi amb un vers intel·ligent
o una bona rebolcada: perquè, acostumats a una pedra que respon,
mai no han hagut de tapar-se els rostres, espantats
per un cràter tan furibund que no es pot controlar;
avesats a les necessitats locals de les valls
on tot es pot tocar o és a l’abast només caminant,
els seus ulls no han contemplat mai l’espai infinit
a través de la reixeta de la pinta d’un nòmada; nascuts amb bona sort,
les seves cames mai no han ensopegat amb els fongs
i els insectes de la jungla, aquestes formes i vides monstruoses
amb les quals volem pensar que no tenim res en comú.
Per tant, quan un d’ells s’esgarria, continua sent comprensible
la manera com pensa: convertir-se en alcavot
o traficar amb joies falses o malbaratar una bonica veu de tenor
per aconseguir que una sala s’ensorri li podria passar a
qualsevol, tret dels millors i els pitjors de nosaltres … És per això, suposo,
que ni els uns ni els altres s’han quedat aquí gaire temps, sinó
que han buscat els sòls excessius on la bellesa no és tan externa,
la llum menys pública i el sentit de la vida
alguna cosa més que un campament embogit. “Veniu!”, van xiuxejar
les deixalles de granit, “que nés d’evasiu, el vostre humor,
de fortuït, el vostre petó més tendre, de permanent, la mort.” (Els sants
del futur van fugir sospirant). “Veniu!”, van xiuxejar les argiles
i les graves, “a les nostres planures hi ha lloc per que els exèrcits hi facin
maniobres; els rius esperen ser domats i els esclaus et faran una
tomba grandiosa: la humanitat és suau com la terra i tots dos necessiten
uns retocs.” (Els cèsars del lloc es van alçar i van marxar
amb un cop de porta.) Però una veu més antiga i freda
va atreure els veritablement temeraris, la remor de l’oceà:
“Jo sóc la solitud que no demana ni promet res;
és així com us faré lliures. L’amor no existeix;
només hi ha enveges diverses, totes tristes.”
Tenien raó, amor meu, totes aquelles veus tenien raó
i encara la tenen; aquesta terra no és la dolça llar que sembla,
ni la seva pau la històrica calma d’un indret
on alguna s’ha resolt una vegada per totes: una província
endarrerida i malmesa, connectada
al gran món atrafegat per un túnel, amb un cert
encant tronat, ¿oi que ja només és això? Gairebé:
té un deure mundà que, malgrat que li sàpiga greu,
no negligeix sinó que posa en dubte tot allò
que les grans potències admeten; fa nosa als nostres drets.
El poeta, admirat pel seu tenaç costum d’anomenar
el sol sol, el seu pensament Endevinalla, se sent neguitós
a causa d’aquestes estàtues de marbre que dubten amb tanta
claredat del seu mite antimitològic; i aquests trinxeraires,
que empaiten el científic per la columnata enrajolada
i amb uns oferiments tan vius, li retreuen l’interès pels aspectes
més vagues de la Natura: a mi també em recriminen tot allò
que coneixes tan bé. No perdre el temps, no deixar-se encalçar,
no quedar enrere, i – si us plau! – , no assemblar-se a les bèsties
que no paren de repetir-se, ni a cap cosa com ara l’aigua
o la pedra, el comportament de les quals es pot predir, aquest
és el nostre Llibres d’Oracions, que consola sobretot amb la música
que es pot interpretar a qualsevol lloc, que és invisible
i no fa olor. En la mesura que hem de contemplar la mort com
un fet, segur que tenim raó: però si els pecats
poden ser perdonats, si els cossos ressuciten d’entre els morts,
aquestes modificacions de la matèria en forma
d’atletes innocents i fonts que gesticulen,
fetes només per al plaer, demostren encara una altra cosa:
als benaurats tant se’ls en dóna des de quin angle se’ls mirin,
perquè no tenen res a amagar. Amor meu, jo no sé res de res,
però quan miro d’imaginar-me un amor impecable
o la vida futura, allò que sento és la remor dels corrents
subterranis, allò que veig és un paisatge de pedra calcària.
Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.
If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.
There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.
The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.
Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.
Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.
SI jo t’ho pogués dir
El Temps no t’ho dirà, però ja t’ho vaig dir:
el Temps només coneix el preu que hem de pagar;
si jo t’ho pogués dir, t’ho faria saber.
Si hem de plorar quan els clowns representen,
o entrebancar-nos quan toquen els músics,
el Temps no t’ho dirà, però ja t’ho vaig dir.
