I<\/p>\n
Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
\nCoffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
\nAnd the green freedom of a cockatoo
\nUpon a rug mingle to dissipate
\nThe holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
\nShe dreams a little, and she feels the dark
\nEncroachment of that old catastrophe,
\nAs a calm darkens among water-lights.
\nThe pungent oranges and bright, green wings
\nSeem things in some procession of the dead,
\nWinding across wide water, without sound.
\nThe day is like wide water, without sound,
\nStilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
\nOver the seas, to silent Palestine,
\nDominion of the blood and sepulchre.<\/p>\n
II<\/p>\n
Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
\nWhat is divinity if it can come
\nOnly in silent shadows and in dreams?
\nShall she not find in comforts of the sun,
\nIn pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else
\nIn any balm or beauty of the earth,
\nThings to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
\nDivinity must live within herself:
\nPassions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
\nGrievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
\nElations when the forest blooms; gusty
\nEmotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
\nAll pleasures and all pains, remembering
\nThe bough of summer and the winter branch.
\nThese are the measures destined for her soul.<\/p>\n
III<\/p>\n
Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.
\nNo mother suckled him, no sweet land gave
\nLarge-mannered motions to his mythy mind.
\nHe moved among us, as a muttering king,
\nMagnificent, would move among his hinds,
\nUntil our blood, commingling, virginal,
\nWith heaven, brought such requital to desire
\nThe very hinds discerned it, in a star.
\nShall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be
\nThe blood of paradise? And shall the earth
\nSeem all of paradise that we shall know?
\nThe sky will be much friendlier then than now,
\nA part of labor and a part of pain,
\nAnd next in glory to enduring love,
\nNot this dividing and indifferent blue.<\/p>\n
IV<\/p>\n
She says, \u201cI am content when wakened birds,
\nBefore they fly, test the reality
\nOf misty fields, by their sweet questionings;
\nBut when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
\nReturn no more, where, then, is paradise?\u201d
\nThere is not any haunt of prophecy,
\nNor any old chimera of the grave,
\nNeither the golden underground, nor isle
\nMelodious, where spirits gat them home,
\nNor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
\nRemote on heaven\u2019s hill, that has endured
\nAs April\u2019s green endures; or will endure
\nLike her remembrance of awakened birds,
\nOr her desire for June and evening, tipped
\nBy the consummation of the swallow\u2019s wings.<\/p>\n
V<\/p>\n
She says, \u201cBut in contentment I still feel
\nThe need of some imperishable bliss.\u201d
\nDeath is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
\nAlone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams
\nAnd our desires. Although she strews the leaves
\nOf sure obliteration on our paths,
\nThe path sick sorrow took, the many paths
\nWhere triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
\nWhispered a little out of tenderness,
\nShe makes the willow shiver in the sun
\nFor maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
\nUpon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
\nShe causes boys to pile new plums and pears
\nOn disregarded plate. The maidens taste
\nAnd stray impassioned in the littering leaves.<\/p>\n
VI<\/p>\n
Is there no change of death in paradise?
\nDoes ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
\nHang always heavy in that perfect sky,
\nUnchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
\nWith rivers like our own that seek for seas
\nThey never find, the same receding shores
\nThat never touch with inarticulate pang?
\nWhy set the pear upon those river-banks
\nOr spice the shores with odors of the plum?
\nAlas, that they should wear our colors there,
\nThe silken weavings of our afternoons,
\nAnd pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
\nDeath is the mother of beauty, mystical,
\nWithin whose burning bosom we devise
\nOur earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.<\/p>\n
VII<\/p>\n
Supple and turbulent, a ring of men
\nShall chant in orgy on a summer morn
\nTheir boisterous devotion to the sun,
\nNot as a god, but as a god might be,
\nNaked among them, like a savage source.
\nTheir chant shall be a chant of paradise,
\nOut of their blood, returning to the sky;
\nAnd in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,
\nThe windy lake wherein their lord delights,
\nThe trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,
\nThat choir among themselves long afterward.
\nThey shall know well the heavenly fellowship
\nOf men that perish and of summer morn.
\nAnd whence they came and whither they shall go
\nThe dew upon their feet shall manifest.<\/p>\n
VIII<\/p>\n
She hears, upon that water without sound,
\nA voice that cries, \u201cThe tomb in Palestine
\nIs not the porch of spirits lingering.
