jueves, 29 de diciembre de 2011

ode to hands

I broke off the bough of love
i buried it in the earth
and look
my garden has blossomed

one cannot kill love
if you bury it in the earth
it grows back
if you toss it into the air
it grows leaf-like wings
dropped into the water

it flashes with gills
immersed in the night
it shines

so I wanted to bury it in my heart
but my heart was home to my love
my heart opened its heart's door
and it rang out with song from wall to wall
my heart danced on my fingertips

so I buried my love in my head
and people asked
why my head has blossomed
why my eyes shine star-like
and why my lips are brighter than the dawn

I wanted to tear this love to pieces
but it was supple it entangled my hands
and my hands are bound with love
people ask whose prisoner I am

Halina Poswiatowska

domingo, 25 de diciembre de 2011

jueves, 22 de diciembre de 2011

i think of you

I think of you
and I feel the scent of my mother
my mother,the most beautiful of all.

You are on the carousel of the festival inside me
you hover around,your skirt and your hair flying
Mere seconds between finding your beautiful face and losing it.

What is the reason,
why do I remember you like a wound on my heart
what is the reason that I hear your voice when you are so far
and I can't help getting up with excitement?

I kneel down and look at your hands
I want to touch your hands
but I can't
you are behind a glass.
Sweetheart,I am a bewildered spectator of the drama
that I am playing in my twilight.

Nazim Hikmet

viernes, 16 de diciembre de 2011


Erau nopţi când mi se părea că ochii tăi,cărora le desenasem mari cearcăne portocalii,îşi aprind din nou cenuşa.În acele nopţi ploaia cădea mai rar.Deschideam geamurile şi mă urcam,gol,pe pervazul ferestrei ca să privesc lumea.Copacii pădurii veneau înspre mine,câte unul,supuşi,o armată învinsă venea să-şi depună armele. Rămâneam nemişcat şi cerul îşi cobora steagul sub care îşi trimisese oştile în luptă.Dintr-un ungher mă priveai şi tu cum stăteam acolo,nespus de frumos în nuditatea mea însângerată:eram singura constelaţie pe care nu o stinsese ploaia, eram Marea Cruce a Sudului.Da,în acele nopţi era greu să-ţi deschizi vinele,când flăcările mă cuprindeau,cetatea urnelor era a mea,o umpleam cu sângele meu,după ce concediam oştirea duşmană,răsplătind-o cu oraşe şi porturi,iar pantera de argint sfâşia zorile care mă pândeau.Eram Petronius şi din nou îmi vărsam sângele între trandafiri.Pentru fiecare petală pătată stingeai câte o torţă.
Ţii minte?Eram Petronius şi nu te iubeam.

Paul Celan

martes, 13 de diciembre de 2011

jueves, 8 de diciembre de 2011


She writes:“I shall be in Paris in mid-August,just a few days.Do not ask me why or what for,but be there for me one evening or two,three…Take me to the Seine,let us gaze into it until we become little fishes and recognize each other again.”

He writes:“How far away from me or how close are you,Ingeborg? Tell me,so that I know whether your eyes will be closed if I kiss you now.”

He writes nothing,she writes nothing,she writes nothing,he writes nothing,years pass between letters.We cannot know what went on between them.

He writes:“It was our first rendez-vous in Paris,my heart was beating so loudly,and you did not come.”

She writes:“I love you and I do not want to love you,it is too much and too difficult…”

He writes:“Let us no longer puzzle over what is irretrievable,Ingeborg.”

Paul Celan/Ingeborg Bachmann

martes, 6 de diciembre de 2011

la belle saison

À jeun perdue glacée
Toute seule sans un sou
Une fille de seize ans
Immobile debout
Place de la Concorde
À midi le Quinze Août

En ayunas perdida helada
Completamente sola sin un centavo
Una muchacha de dieciséis años
Inmóvil de pie
Plaza de la Concordia
A mediodía el 15 de agosto.


domingo, 4 de diciembre de 2011

father's old blue cardigan

Now it hangs on the back of the kitchen chair
where I always sit,as it did
on the back of the kitchen chari where he always sat.

I put it on whenever I come in,
as he did,stamping
the snow from his boots.

I put it on and sit in the dark.
He would not have done this.
Coldness comes paring down from the moonbone in the sky.

His laws were a secret.
But I remember the moment at which I knew
he was going mad inside his laws.

He was standing at the turn of the driveway when I arrived.
He had on the blue cardigan with the buttons done up all the way to the top.
Not only because it was a hot July afternoon

but the look on his face -
as a small child who has been dressed by some aunt early in the morning
for a long trip

on cold trains and windy platforms
will sit very straight at the edge of his seat
while the shadows like long fingers

over the haystacks that sweep past
keep shocking him
because he is riding backwards.

Anne Carson