No hi ha bonaventures per endevinar,
perquè t’estimo més del que et puc dir,
si jo t’ho pogués dir, t’ho faria saber.
Els vents han de venir d’algun indret, quan bufen,
i alguna cosa fa que les fulles decaiguin;
el Temps no t’ho dirà, però ja t’ho vaig dir.
Potser les roses volen créixer realment,
i la visió vol romandre de veres;
si jo t’ho pogués dir, t’ho faria saber.
Suposa que els lleons s’assequen i se’n van,
quie s’escapen corrents soldats i rierols,
¿no et dirà res el Temps, tret que jo t’ho vaig dir?
Si jo t’ho pogués dir, t’ho faria saber.
I
He disappeared in the dead of winter:
The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
And snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.
Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;
By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.
But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,
Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.
Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood
And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.
But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the
Bourse,
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly
accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his
freedom,
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.
What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.
II
You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.
III
Earth, receive an honoured guest:
William Yeats is laid to rest.
Let the Irish vessel lie
Emptied of its poetry.
In the nightmare of the dark
All the dogs of Europe bark,
And the living nations wait,
Each sequestered in its hate;
Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.
Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice;
With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress;
In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.
Va desaparèixer en la cruesa de l’hivern,
els rierols eren glaçats, els aeroports quasi deserts,
la neu desfigurava les estàtues públiques,
s’enfonsava el mercuri dins la boca del dia agonitzant.
Els instruments que posseïm coincideixen:
el dia de la seva mort va ser de fred i núvols.
Lluny de la seva malaltia,
els llops escodrinyaven els boscos sempre verds,
el riu del camp no es va deixar temptar pels molls de moda;
les boques afligides
van ocultar als poemes la mort del seu poeta.
Però per a ell va ser l’últim captard com a ell mateix,
un captard de rumors i d’infermeres;
van insurgir-se les províncies del seu cos,
les places de la seva ment van quedar buides;
els suburbis, els va envair el silenci,
i es va estroncar el corrent dels seus sentits;
va convertir-se en els que l’admiraven.
Ara ja està escampat per cent ciutats
i totalment donat a afectes forasters,
a haver de ser feliç en altres boscos,
i a rebre càstigs sota un codi de consciència estranger.
Els mots d’un home mort
són esmenats en els budells dels vius.
Però ja en la importància i el soroll del demà
quan els aglotistes bramin com les bèsties a la Borsa
i els més pobres pateixin els suplicis a que ja estan força avesats,
i cadascú dintre la seva cel·la estigui convençut de ser ben lliure,
uns pocs milers hi pensaran, en aquest dia,
tal com pensen en dies que els han dut alguna cosa poc habitual.
Els instruments que posseïm coincideixen:
el dia de la seva mort va ser de fred i núvols.
II
Vas ser insensat com tots nosaltres; el teu do va sobreviure a tot:
a la parròquia de les dones riques, a la corrupció física,
a tu mateix. La boja Irlanda et va llençar a fer versos.
Ara Irlanda té encara la seva bogeria i el seu clima,
perquè la poesia no fa que passi res: només vol sobreviure
a la vall del seu fer-se, on cap executiu
no hi vol potinejar, i flueix cap el sud,
de masos aïllats i de penes actives,
de les crues ciutats on creiem i morim, i sobreviu
una manera de passar les coses, una boca.
III
Terra, acull un hoste insigne;
William Yeats vol descansar,
deixa que el carner d’Irlanda
vingui buit del seu parlar
Els gossos d’Europa borden
al malson de la foscor,
i els països vius esperen
enclaustrats d’odi i dolor.
L’horror de la inel·ligència
viu a cada rostre humà,
i els mars de bondat s’escampen
glaçats en tots els esguards.
Segueix, poeta, la via
que et porta al fons de la nit,
i amb la veu alleujadora
allibera’ns del neguit.
Que els teus solcs de poesia
esborrin els mals presents,
i amb un èxtasi de pena
canta els nostres sofriments.
Fes brollar la font del bàlsam
als deserts del cor humà,
i a la presó dels seus dies
ensenya l’home lliure de pregar.
As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.
And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
“Love has no ending.
“I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,
“I’ll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.
“The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.”
But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
“O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.
“In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.
“In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.
“Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver’s brilliant bow.
“O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you’ve missed.
“The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.
“Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.
“O look, look in the mirror?
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.
“O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.”
It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.
Mentre caminava un vespre
pel carrer Bristol avall,
la gentada a les voreres
com bladars a punt del tall.
I l’amant arran del riu
sota un pont del tren cantava
aquella cançó que diu:
“El meu amor no s’acaba.
