4.10.18

Sin buscar comparaciones


    


[Laura guarda il mare come lo sanno guardare solo certi figli del
del Nord-Est. Ma Venezia non è mare, è solo un ideale che non puoi abbracciare mai, e poi mai. Sposta i capelli sulla spalla destra e scopre quel disegno fatto di nascosto a suo padre, ma adesso anche il parroco ha un tatuaggio con su scritto "l'anima mia è di Dio”. Il tempo non si ferma, non si è mai fermato e quello che è passato chissà dove è andato. Forse in quel cassetto dove nascondevo la carta stagnola o nel Bar da Mauro.


Maledetto il giorno in cui mi son fidato di questo paese lurido, sperduto, imbarazzato, freddo, grigio, solitario, disastrato, dove ho creduto di esserti vicino, ma vicini eran solo i guai ed i tuoi.  L'ambulanza grida e porta via mio padre, il sangue ormai è seccato. Almeno te l'ho presentato, poi sono scappato. Firenze, Rimini, Ferrara, la piana e l'autostrada. 



Ma il sole risorge ogni giorno, e ogni giorno i ragazzi al parco si fanno. Giù da questo scoglio, giù nel mare in verticale giù e poi nuotare, non c'è altro da fare, senza bestemmiare, zitto e non fiatare, tanto l’anima non conta. Tu libera e felice vai, mi ritrovi dove sai.



Ora cercherò un amico, un lavoro. Poi non lo so, una casa, il decoro. E poi ho visto solo mare, mare, mare tanto mare solo acqua, tanta, nei polmoni che fa male e non riesci a respirare, che ti chiedi i pesci come fanno, ma non lo diranno mai, lo sai.

Amici a non finire, sembra di impazzire. Ti dicono bravo, bravo, sei speciale, ma quanto sei bravo, sei un portento, sei geniale. Ma finché non te lo dice lui, o non te lo dice lei non conta. Andiamo in centro. Andiamo in centro, andiamo a vedere i passeggini rotolare, gente comperare quello che non può avere
oppure più semplicemente resteremo qua.



Ma il sole risorge ogni giorno, e ogni giorno che passa diventa un ricordo. Giù da questo scoglio, giù nel mare in verticale, giù e poi nuotare. Non c'è altro da fare, senza bestemmiare, zitto e non fiatare, tanto l’anima non conta. Tu libera e felice vai, mi ritrovi dove sai.]


[Laura mira al mar cómo sólo saben mirarlo ciertos hijos del Noroeste. Pero Venecia no es mar, sino un ideal que no puedes abrazar jamás. Nunca más. Se lleva el pelo al hombro derecho y enseña ese dibujo que se ha hecho sin que su padre lo sepa. Pero ahora hasta el cura lleva un tatuaje que dice “Mi alma es de Dios”. El tiempo no se detiene, nunca se ha detenido, y todo lo que ha pasado quién sabe dónde ha ido. Quizá en el cajón donde escondía las papelas o en el bar de Mauro.

Maldito el día en el que confié en este país pútrido, aislado, avergonzado, frío, gris, solitario, desastrado, donde creí estar cerca de ti, cuando lo que estaba cerca eran los problemas y tus padres. La ambulancia grita y se lleva a mi padre. La sangre ya está seca, pero al menos llegué a presentártelo. Luego huí: Florencia, Rímini, Ferrara, la llanura y la utopista.

Pero el sol se pone cada día, y cada día los chicos se colocan en el parque. Me lanzo de esta roca, me lanzo al mar en vertical, me lanzo y nado. No se puede hacer más sin blasfemar, calla y no jadees, de todas formas el alma ya no cuenta. Vete libre y feliz, me encontrarás donde tú sabes.

Ahora buscaré un amigo, un trabajo. Luego no sé, una casa, el decoro. Luego sólo he visto mar, mar, mar, tanto mar, sólo agua, tanta que duele en los pulmones y no consigues respirar. Y te preguntas cómo hacen los peces, pero sabes que no te lo dirán.

Amigos a montones, tantos que creo enloquecer. Te dicen “molas, molas, eres especial, cómo molas, eres un crac, eres genial”. Pero hasta que no te lo diga él o no te lo diga ella no cuenta. Vamos al centro, vamos al centro. Vamos a mirar cómo corren los carritos de bebé, gente que compra lo que no puede tener. También podemos quedarnos aquí.

Pero el sol se pone cada día, y cada día que pasa se vuelve un recuerdo. Me lanzo de esta roca, me lanzo al mar en vertical, me lanzo y nado. No se puede hacer más sin blasfemar, calla y no jadees, de todas formas el alma no cuenta. Vete libre y feliz, me encontrarás donde tú sabes.]  

*L'anima non conta. The Zen Circus, 2016 [trad. ugdm]

Debería santiguarme



[Istället för att gå till skolan
gick den underliga flickan ner till vattnet
för att lära sig andas med gälar.]

[En lugar de ir a la escuela
la extraña chiquilla se fue al lago
para aprender la respiración branquial.]

 


*Les apprentis sorciers, Edgardo Cozarinsky, 1977.
*Den underliga flickan [trad. Francisco Uriz], Werner Aspenström, 1980.  

3.1.17

Si os parece, me detendré en el tiempo


[What astounds cannot be
the remnant of what
has been.
Tomorrow still blind
advances slowly.
Sight and light
race towards each other,
and from their embrace
is born the day,
eyes open
tall as a foal.
Murmuring river
clasps the mist
for a moment more.
The peaks are signing on
the sky.
Stop and hear
the milking machines
designed to suck like calves.
In the first heat
the forested hills calculate
their steepness.
The lorry driver is taking the road
to the pass which leads
surprisingly
with its own familiarity
to another homeland.
Soon the grass will be
warmer
than the cows’ horns.
The astounding comes
towards us
outrider of death and birth.]