\nIt is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.\u201d
\nWe live in an old chaos of the sun,
\nOr old dependency of day and night,
\nOr island solitude, unsponsored, free,
\nOf that wide water, inescapable.
\nDeer walk upon our mountains, and the quail
\nWhistle about us their spontaneous cries;
\nSweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
\nAnd, in the isolation of the sky,
\nAt evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
\nAmbiguous undulations as they sink,
\nDownward to darkness, on extended wings.<\/p>\n
Harmonium\u00a0 \u00a0(Poetry Foundation<\/a>)<\/p>\n MAT\u00cd DE DIUMENGE<\/p>\n I II III IV V VI VII VIII
\n
\nComplaences de barn\u00fas, i despr\u00e9s
\ncaf\u00e8 i taronges la cadira al sol,
\nllibertat verda com les cacatues,
\ni aix\u00ed, damunt l\u2019alfombra, dissipar
\nel sant silenci del vell sacrifici.
\nElla que somieja i sent la fosca
\nusurpaci\u00f3 de l\u2019antiga cat\u00e0strofe,
\ncalma que s\u2019enfosqueix entre llums d\u2019aigua.
\nPicants taronges i ales verd-lluentes
\nsemblen anar en process\u00f3 de difunts,
\nserpentejant per l\u2019aigua, i en silenci.
\nUn dia que \u00e9s com l\u2019aigua que, en silenci,
\ns\u2019aquieta als passos que ella, somniosos,
\nfa al mar vers la callada Palestina,
\ndomini de la sang, tamb\u00e9 sepulcre.<\/p>\n
\n\u00bfI ella, per qu\u00e8 ha d\u2019entregar-se als difunts?
\n\u00bfQu\u00e8 \u00e9s la divinitat si pot mostrar-se
\ntan sols en ombres callades i en somnis?
\n\u00bfElla, no pot trobar al comfort del sol,
\no en fruits picants i verds lluents, tampoc
\nen b\u00e0lsams ni en la bellesa del m\u00f3n,
\nres d\u2019un valor semblant a la idea d\u2019un Cel?
\nL\u2019ha de dur en ella, la divinitat:
\npassions de pluja, esprit de neu que cau;
\nlaments en soledat, desapagades
\neuf\u00f2ries quan el bosc floreix; ventades
\nd\u2019emocions \u2013carrers molls, nits de tardor\u2013;
\ntots els plaers, tots els dolors amb qu\u00e8 es recorden
\nles rames de l\u2019estiu, les branques de l\u2019hivern.
\nS\u00f3n mesures que busquen la seva \u00e0nima.<\/p>\n
\nNasqu\u00e9 inhumanament, J\u00fapiter, dalt dels n\u00favols.
\nNo l\u2019allet\u00e0 cap mare, cap dol\u00e7 pa\u00eds va dar-li
\nmoviments elevats per la seva ment m\u00edtica.
\nEs mogu\u00e9 entre nosaltres, com un rei murmurant
\nque es mogu\u00e9s, majestu\u00f3s, enmig dels seus servents,
\nfins que la nostra sang, mesclada, virginal,
\namb el Cel, sadoll\u00e9s el desig de manera
\nque els servents ho veiessin als estels.
\n\u00bfLa sang, ens pot fallar? \u00bfO pot ser que esdevingui
\nla sang del parad\u00eds? \u00bfI pot ser que la terra
\nsembli tot el que ens cal saber del parad\u00eds?