“Fins que Àfrica i Xina es trobin
amor meu t’estimaré,
i el riu salti la muntanya
i el salmó canti al carrer.
“T’estimaré fins que el mar
s’assequi i es tregui el vel
i les set estrelles grallin
com les oques dalt del cel.
“Els anys corren com conills,
però als meus braços es fon
la Gran Flor de Tots els Temps
i el primer amor del món.”
De sobte tots els rellotges
varen brunzir i repicar:
“No deixis que el Temps t’enganyi,
que tu no el podràs guanyar.
“Allí on el malson s’amaga,
on la llei és en desús,
el Temps que vigila a l’ombra,
en lloc de besar-te, tus.
Quan hi ha maldecaps i tràngols
la vida lleument se’n va
i el Temps se surt amb la seva,
ara mateix o demà.
“A moltes valls ben gemades,
la neu és com un esmalt,
el Temps trenca les rotllanes
i del qui es capbussa el salt.
“Enfonsa les mans a l’aigua,
enfonsa-les-hi golut;
mira’t, mira’t a la pica
i pregunta’t què has perdut.
“La glacera és a l’armari,
el desert sospira al llit,
l’esquerda de la tassa obre
un camí cap al neguit.
“On els pobres rifen xecs
i en gegant encanta en Jack,
on el milhomes fa “ecs”
i la Jill s’enduu un batzac.
“Oh, mira’t, mira el mirall,
mira en la teva dissort;
la vida és un do de Déu
malgrat el teu desacord.
“Oh, estigues a la finestra,
de llàgrimes amarat
estimaràs el teu veí mentider
amb el teu cor poc honrat.”
Era tard, molt tard al vespre,
els amants s’havien fos;
els rellotges no tocaven
i el riu baixava, calmós.
I
This is the night mail crossing the Border,
Bringing the cheque and the postal order,
Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,
The shop at the corner, the girl next door.
Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:
The gradient’s against her, but she’s on time.
Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder
Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,
Snorting noisily as she passes
Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.
Birds turn their heads as she approaches,
Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.
Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;
They slumber on with paws across.
In the farm she passes no one wakes,
But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.
II
Dawn freshens, Her climb is done.
Down towards Glasgow she descends,
Towards the steam tugs yelping down a glade of cranes
Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces
Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.
All Scotland waits for her:
In dark glens, beside pale-green lochs
Men long for news.
III
Letters of thanks, letters from banks,
Letters of joy from girl and boy,
Receipted bills and invitations
To inspect new stock or to visit relations,
And applications for situations,
And timid lovers’ declarations,
And gossip, gossip from all the nations,
News circumstantial, news financial,
Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,
Letters with faces scrawled on the margin,
Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,
Letters to Scotland from the South of France,
Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands
Written on paper of every hue,
The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,
The chatty, the catty, the boring, the adoring,
The cold and official and the heart’s outpouring,
Clever, stupid, short and long,
The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.
IV
Thousands are still asleep,
Dreaming of terrifying monsters
Or of friendly tea beside the band in Cranston’s or Crawford’s:
Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,
Asleep in granite Aberdeen,
They continue their dreams,
But shall wake soon and hope for letters,
And none will hear the postman’s knock
Without a quickening of the heart,
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?
I
Aquest és el correu nocturn que creua la frontera
i porta xecs i ordres postals a la cartera,
cartes per al ric, cartes per la pobre de necessitat,
per al botiguer de la cantonada i la noia del veïnat.
S’atura a Beattock, la parada habitual:
el pendent li és contrari, però hi arriba puntual.
Passen plantes banquinoses i erms plens de roques,
i ell empeny sobre l’espatlla les blanques foques.
I esbufega sorollosament mentre passa
sobre milles silencioses d’herba grassa.
Els ocells es giren mentre el tren s’acosta
i es miren els vagons sense rostre des de la brosta.
els gossos d’atura fan com tantes vegades:
dormisquegen amb les potes encreuades.
A la granja, quan passa, no es desperta ningú,
però al dormitori un gerro tremola, insegur.
II
L’alba refresca. Ja s’ha enfilat prou.
Avall cap a Glasgow el tren es mou
amb estrebades de vapor i xiulets vers grues que fan clariana,
cap a camps plens d’aparells i forns que s’alcen a la plana
fosca, com gegantines peces d’escacs.
Tot Escòcia l’espera:
a les fosques valls, a la vora del verd pàl·lid dels llacs,
els homes anhelen les notícies.
