Antes de la Guerra con los Cocodrilos

196. Poem of Joys . "Leaves of Grass" 1900 Walt Whitman

2011-01-19T15:57:00.000-08:00

196. Poem of Joys

1

O TO make the most jubilant poem!
Even to set off these, and merge with these, the carols of Death.
O full of music! full of manhood, womanhood, infancy!
Full of common employments! full of grain and trees.

O for the voices of animals! O for the swiftness and balance of fishes! 5
O for the dropping of rain-drops in a poem!
O for the sunshine, and motion of waves in a poem.

O the joy of my spirit! it is uncaged! it darts like lightning!
It is not enough to have this globe, or a certain time—I will have thousands of globes, and all time.

2

O the engineer’s joys! 10
To go with a locomotive!
To hear the hiss of steam—the merry shriek—the steam-whistle—the laughing locomotive!
To push with resistless way, and speed off in the distance.

O the gleesome saunter over fields and hill-sides!
The leaves and flowers of the commonest weeds—the moist fresh stillness of the woods, 15
The exquisite smell of the earth at day-break, and all through the forenoon.

O the horseman’s and horsewoman’s joys!
The saddle—the gallop—the pressure upon the seat—the cool gurgling by the ears and hair.

3

O the fireman’s joys!
I hear the alarm at dead of night, 20
I hear bells—shouts!—I pass the crowd—I run!
The sight of the flames maddens me with pleasure.

O the joy of the strong-brawn’d fighter, towering in the arena, in perfect condition, conscious of power, thirsting to meet his opponent.

O the joy of that vast elemental sympathy which only the human Soul is capable of generating and emitting in steady and limitless floods.

4

O the mother’s joys! 25
The watching—the endurance—the precious love—the anguish—the patiently yielded life.

O the joy of increase, growth, recuperation;
The joy of soothing and pacifying—the joy of concord and harmony.

O to go back to the place where I was born!
To hear the birds sing once more! 30
To ramble about the house and barn, and over the fields, once more,
And through the orchard and along the old lanes once more.

5

O male and female!
O the presence of women! (I swear there is nothing more exquisite to me than the mere presence of women;)
O for the girl, my mate! O for the happiness with my mate! 35
O the young man as I pass! O I am sick after the friendship of him who, I fear, is indifferent to me.

O the streets of cities!
The flitting faces—the expressions, eyes, feet, costumes! O I cannot tell how welcome they are to me.

6

O to have been brought up on bays, lagoons, creeks, or along the coast!
O to continue and be employ’d there all my life! 40
O the briny and damp smell—the shore—the salt weeds exposed at low water,
The work of fishermen—the work of the eel-fisher and clam-fisher.

O it is I!
I come with my clam-rake and spade! I come with my eel-spear;
Is the tide out? I join the group of clam-diggers on the flats, 45
I laugh and work with them—I joke at my work, like a mettlesome young man.

In winter I take my eel-basket and eel-spear and travel out on foot on the ice—I have a small axe to cut holes in the ice;
Behold me, well-clothed, going gaily, or returning in the afternoon—my brood of tough boys accompaning me,
My brood of grown and part-grown boys, who love to be with no one else so well as they love to be with me,
By day to work with me, and by night to sleep with me. 50

Or, another time, in warm weather, out in a boat, to lift the lobster-pots, where they are sunk with heavy stones, (I know the buoys;)
O the sweetness of the Fifth-month morning upon the water, as I row, just before sunrise, toward the buoys;
I pull the wicker pots up slantingly—the dark-green lobsters are desperate with their claws, as I take them out—I insert wooden pegs in the joints of their pincers,
I go to all the places, one after another, and then row back to the shore,
There, in a huge kettle of boiling water, the lobsters shall be boil’d till their color becomes scarlet. 55

Or, another time, mackerel-taking,
Voracious, mad for the hook, near the surface, they seem to fill the water for miles:
Or, another time, fishing for rock-fish, in Chesapeake Bay—I one of the brown-faced crew:
Or, another time, trailing for blue-fish off Paumanok, I stand with braced body,
My left foot is on the gunwale—my right arm throws the coils of slender rope, 60
In sight around me the quick veering and darting of fifty skiffs, my companions.