\nEl cel ser\u00e0, llavors, m\u00e9s amigable que ara,
\nuna part amb esfor\u00e7 i una part amb dolor,
\ni el preludi glori\u00f3s de l\u2019amor perdurable,
\ni no aquest blau separador i ap\u00e0tic.<\/p>\n
\nElla diu: \u201cVeus, m\u2019alegra veure els ocells que es lleven
\ni, abans d\u2019aixecar el vol, testen la realitat
\ndels camps boirosos amb preguntes dolces;
\n\u00bfper\u00f2 quan els ocells marxen, i els camps c\u00e0lids no tornen
\nmai m\u00e9s, on \u00e9s, llavors, el parad\u00eds?\u201d
\nNo existeix ni l\u2019encal\u00e7 de profecies,
\nni cap vella quimera de sepulcre,
\nni una cova daurada, ni cap illa
\nmelodiosa que \u00e9s llar dels esperits,
\nni cap sud visionari, ni cap palmera amb n\u00favols
\nperduda al cim del Cel, que ha persisit
\ncom la verdor d\u2019abril; o que persistir\u00e0
\ncom els ocells que es lleven quan ella els rememora,
\no quan ella desitja junys i vespres, empesa
\nper un fet consumat: l\u2019aleteig d\u2019orenetes.<\/p>\n
\nElla diu: \u201cPer\u00f2 em fa falta, tot i que aix\u00f2 m\u2019alegra,
\nuna felicitat que no s\u2019acabi.\u201d
\nLa mort \u00e9s la mare de la bellesa; i, perx\u00f2, tan sols d\u2019ella
\nprov\u00e9 l\u2019acompliment dels nostres somnis
\ni desitjos. \u00c9s ella la que escampa les fulles
\nde l\u2019extinci\u00f3 segura al nostre corriol,
\ncorriol trist, malalt, i als altres corriols
\non van sonar els metalls del triomf, o b\u00e9 on l\u2019amor
\nxiuxiuejava fent curt de tendresa,
\nper\u00f2 ella tamb\u00e9 \u00e9s qui fa que, al sol, el salze tremi
\nper les donzelles que miren i seuen
\ndamunt d\u2019una herba retuda als seus peus.
\nI fa que els nois apilin prunes i peres fresques
\nen un platot tronat. Les donzelles les tasten
\ni amb passi\u00f3 s\u2019abandonen per les fulles esparses.<\/p>\n
\n\u00bfNo hi canvia la mort, al parad\u00eds?
\n\u00bfHi cauen mai els fruits madurs? \u00bfLes branques
\ns\u2019hi alcen plenes buscant sempre aquest cel perfecte,
\nimmutables, com ho \u00e9s la terra que es desgasta
\namb rius com els rius nostres que van a buscar mars
\nque mai no troben, com les costes que es retiren
\ni mai no les atrapen les punxades deformes?
\n\u00bfPer qu\u00e8 situar les peres a les ribes dels rius
\no perfumar les costes amb l\u2019olor de les prunes?
\nAi las, \u00a1que s\u2019hi vesteixin amb els nostres colors,
\namb els teixits sedosos que fan les nostres tardes,
\nque pessiguin les cordes dels ins\u00edpids lla\u00fcts!
\nLa mort \u00e9s la mare de la bellesa, m\u00edstica,
\ni, en el seu pit ardent, hi concebem les nostres
\nmares terrals que esperen, sense poder dormir.<\/p>\n
\nLleugers, i turbulents, cantant, un rotlle d\u2019homes
\nen un mat\u00ed d\u2019estiu proclamaran orgi\u00e0stics
\nla seva esponerosa devoci\u00f3 pel sol,
\nno com a un d\u00e9u, sin\u00f3 a com seria un d\u00e9u
\ndespullat enmig d\u2019ells, com una font salvatge.
\nEl seu cant devindr\u00e0 un cant del parad\u00eds,
\nemanat de la sang, i retornat al cel;
\ni en el seu cant hi haur\u00e0, de veu en veu,
\nel llac vent\u00f3s on son senyor es delecta,
\narbres com serafins, turons fent l\u2019eco,
\ni el cor perdurar\u00e0 per molt de temps.
\nConeixeran la germanor celeste
\nd\u2019homes mortals i de matins d\u2019estiu.
\nI all\u00e0 d\u2019on v\u00e9nen i all\u00e0 on aniran,
\ndamunt dels peus, hi duran la rosada.<\/p>\n
\nElla sent, just damunt l\u2019aigua callada,
\nla veu que diu: \u201cLa tomba a Palestina
\nno \u00e9s p\u00f2rtic per esperits persistents.
\nSepulcre de Jes\u00fas, \u00e9s on reposa.\u201d
\nVivim en un vell caos, el del sol,
\nla vella servitud de nits i dies,
\nla solitud de l\u2019illa, abandonada, lliure,
\nenmig d\u2019una aigua extensa, indefugible.
\nC\u00e9rvols per les muntanyes, guatlles fent-nos
\nxiulades espont\u00e0nies al damunt;
\nm\u00f3res dolces al mig de la malesa;
\nal vespre i, en l\u2019isolament del cel,
\nestols esparsos de coloms que fan
\nondulacions ambig\u00fces quan s\u2019enfonsen
\nde ple en l\u2019obscuritat, ales esteses.<\/p>\n