III
Lletres d’agraïment, lletres dels bancs,
lletres alegres de la noia i el noi,
factures rebudes i invitacions
a inspeccionar bestiar o visitar relacions,
i sol·licituds per a situacions
i, dels amants, tímides declaracions
i xafarderies de totes les nacions,
notícies circumstancials, notícies financeres,
cartes amb fulletons de vacances que caldria ampliar,
cartes ab rostres als marges que algú va guixar,
cartes d’oncles, de cosins i de ties solteres,
cartes a Escòcia des del sud de França,
cartes de condol de les Terres Altes i les Terres Baixes,
escrites amb el paper que hi escau:
el rosa, el violeta, el blanc i el blau,
les afectuoses, les rancoroses, les avorrides, les sensacionals,
les fredes i oficials i les que són sentimentals,
intel·ligents, poca-soltes, curtes i allargades,
les escrites a màquina, les impreses i les plenes d’errades.
IV
N’hi ha milers encara adormits
que somnien en monstres de mala fe,
o bé una orquestra a Cranston o a Crawford, prenent el te:
adormits a la granítica Aberdeen,
els seus somnis van seguint,
però aviat es llevaran i esperaran les cartes, desvetllats,
i quan sentin el truc del carter
els farà un salt el cor, també.
Perquè ¿qui pot suportar sentir-se oblidat?
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, 5
But being too happy in thine happiness,
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 10
O for a draught of vintage! that hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country-green,
Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South! 15
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim: 20
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, 25
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 30
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night, 35
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 40
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; 45
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets cover’d up in leaves;
And mid-May’s eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 50
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call’d him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 55
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod. 60
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 65
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that ofttimes hath
Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 70
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 75
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side;
and now ’tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music? do I wake or sleep? 80
I
Em fa mal el cor i una punyent letargia
atabala els meus sentits, com si després
d’haver begut cicuta o apurat un fort
narcòtic m’haguera enfonsat al Leteu:
no perquè tinga enveja de la teua felicitat,
sinó pel goig que em fa la teua gràcia
quan, alada de llum, nimfa dels arbres,
en algun lloc melodiós
de verdes fagedes i ombres infinites
lliures a l’estiu la plenitud del teu cant.
II
¡Ah, si un glop de vi refredat un llarg temps
a la terra pregona, em fera gust
a Flora i campanya, a balls
i cançons provençals, i a solellada festa!
¡Ah, si el càlid sud omplira el meu got
d’un magnífic i enardidor hipocràs,
amb bombolles enllaçant-se a la vora
i la meua boca tenyida de porpra,
i que en beure abandonara el món d’amagat
per perdre’m amb tu a la foscor del bosc!
III
Perdre’m lluny, fondre’m i oblidar
tot allò que, entre les fulles, tu mai no has conegut:
el cansament, la febre i el neguit que se senten
ací on s’escolten els gemecs dels homes
i la tremolor sacseja els seus darrers cabells blancs,
on la joventut esdevé un espectre
i el pensament s’amara de dolor
quan mor l’esperança,
on la bellesa no pot conservar la seua brillantor
ni preservar un nou amor per al demà.
IV
Lluny! Molt lluny! Perquè he de volar cap a tu,
no conduït per Bacus y els seus lleopards,
sinó en les invisibles ales de la poesia,
tot i que la ment dubte, negada i confusa.
Ja sóc amb tu! Suau és la nit
i potser la Lluna regnarà al seu tron,
amb les seues màgiques estrelles al voltant,
però ací no hi ha llum,
només la que davalla del cel quan bufa la brisa
per rieres serpejants de molsa obscura.
V
No puc veure les flors que hi ha sota els meus peus,
ni el blanc encens que penja de les branques,
i, en la perfumada foscúria, imagine
els encants propis de l’estació presents
a l’herba, a les garrigues i als fruiters silvestres,
als rosers de pastor i als blancs espins,
a les violetes que es marceixen sota la fullaraca
i a la filla primogènita de mitjan maig:
rosa d’almesc que germina arrosada de vi,
amb brunzit de mosques en les vesprades d’estiu.
VI
Escolte en la foscúria, i si prou sovint
vaig estimar la mort com un remei,
cridant-la amb tendresa en versos absorts
que escampaven per l’aire el meu alè assossegat,
ara més que mai em sembla bell morir,
extingir-me sense dolor al cim de la nit,
alhora que tu vesses l’ànima a fora
en un èxtasi de cants
que seguiran encara que em convertisca en terra
i ja no puga admirar el teu rèquiem profund.
VII
Tu no has nascut per a la mort, ocell immortal,
ni generacions feréstegues et faran rodar per terra.