7

O boating on the rivers!
The voyage down the Niagara, (the St. Lawrence,)—the superb scenery—the steamers,
The ships sailing—the Thousand Islands—the occasional timber-raft, and the raftsmen with long-reaching sweep-oars,
The little huts on the rafts, and the stream of smoke when they cook their supper at evening. 65

O something pernicious and dread!
Something far away from a puny and pious life!
Something unproved! Something in a trance!
Something escaped from the anchorage, and driving free.

O to work in mines, or forging iron! 70
Foundry casting—the foundry itself—the rude high roof—the ample and shadow’d space,
The furnace—the hot liquid pour’d out and running.

8

O to resume the joys of the soldier:
To feel the presence of a brave general! to feel his sympathy!
To behold his calmness! to be warm’d in the rays of his smile! 75
To go to battle! to hear the bugles play, and the drums beat!
To hear the crash of artillery! to see the glittering of the bayonets and musket-barrels in the sun!
To see men fall and die, and not complain!
To taste the savage taste of blood! to be so devilish!
To gloat so over the wounds and deaths of the enemy. 80

9

O the whaleman’s joys! O I cruise my old cruise again!
I feel the ship’s motion under me—I feel the Atlantic breezes fanning me,
I hear the cry again sent down from the mast-head—There—she blows!
—Again I spring up the rigging, to look with the rest—We see—we descend, wild with excitement,
I leap in the lower’d boat—We row toward our prey, where he lies, 85
We approach, stealthy and silent—I see the mountainous mass, lethargic, basking,
I see the harpooneer standing up—I see the weapon dart from his vigorous arm:
O swift, again, now, far out in the ocean, the wounded whale, settling, running to windward, tows me;
—Again I see him rise to breathe—We row close again,
I see a lance driven through his side, press’d deep, turn’d in the wound, 90
Again we back off—I see him settle again—the life is leaving him fast,
As he rises, he spouts blood—I see him swim in circles narrower and narrower, swiftly cutting the water—I see him die;
He gives one convulsive leap in the centre of the circle, and then falls flat and still in the bloody foam.

10

O the old manhood of me, my joy!
My children and grand-children—my white hair and beard, 95
My largeness, calmness, majesty, out of the long stretch of my life.

O the ripen’d joy of womanhood!
O perfect happiness at last!
I am more than eighty years of age—my hair, too, is pure white—I am the most venerable mother;
How clear is my mind! how all people draw nigh to me! 100
What attractions are these, beyond any before? what bloom, more than the bloom of youth?
What beauty is this that descends upon me, and rises out of me?

O the orator’s joys!
To inflate the chest—to roll the thunder of the voice out from the ribs and throat,
To make the people rage, weep, hate, desire, with yourself, 105
To lead America—to quell America with a great tongue.

O the joy of my soul leaning pois’d on itself—receiving identity through materials, and loving them—observing characters, and absorbing them;
O my soul, vibrated back to me, from them—from facts, sight, hearing, touch, my phrenology, reason, articulation, comparison, memory, and the like;
The real life of my senses and flesh, transcending my senses and flesh;
My body, done with materials—my sight, done with my material eyes; 110
Proved to me this day, beyond cavil, that it is not my material eyes which finally see,
Nor my material body which finally loves, walks, laughs, shouts, embraces, procreates.

11

O the farmer’s joys!
Ohioan’s, Illinoisian’s, Wisconsinese’, Kanadian’s, Iowan’s, Kansian’s, Missourian’s, Oregonese’ joys;
To rise at peep of day, and pass forth nimbly to work, 115
To plow land in the fall for winter-sown crops,
To plough land in the spring for maize,
To train orchards—to graft the trees—to gather apples in the fall.

