Llenemos este hilo de buena poesía


  • 40

    Madrigal exaltado

    A Mademoiselle Villagrán

    ¡Dies irae, dies illa!
    ¡Solvet seclum in favilla
    cuando quema esa pupila!

    La tierra se vuelve loca,
    el cielo a la tierra invoca
    cuando sonríe esa boca.

    Tiemblan los lirios tempranos
    y los árboles lozanos
    al contacto de esas manos.

    El bosque se encuentra estrecho
    al egipán en acecho
    cuando respira ese pecho.

    Sobre los senderos, es
    como una fiesta, después
    que se han sentido esos pies.

    Y el Sol, sultán de orgullosas
    rosas, dice a sus hermosas
    cuando en primavera están:
    ¡Rosas, rosas, dadme rosas
    para Adela Villagrán!



  • 41

    Roll the Dice - Charles Bukowsky – 02:02
    — Alvaro Garcia

    if you’re going to try, go all the
    way.
    otherwise, don’t even start.

    if you’re going to try, go all the
    way. this could mean losing girlfriends,
    wives, relatives, jobs and
    maybe your mind.

    go all the way.
    it could mean not eating for 3 or
    4 days.
    it could mean freezing on a
    park bench.
    it could mean jail,
    it could mean derision,
    mockery,
    isolation.
    isolation is the gift,
    all the others are a test of your
    endurance, of
    how much you really want to
    do it.
    and you’ll do it
    despite rejection and the
    worst odds
    and it will be better than
    anything else
    you can imagine.

    if you’re going to try,
    go all the way.
    there is no other feeling like
    that.
    you will be alone with the
    gods
    and the nights will flame with
    fire.

    do it, do it, do it.
    do it.

    all the way
    all the way.
    you will ride life straight to
    perfect laughter,
    it’s the only good fight
    there is.



  • 42

    LAS TRES HIJAS DEL CAPITÁN

    Era muy viejo el capitán y viudo
    y tres hijas guapísimas tenía;
    tres silbatos, a modo de saludo,
    les mandaba el vapor cuando salía.

    Desde el balcón que sobre el muelle daba
    trazaban sus pañuelos mil adioses,
    y el viejo capitán disimulaba
    su emoción entre gritos y entre toses.

    El capitán murió... Tierra extranjera
    cayó sobre su carne aventurera,
    festín de las voraces sabandijas...

    Y yo sentí un amargo desconsuelo
    al pensar que ya nunca las tres hijas
    nos dirían adiós con el pañuelo...

    alt text
    José del Río y Sainz, «Pick»
    Santander, 19 de marzo de 1884 - Madrid, 24 de enero de 1964



  • 43

    UN ÁTOMO EN EL UNIVERSO

    (Estoy solo, a la orilla del mar y empiezo a pensar)

    He ahí las olas presurosas,
    montañas de moléculas cada una,
    estúpidamente ocupada[s] en lo suyo,
    separadas por trillones y, empero,
    formando al unísono la blanca espuma.

    Edades sobre edades,
    antes que ojo alguno pudiera ver;
    año tras año,
    golpeando atronadoras en la playa, como ahora.
    ¿Para quién? ¿Para qué?
    En un planeta muerto
    sin vida que entretener.

    Jamás en reposo,
    torturadas por la energía
    prodigiosamente derrochada por el Sol,
    a raudales vertida en el espacio.
    Una pizca hace rugir al mar.

    En lo profundo del mar,
    unas de otras
    repiten las moléculas, las pautas todas,
    hasta formar otras nuevas y más complejas.
    Crean otras a ellas semejantes
    y da comienzo así una nueva danza.

    Y al cre[c]er, en tamaño y complejidad,
    seres vivos,
    masas de átomos,
    ADN, proteínas
    que trazan una danza aún más intrincada.

    Salimos de la cuna,
    pisando tierra firme,
    helos aquí plantados y erectos:
    El valor de la ciencia,
    átomos provistos de consciencia;
    materia dotada de curiosidad.

    Plantado frente al mar,
    se pregunta por qué se pregunta:
    Yo, un universo de átomos,
    un átomo en el universo.

    alt text
    Richard Feynman
    Manhattan, 11 de mayo de 1918 - Los Ángeles, 15 de febrero de 1988



  • 44

    LAS ABARCAS VACÍAS

    Por el cinco de enero,
    cada enero ponía
    mi calzado cabrero
    a la ventana fría.

    Y encontraban los días,
    que derriban las puertas,
    mis abarcas vacías,
    mis abarcas desiertas.

    Nunca tuve zapatos,
    ni trajes, ni palabras:
    siempre tuve regatos,
    siempre penas y cabras.

    Me vistió la pobreza,
    me lamió el cuerpo el río,
    y del pie a la cabeza
    pasto fui del rocío.

    Por el cinco de enero,
    para el seis, yo quería
    que fuera el mundo entero
    una juguetería.

    Y al andar la alborada
    removiendo las huertas,
    mis abarcas sin nada,
    mis abarcas desiertas.

    Ningún rey coronado
    tuvo pie, tuvo gana
    para ver el calzado
    de mi pobre ventana.

    Toda gente de trono,
    toda gente de botas
    se rió con encono
    de mis abarcas rotas.

    Rabié de llanto, hasta
    cubrir de sal mi piel,
    por un mundo de pasta
    y unos hombres de miel.

    Por el cinco de enero,
    de la majada mía
    mi calzado cabrero
    a la escarcha salía.

    Y hacia el seis, mis miradas
    hallaban en sus puertas
    mis abarcas heladas,
    mis abarcas desiertas.

    alt text
    Miguel Hernández Gilabert
    Orihuela, 30 de octubre de 1910 - Alicante, 28 de marzo de 1942



  • 45

    Debajo de mi ventana tengo un puñal escondido
    para matar a tus padres y casarme contigo



  • 46

    Darkness
    BY LORD BYRON (GEORGE GORDON)

    I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
    The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
    Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
    Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
    Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
    Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,
    And men forgot their passions in the dread
    Of this their desolation; and all hearts
    Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:

    And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones,
    The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,
    The habitations of all things which dwell,
    Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,
    And men were gather'd round their blazing homes
    To look once more into each other's face;
    Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
    Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:

    A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
    Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour
    They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks
    Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black.
    The brows of men by the despairing light
    Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
    The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
    And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
    Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;

    And others hurried to and fro, and fed
    Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up
    With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
    The pall of a past world; and then again
    With curses cast them down upon the dust,
    And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd
    And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
    And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
    Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
    And twin'd themselves among the multitude,

    Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food.
    And War, which for a moment was no more,
    Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
    With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
    Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
    All earth was but one thought—and that was death
    Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
    Of famine fed upon all entrails—men
    Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
    The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,
    Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
    And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
    The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,

    Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
    Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
    But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
    And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
    Which answer'd not with a caress—he died.
    The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
    Of an enormous city did survive,
    And they were enemies: they met beside
    The dying embers of an altar-place
    Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
    For an unholy usage; they rak'd up,
    And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands
    The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
    Blew for a little life, and made a flame
    Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
    Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
    Each other's aspects—saw, and shriek'd, and died—
    Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
    Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
    Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
    The populous and the powerful was a lump,
    Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—
    A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay.

    The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
    And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;
    Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
    And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd
    They slept on the abyss without a surge—
    The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
    The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;
    The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
    And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
    Of aid from them—She was the Universe.





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