La veu que escolte en la nit ja la sentiren
en un altre temps emperadors i bufons;
potser aquest mateix cant va il·luminar un camí
en el trist cor de Ruth, quan amb nostàlgia
plorava envoltada de camps de blat estrangers,
i també va encisar altres vegades
els màgics finestrals oberts a l’escuma
de perillosos mars en indrets de prodigi ja oblidats.
VIII
Oblidats! Paraula que repica com una campana,
mentre m’allunye de tu anant cap a la meua soledat.
Adéu! La fantasia no sap enganyar tan bé,
follet mentider, com la seua fama faria pensar.
Adéu! Adéu! El teu himne llastimós s’esvaeix
al passar prop dels prats, sobre el rierol quiet,
allà al vessant, i després s’enfonsa profundament
a les clarianes de la propera vall.
Ha estat una visió o he somniat amb els ulls oberts?
La música ja s’ha acabat. Dorm o estic despert?
Envia per correu electrònic
Auden returns to a single theme: the reconciliation of the Christian idea that salvation depends on indiscriminate universal love, exploding categories and communities, with the classical idea that only small circles of friends and lovers can console us for the world’s evil. All the essays (and poems, too) might be gathered under a single heading: How to Love All Mankind, While Politely Keeping It Out of Your Garden.
His Christianity offered, in contrast, no lost age of authority but a series of visionary moments—those Blakean moments when we intimate an order and numinousness in the universe which implies a divine order. (Edmund Wilson dismissed Auden’s faith, not entirely unfairly, as “the mythology and animism of childhood.”) Again and again, his “vision” is one of remembered grace. “We are always entering paradise but only for a moment,” he wrote.
When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay
And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings,
Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say,
‘He was a man who used to notice such things’?
If it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid’s silent blink,
The dewfall-hawk comes crossing the shades to alight
Upon the wind-warped upland thorn, a gazer may think,
‘To him this must have been a familiar sight.’
If I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm,
When the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn,
One may say, ‘He strove that such innocent creatures should come to no harm,
But he could do little for them; and now is gone.’
If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand at the door,
Watching the full-starred heavens that winter sees,
Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more,
‘He was one who had an eye for such mysteries’?
And will any say when my bell of quittance is heard in the gloom,
And a crossing breeze cuts a pause in its outrollings,
Till they rise again, as they were a new bell’s boom,
‘He hears it not now, but used to notice such things’?
Versió de Marià Manent, “Poesia anglesa i Nordamericana”
Ed. Alpha, 1955
Quan el temps hagi clos el portal del meu estatge insegur,
i les fulloles de maig, brillants i fresques de saba,
batin com ales de seda, ¿dirà, potser, algú:
“D’aquestes coses bé prou s’adonava”?
I si fos cap al tard, quan, lleument com un esguard que es mig clou,
algun falcó de la nit, travessant l’ombra, venia
damunt l’arç ventejat, pensarà algú: “Ell bé prou
que l’haurà vist cada dia!”
Si el traspàs fós al cor d’una nit negra, amb un aire calent,
quan, tot esquiu, l’eriçó s’esmuny enllà de la prada,
“Perquè ningú no els fés mal, prou posà força esment,
i ara ja és mort, dirà algú, tal vegada”.
Si, sabent que a la fi em ve el repòs, són a la porta, esguardant
la gran celistia d’hivern, que la nit fa ampla i pia,
pensaran cor endins, els qui mai més no em veuran:
“Aquests misteris bé prou que els sabia!”
I si escolten el toc de l’adéu, al més pregon de la nit,
quan el vent trenca aquell solent, i pensen que s’acaba,
però torna més fort, ¿diran amb cor encongit:
“D’aquestes coses bé prou s’adonava”?
Versió de Josep M Jaumà
Quan el Present haurà passat la balda rere el meu trèmol viure
i el mes de maig batrà, content, com ales, les seves fulles
delicades com seda noufilada, ¿diran els meus veïns:
“Era un home que parava atenció en coses així”?
Si és al capvespree quan, com un silent aclucar de parpelles,
ve el falcó, com rosada, entre l’ombra, a posar
als arços alts vinclats pel vent, potser pensarà qui ho miri:
“Això devia ser-li una visió familiar.”
Si em moro una nit negra, plena d’insectes, càlida,
quan l’eriçó s’escorre furtivament pel gesp,
potser dirà algú: “Maldà perquè aquestes bestioles no sofrissin,
però poc pogué fer per elles; i ara ja no hi és.”
Si, en sentir que per fi he estat aturat, drets a la porta
guaiten el cel d’hivern estelat, gèlid,
¿se’ls acudirà de pensar, als qui no em veuran més el rostre:
“Era dels qui s’adonaven d’aquests misteris”?