O the pleasure with trees!
The orchard—the forest—the oak, cedar, pine, pekan-tree, 120
The honey-locust, black-walnut, cottonwood, and magnolia.

12

O Death! the voyage of Death!
The beautiful touch of Death, soothing and benumbing a few moments, for reasons;
Myself, discharging my excrementitious body, to be burn’d, or render’d to powder, or buried,
My real body doubtless left to me for other spheres, 125
My voided body, nothing more to me, returning to the purifications, further offices, eternal uses of the earth.

13

O to bathe in the swimming-bath, or in a good place along shore!
To splash the water! to walk ankle-deep—to race naked along the shore.

O to realize space!
The plenteousness of all—that there are no bounds; 130
To emerge, and be of the sky—of the sun and moon, and the flying clouds, as one with them.

O the joy of a manly self-hood!
Personality—to be servile to none—to defer to none—not to any tyrant, known or unknown,
To walk with erect carriage, a step springy and elastic,
To look with calm gaze, or with a flashing eye, 135
To speak with a full and sonorous voice, out of a broad chest,
To confront with your personality all the other personalities of the earth.

14

Know’st thou the excellent joys of youth?
Joys of the dear companions, and of the merry word, and laughing face?
Joys of the glad, light-beaming day—joy of the wide-breath’d games? 140
Joy of sweet music—joy of the lighted ball-room, and the dancers?
Joy of the friendly, plenteous dinner—the strong carouse, and drinking?

15

Yet, O my soul supreme!
Know’st thou the joys of pensive thought?
Joys of the free and lonesome heart—the tender, gloomy heart? 145
Joy of the solitary walk—the spirit bowed yet proud—the suffering and the struggle?
The agonistic throes, the extasies—joys of the solemn musings, day or night?
Joys of the thought of Death—the great spheres Time and Space?
Prophetic joys of better, loftier love’s ideals—the Divine Wife—the sweet, eternal, perfect Comrade?
Joys all thine own, undying one—joys worthy thee, O Soul. 150

16

O, while I live, to be the ruler of life—not a slave,
To meet life as a powerful conqueror,
No fumes—no ennui—no more complaints, or scornful criticisms.

O me repellent and ugly!
To these proud laws of the air, the water, and the ground, proving my interior Soul impregnable, 155
And nothing exterior shall ever take command of me.

O to attract by more than attraction!
How it is I know not—yet behold! the something which obeys none of the rest,
It is offensive, never defensive—yet how magnetic it draws.

17

O joy of suffering! 160
To struggle against great odds! to meet enemies undaunted!
To be entirely alone with them! to find how much one can stand!
To look strife, torture, prison, popular odium, death, face to face!
To mount the scaffold! to advance to the muzzles of guns with perfect nonchalance!
To be indeed a God! 165

18

O, to sail to sea in a ship!
To leave this steady, unendurable land!
To leave the tiresome sameness of the streets, the sidewalks and the houses;
To leave you, O you solid motionless land, and entering a ship,
To sail, and sail, and sail! 170

19

O to have my life henceforth a poem of new joys!
To dance, clap hands, exult, shout, skip, leap, roll on, float on,
To be a sailor of the world, bound for all ports,
A ship itself, (see indeed these sails I spread to the sun and air,)
A swift and swelling ship, full of rich words—full of joys. 175

Los Desperfectos (1978) Benno Halle-Haskalah

2010-11-11T19:10:00.000-08:00

En su segundo poemario "Volksgemeinschaft" ,(una feroz crítica al sentido
de comunidad social nacionalista heredado de la alemania nazi por el capitalismo y la sociedad de los medios) Benno Halle-Haskalah o simplemente "SVI" como se autodenomino tras su encarcelamiento lanza esta feroz crítica al mundo que le encerro.

(Traducido por Szandor Karpati)

Los Desperfectos

Reverbera la verdad
cuando el mar
lucha contra la ciudad

cuando el huracán revienta las aceras
el vendabal
surca la escollera..