¿I dirà algú, en sentir el meu toc de comiat en la foscúria,
si el travessa la brisa fent una pausa en el repic
fins que resorgeix amb so com de campana nova:
“Ara no ho sent, però se solia fixar en coses així”?
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Pareu tot els rellotges, desconnecteu tots els telèfons,
doneu al gos, perquè no bordi, l’os més suculent,
silencieu els pianos, i amb timbals amortits
emporteu-vos el fèretre, i que entrin els amics.
Que els avions gemeguin fent cercles dalt del cel
escrivint-hi el missatge: el meu amic ha mort;
poseu senyals de dol al coll blanc dels coloms,
i que els guardes es posin els guants negres de cotó.
Per mi, ell era el nord, el sud, l’est i l’oest,
el treball setmanal i el descans de diumenge,
migdia i mitjanit, paraules i cançons.
Jo em creia que l’amor podia durar sempre: anava errat.
No vull estrelles, ara; feu-me negra la nit,
enretireu la lluna, desarboreu el sol,
buideu el mar, desforesteu els boscos,
perquè ja res pot dur-me res de bo.
(for Oliver Sacks)
Spring this year in Austria started off benign,
the heavens lucid, the air stable, the about
sane to all feeders, vegetate or bestial:
the deathless minerals looked pleased with their regime,
where what is not forbidden is compulsory.
Shadows of course there are, Porn-Ads, with-it clergy,
and hubby next door has taken to the bottle,
but You have preserved Your poise, strange rustic object,
whom I, made in God’s Image but already warped,
a malapert will-worship, must bow as Me.
My mortal Manor, the carnal territory
alloted to my manage, my fosterling too,
I must earn cash to support, my tutor also,
but for whose neural instructions I could never
acknowledge what is or imagine what is not.
Instinctively passive, I guess, having neither
fangs nor talons nor hooves nor venom, and therefore
too prone to let the sun go down upon your funk,
a poor smeller, or rather a censor of smells,
with an omnivore palate that can take hot food.
Unpredictably, decades ago, You arrived
among that unending cascade of creatures spewed
from Nature’s maw. A random event, says Science.
Random my bottom! A true miracle, say I,
for who is not certain that he was meant to be?
Enguany la primavera ha començat benigna:
cels transparents, aires estables, àmbits sans
per a tots els menjaires, vegetals o bèsties;
els minerals semblen contents amb el seu règim,
on és obligatori tot allò que no està prohibit.
D’ombres, per descomptat, n’hi ha: anuncis pornogràfics,
mossens moderns, i el veí del costat que s’aferra a l’ampolla.
Tu, tanmateix, mantens l’aplom, objecte estrany i rústic,
i Jo, creat a imatge de Déu, però ja deformat,
altiu com sóc, t’he de complimentar a Tu, que ets Jo.
Tu ets el meu senyoratge mortal, territori carnal
adjudicat al meu govern, també fill adoptiu:
he de guanyar diners per mantenir-te; i ets també el meu tutor,
però les teves instruccions neurals no em deixen mai
saber què és, ni imaginar les coses que no són.
D’instint passiu – em sembla – , sense grans ullals
ni grapes, ni unglots, ni verí, i per tant
massa propens a deixar-te emportar per la basarda,
un pobre ensumador de flaires, o millor: censor de flaires,
amb un omnívor paladar que aguanta bé els picants.
Imprevisiblement, fa dècades, vas arribar
entre un saltant inacabable d’éssers vomitats
del quall de la Natura. fet casual – ens diu la ciència-
¿Fet casual? Camàndules! Miracle pur – Jo dic -.
Ningú no dubta d’haver estat designat a existir.
As You augmented and developed a profile,
I looked at Your looks askance. His architecture
should have been much more imposing: I’ve been let down!
By now, though, I’ve gotten used to Your proportions
and, all things considered, I might have fared far worse.
Seldom have You been a bother. For many years
You were, I admit, a martyr to horn-colic
(it did no good to tell You -But I’m not in love!);
how stoutly, though, You re`pelled all germ invasions,
but never chastised my tantrums with a megrim.
You are the Injured Party for, if short sighted,
I am the book-worm who tired You, if short-winded
as cigarette addicts are, I was the pusher
who got You hooked. (Had we been both a bit younger,
I might well have mischiefed You worse with a needle.)
I’m always amazed at how little I know You.
Your coasts and outgates I know. for I govern there,
but what goes inland, the rites, the social codes,
Your torrents, salt and sunless, remain enigmas:
what I believe is on doctors’ hearsay only.
Our marriage is a drama, but no stage-play where
what is not spoken is not thought: in our theatre
all that I cannot syllable You will pronounce
in acts whose raison-d’être escapes me. Why secrete
fluid when I dole, or stretch Your lips when I joy?
Mentre prenia forma i augmentava el teu perfil,
Jo esguardava amb recel el teu aspecte. La seva arquitectura
havia d’haver estat més imponent. M’han enganyat!
A hores d’ara, però, m’he avesat a les teves proporcions
i, a fi de comptes, molt pitjor m’hauria pogut anar.
Poques vegades has estat una molèstia. Durant molts anys
vas ser un màrtir del còlic (no en treia res de dir-te:
Però si no ho estic, d’enamorat!) i tanmateix amb quina gran
tenacitat has sabut vèncer invasions microbianes,
i mai no has castigat els meus humor amb cap migranya.
Tu ets la Part Perjudicada; si ets miop és perquè Jo,
que sóc un cuc devorador de llibres, vaig cansar-te;
si esbufegues per culpa del tabac, és perquè Jo
vaig aviciar-t’hi. (I si haguéssim nascut tots dos uns anys
més tard, potser t’hauria habituat a la xeringa.)
Sempre em sorprèn el poc que sé de Tu. Només conec
els teus portals i costes, perquè això Jo m’ho governo;
però què passa terra endins, els ritus, els costums socials,
els Teus torrents salats i sense sol, són purs enigmes.
Tot el que no sé, només ho sé pel dir dels metges.
El nostre matrimoni és un drama; però no cap obra
on allò que no es diu no és pensat. En el nostre teatre
tot el que Jo no puc articular Tu ho dius amb actes
que no comprenc del tot. ¿Per què segregues líquid,
quan estic trist? ¿Per què estires els llavis, quan content?
Demands to close or open, include or eject,
must come from Your corner, are no province of mine
(all I have done is to provide the time-table
of hours when You may put them): but what is Your work
when I librate between a glum and a frolic?
For dreams, I quite irrationally, reproach You.
All I know is that I don’t choose them: if I could,
they would conform to some prosodic discipline,
mean just what they say. Whatever point nocturnal
manias make, as a poet I disapprove.
Thanks to Your otherness, Your jocular concords,
so unlilke my realm of dissonance and anger,
You can serve me as my emblem for the Cosmos:
for human congregations, though as Hobbes perceived,
the apposite sign is some ungainly monster.
Whoever coined the phrase The Body Politic?
All States we’ve lived in, or historians tell of,
have had shocking health, psychosomatic cases,
physicked by sadists or glozing expensive quacks:
when I read the papers. You seem an Adonis.
Time, we both know, will decay You, and already
I’m scared of our divorce: I’ve seen some horrid ones.
Remember: when Le Bon Dieu says You Leave him
please, please, for His sake and mine, pay no attention
to my piteous Dont’s, but bugger off quickly.
Les ordres per obrir i tancar, incloure o expulsar,
han de venir del Teu costat; no són dominis meus
(tot el que faig és proveir-te d’un horari perquè Tu
les hi puguis posar): però ¿quina és la teva feina
quan Jo oscil·lo entre penes i barriles?
Et recrimino irracionalment els somnis.
Tot el que en sé és que no els puc triar: si ho pogués fer
s’ajustarien a alguna prosòdia. Sigui el que sigui
allò que volen recalcar les meves nocturnals manies,
Jo ho desaprovo totalment, com a poeta.
T’agraeixo la teva alteritat, les teves harmonies joculars,
tan diferents del meu reialme d’ira i dissonància.
Tu pots ser el meu emblema per al Cosmos.
A les associacions humanes, tal com deia Hobbes,
el signe que els escau és un monstre desgairat.
Qui va fixar la frase El cos polític?
Tots els Estats on hem viscut i els que la història ens reporta
han malviscut amb saluts repugnants, casos psicosomàtics,
tractats per sàdics o bé curanderos xerraires i cars.
Quan llegeixo els diaris, Tu sembles un Adonis.
El Temps, Tu i jo ho sabem, et marcirà, i ja ara tinc por
d’aquest nostre divorci; n’he vist alguns de terrorífics.
Recorda això: quan Le Bon Dieu t’ordeni “deixa’l”,
per favor, per favor, pel bé d’Ell i pel Meu, no facis cas
dels meus penosos “no’s”, i fot el camp de pressa.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
and twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
in such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
what wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
qe
As You Like It
a
The word is a stage
[II. vii. 139]
All the worl’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewing and puking in the nurse’s arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon
Woth spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose well saved a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeht, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
dsa
sad
What did Bloom do at the range?