Retumba la mentira
cuando rompe la rutina
en los desperfectos del noiticiero

se arrastra la marea
por las cloacas de nuestras pasiones
en lo inhospito
de la carretera

en las laderas de
nuestros deseos
se derrumban promontorios
de lo que nunca se pudo negar

Se arrastran los mismos pueblos,
los mismos vasos
las mismas cadenas

Somos el zurzido de monedero
una falsa , falsa, falsa
certeza
una estadística lastimera

un desperfecto en el noticiero

The River , Jean Renoir

2010-04-05T08:20:00.000-07:00

We should celebrate that a child died a child. That one escaped.
We lock them in our schools, we teach them our stupid taboos, we catch them in our wars and they can´t resist , they have no armour and so we kill them, we massacre the innocents.
The world is for children. The real world ¡ They climb trees and roll on the grass, they´re close to the ants, as free as the birds, like animals, they´re not ashamed, they know what is important, a mouse is born or a leaf drops on a pond, if the world could be made of children...

Margaret Rumer Godden

The River, Jean Renoir

2010-01-11T14:06:00.001-08:00

LA NOCHE / La Notte (1961)

2010-01-11T13:31:00.000-08:00

"In the modern age of reason and science, mankind still lives by a rigid and stereotyped morality which all of us recognize as such and yet sustain out of cowardice and sheer laziness"

Michelangelo Antonioni

The childish troubles of a successful ego, the mind-shattering death of a close friend, the parody of love the joy of self manlyhood, the eternal triangle, all together in the masterwork of a master.

La Muerte de Nadia.. Rocco e i suoi fratelli(1960) Luchino Visconti

2010-01-07T15:09:00.000-08:00

Antes de la guerra con los cocodrilos, antes de la estigmatización de la difusión cultural (llevada a cabo por los propios medios piratas de "reproducción asistida" ) ,antes de la condena hipócrita de los adoctrinadores medios de masas , antes de la muerte de la libertad se rodaban escenas como esta...
.. bellas, crueles, sangrantes y apasionadas como la muerte de Nadia , en la que no existe el cinismo de la condena, ni las tenazas burguesas de ningún compromiso social o conciencia represora.
Tan solo una mirada, blanca y negra que contempla la condición humana de manera tan objetiva como bíblica, tan de actualidad como la eterna antiguedad.
La Pasión,los celos, la testosterona (!viva la testosterona ¡) y el juego de la vida y de la muerte

LA DONCELLA Y LA MUERTE

2009-11-13T08:07:00.001-08:00

Song of Childhood

2009-11-13T03:44:00.001-08:00

Song of Childhood
By Peter Handke

When the child was a child
It walked with its arms swinging,
wanted the brook to be a river,
the river to be a torrent,
and this puddle to be the sea.

When the child was a child,
it didn’t know that it was a child,
everything was soulful,
and all souls were one.

When the child was a child,
it had no opinion about anything,
had no habits,
it often sat cross-legged,
took off running,
had a cowlick in its hair,
and made no faces when photographed.

When the child was a child,
It was the time for these questions:
Why am I me, and why not you?
Why am I here, and why not there?
When did time begin, and where does space end?
Is life under the sun not just a dream?
Is what I see and hear and smell
not just an illusion of a world before the world?
Given the facts of evil and people.
does evil really exist?
How can it be that I, who I am,
didn’t exist before I came to be,
and that, someday, I, who I am,
will no longer be who I am?

When the child was a child,
It choked on spinach, on peas, on rice pudding,
and on steamed cauliflower,
and eats all of those now, and not just because it has to.

When the child was a child,
it awoke once in a strange bed,
and now does so again and again.
Many people, then, seemed beautiful,
and now only a few do, by sheer luck.

It had visualized a clear image of Paradise,
and now can at most guess,
could not conceive of nothingness,
and shudders today at the thought.

When the child was a child,
It played with enthusiasm,
and, now, has just as much excitement as then,
but only when it concerns its work.

When the child was a child,
It was enough for it to eat an apple, … bread,
And so it is even now.