He removed the saucepan to the left hob, rose and carried the iron kettle to the sink in order to tap the current by turning the faucet to let it flow.
Did it flow?
Yes. From Roundwood reservoir in county Wicklow of a cubic capacity of 2400 million gallons, percolating through a subterranean aqueduct of filter mains of single and double pipeage constructed at an initial plant cost of 5 pounds per linear yard by way of the Dargle, Rathdown, Glen of the Downs and Callowhill to the 26 acre reservoir at Stillorgan, a distance of 22 statute miles, and thence, through a system of relieving tanks, by a gradient of 250 feet to the city boundary at Eustace bridge, upper Leeson street, though from prolonged summer drouth and daily supply of 12 1/2 million gallons the water had fallen below the sill of the overflow weir for which reason the borough surveyor and waterworks engineer, Mr Spencer Harty, C. E., on the instructions of the waterworks committee had prohibited the use of municipal water for purposes other than those of consumption (envisaging the possibility of recourse being had to the impotable water of the Grand and Royal canals as in 1893) particularly as the South Dublin Guardians, notwithstanding their ration of 15 gallons per day per pauper supplied through a 6 inch meter, had been convicted of a wastage of 20,000 gallons per night by a reading of their meter on the affirmation of the law agent of the corporation, Mr Ignatius Rice, solicitor, thereby acting to the detriment of another section of the public, selfsupporting taxpayers, solvent, sound.
What in water did Bloom, waterlover, drawer of water, watercarrier, returning to the range, admire?
Its universality: its democratic equality and constancy to its nature in seeking its own level: its vastness in the ocean of Mercator’s projection: its unplumbed profundity in the Sundam trench of the Pacific exceeding 8000 fathoms: the restlessness of its waves and surface particles visiting in turn all points of its seaboard: the independence of its units: the variability of states of sea: its hydrostatic quiescence in calm: its hydrokinetic turgidity in neap and spring tides: its subsidence after devastation: its sterility in the circumpolar icecaps, arctic and antarctic: its climatic and commercial significance: its preponderance of 3 to 1 over the dry land of the globe: its indisputable hegemony extending in square leagues over all the region below the subequatorial tropic of Capricorn: the multisecular stability of its primeval basin: its luteofulvous bed: its capacity to dissolve and hold in solution all soluble substances including millions of tons of the most precious metals: its slow erosions of peninsulas and islands, its persistent formation of homothetic islands, peninsulas and downwardtending promontories: its alluvial deposits: its weight and volume and density: its imperturbability in lagoons and highland tarns: its gradation of colours in the torrid and temperate and frigid zones: its vehicular ramifications in continental lakecontained streams and confluent oceanflowing rivers with their tributaries and transoceanic currents, gulfstream, north and south equatorial courses: its violence in seaquakes, waterspouts, Artesian wells, eruptions, torrents, eddies, freshets, spates, groundswells, watersheds, waterpartings, geysers, cataracts, whirlpools, maelstroms, inundations, deluges, cloudbursts: its vast circumterrestrial ahorizontal curve: its secrecy in springs and latent humidity, revealed by rhabdomantic or hygrometric instruments and exemplified by the well by the hole in the wall at Ashtown gate, saturation of air, distillation of dew: the simplicity of its composition, two constituent parts of hydrogen with one constituent part of oxygen: its healing virtues: its buoyancy in the waters of the Dead Sea: its persevering penetrativeness in runnels, gullies, inadequate dams, leaks on shipboard: its properties for cleansing, quenching thirst and fire, nourishing vegetation: its infallibility as paradigm and paragon: its metamorphoses as vapour, mist, cloud, rain, sleet, snow, hail: its strength in rigid hydrants: its variety of forms in loughs and bays and gulfs and bights and guts and lagoons and atolls and archipelagos and sounds and fjords and minches and tidal estuaries and arms of sea: its solidity in glaciers, icebergs, icefloes: its docility in working hydraulic millwheels, turbines, dynamos, electric power stations, bleachworks, tanneries, scutchmills: its utility in canals, rivers, if navigable, floating and graving docks: its potentiality derivable from harnessed tides or watercourses falling from level to level: its submarine fauna and flora (anacoustic, photophobe), numerically, if not literally, the inhabitants of the globe: its ubiquity as constituting 90 percent of the human body: the noxiousness of its effluvia in lacustrine marshes, pestilential fens, faded flowerwater, stagnant pools in the waning moon.