When the child was a child,
Berries filled its hand as only berries do,
and do even now,
Fresh walnuts made its tongue raw,
and do even now,
it had, on every mountaintop,
the longing for a higher mountain yet,
and in every city,
the longing for an even greater city,
and that is still so,
It reached for cherries in topmost branches of trees
with an elation it still has today,
has a shyness in front of strangers,
and has that even now.
It awaited the first snow,
And waits that way even now.

When the child was a child,
It threw a stick like a lance against a tree,
And it quivers there still today.

WINGED DESIRES

2009-11-12T15:05:00.000-08:00

Cuando el niño era niño
era el momento de hacer esas preguntas:
¿Por qué yo soy yo y no tú?
¿Por qué estoy aquí y no allí?
¿Cuándo comenzó el tiempo,
y dónde acaba el espacio?
¿No es la vida bajo el Sol sólo un sueño?
¿No es lo que veo, oigo y huelo sólo una ilusión
de un mundo anterior al mundo?
¿Existe realmente el mal,
y existe realmente gente mala?
¿Cómo puede ser que yo, que soy yo,
no existiera antes de llegar a ser
y que algún día ese que soy yo no será ya quien yo soy?"

Sinfonía épica ochentera,
Una poesía pre y postapocalíptica sobre esa primera y única experiencia psicotrópica que es la infancia y el estreno de los sentidos.

Carta de Amor a Becky Thatcher

2007-09-05T07:31:00.001-07:00

(>Escrita de regreso al campus universitario para recoger mi título de licenciado. Confiado en haberlo todo olvidado cual fue mi sorpresa cuando me la volví a encontrar dos años despues en el mismo lugar donde la había dejado)

Hoy he vuelto a ver a Becky Thatcher. En el lugar exacto donde pensé que había perdido su rastro.
Dos años de sol despues su piel mostraba el dulce bronceado de una sombra en la arena.
Su pelo, antes obsidiano, resplandecía ahora con destellos claros y confusos del color de quien se ha cansado de decir su nombre y la treintena de pequitas espolvoreadas por sus mejillas se habían tornado cobrizas y duras como una epidemia de promesas rotas.

Me enamore de Becky para seguir yendo a clase.
Ella era el bello final de aquellos días. La puerta falsa para entrar en mi vida.

Pero cada día que pasaba me negaba un poco más a dirigirle la palabra.
Con cada cambio de clase. Con cada vuelta a casa.

Nos clavabamos la miradas.

Fue mi primer dibujo en un libro ilustrado , Tom sawyer tampoco la amaba.

Pero si me arriesgaba, si no me contestaba cuando le hablara, si no me besaba cuando la besara ... con qué latido me despertaría cada mañana, de dónde sacaría otro destino para seguir aquel que nunca pensé que fuera mi camino

...nunca llegaría a clase.

No hablarla, no besarla era la única forma de no perderla

Cuando ella entraba yo salía. Sus ojos eran tic-tacs blancos y negros y refulgían con la luz que inundaba el aula a mitad de mañana.
Cuando yo salía y ella entraba.

Nunca le dije lo que sentía, nunca le enseñe su dibujo, oscuros en mi carpeta su cintura sureña, el verano de las travesuras, Becky sentada mirando al gran río..
Pero aun así cada mañana me agarraba a mi mochila y alargaba mi cuello para ver si me veía.

El último día de curso, cuando por fín la olvidaría , coincidimos , ella sentada en mi parada, como hace dos días
yo ya tenía mis notas en el bolsillo y una estúpida cara de querer vivir la vida.

Mis zapatos me oprimían y mis piernas tontas se declararon en rebeldía. Jamás fui capaz de sentarme a su lado ni de coger ese autobus que tantas veces me había llevado.
Ella me miró por última vez. Hace ya tantos años.

Y yo miré a Becky Thatcher desde los bancales del Mississippi y ella me reprochó que yo le hubiera mentido. Le dije que había sido mi primera amor.
Ella levantó su naricita y me negó todos los besos del río.