[Lo que nos asombra
no puede ser el vestigio
de lo que ha sido.
El mañana aún ciego
avanza lentamente.
La luz y la visión
corren a encontrarse
y de su abrazo
nace el día,
con los ojos abiertos
alto como un potro.
El río rumoroso
abraza a la niebla
todavía un momento.
Las cumbres cantan
en el cielo.
Para y escucha
las ordeñadoras mecánicas
pensadas para mamar como potrillos.
Con las primeras luces
las colinas arboladas calculan
su pendiente.
El camionero toma la carretera
del puerto de montaña que le lleva
inesperadamente
por su propia familiaridad
hacia otra patria.
Pronto la hierba será
más cálida
que los cuernos de las vacas.
Lo asombroso llega
hasta nosotros,
escoltando a la muerte y a la vida.]

 *John Berger.
*And our faces, my heart, brief as photos [Trad. Pilar Vázquez Álvarez]. John Berger, 1984.

2.1.17

Tenía novia y no le gustaban las nubes






Levantar un trozo de carne
más grande
que nosotros mismos
más dulce que nuestras alas
y salir volando,

ovacionado por toda la mesa
que elogia esa virtud transparente
(la voluntad de insecto y de supervivencia…)

descubre
que
portamos
algo del otro
dentro
de nosotros
mismos,

y repercute
y quedará,
uniéndonos
sobre todo
como el aire
que transitamos y consumimos

o la razón que apartamos por si acaso
o la semilla que encontramos,
plantamos y recogimos
discutiendo:

esto sí esto no
por aquí se va,                   ¡atento
que aquí el mundo entero disfruta
–más desprendido que Hobbes–
pero se engolfa…

 
*L'eté. Marcel Hanoun, 1968.
*Observación para la funcionaria budista. Los nuestros. Juan Carlos Reche, 2016. 

31.12.16

La negación mi evangelio


La vereda serpentea entre las piedras
cubiertas con tapetes, centros de mesa -dramas
para el turista. Más abajo permanecen
las baldosas calientes, callejas jadeantes,
y este sombrío café en el que espera.
No escalará la cumbre; sin embargo en su vida
ha plantado su huella sobre tanto,
que no tiene importancia. Como recuerdo. Para el álbum.
Qué lección: acudir a esta cima
y no subir a ella. Los demás, mientras suben,
dsesprenden piedrecitas, hoyando el polvo caliente.
Qué calma, contemplar
la cima desde abajo. No esforzarse
en conquistarla.

*Un radiante silencio. Agustín Fernández Paz, 2006.
*Un sliencio radiante. Ocho poetas búlgaros contemporáneos, 2010.
* Un peldaño más. Rada Panchovska [Trad. Juan Antonio Bernier]

30.12.16

Rigor en el gorjeo



perra negra labrador bajo chaparrón sin techo
sedosa de pelo, se dobla de pena, se enconcha
sirena en sí misma en escucha de un canto
¿nuevo, Abierto?

la cosa directa, una especie en falta
de la cosa directa, negra
para acentuar lo directo –nostalgia
hacha contra la cosa directa
hacha que no cuaja
–hacha que no cuaja se disuelve contra el blanco

llueve sobre la azotea
pasa de mujer a diosa

emana, irradia compasión la perra
la cosa retrocede confundida
al tiempo del triunfo de las cosas

*John Cooper Clarke.
*En Solvencia, Eduardo Milán, 2009.

17.11.16

Ni perfecto ni recién llegado


Toda realidad es necesariamente una realidad cualquiera. En efecto, la determinación necesaria es al mismo tiempo una marca de lo fortuito. No es que sea necesaria por el hecho de ser esto y no aquello, ni por ser esto o aquello, sino por no poder escapar a la necesidad de ser algo, es decir, de ser una cosa cualquiera. Ahora bien, al estar cualquier realidad total y necesariamente determinada, también es total y necesariamente una realidad cualquiera.
Esta verdad vale para toda la realidad, salvo para una sola no obstante, a la que nos referiremos más adelante.    

*El complejo de dinero. Juan Rodrigáñez, 2015. Diseño: Andrés Navarro.  
*Lo real: tratado de la idiotez. Clement Rosset. (Trad: Rafael del Hierro Oliva.)

11.11.16

Hagamos otra lista



Your Majesty, Your Royal Highnesses, Excellencies, Members of the Jury, Distinguished Laureates, Ladies and Gentlemen:
It is a great honor to stand here before you tonight. Perhaps, like the great maestro, Riccardo Muti, I am not used to standing in front of an audience without an orchestra behind me, but I will do my best as a solo artist tonight.
I stayed up all night last night wondering what I might say to this august assembly. And after I had eaten all the chocolate bars and peanuts in the mini-bar, I scribbled a few words. I don’t think I have to refer to them. Obviously, I am deeply touched to be recognized by the Foundation. But I've come here tonight to express another dimension of gratitude. I think I can do it in three or four minutes -- and I will try.
When I was packing in Los Angeles to come here, I had a sense of unease because I’ve always felt some ambiguity about an award for poetry. Poetry comes from a place that no one commands and no one conquers. So I feel somewhat like a charlatan to accept an award for an activity which I do not command. In other words, if I knew where the good songs came from I'd go there more often.
I was compelled in the midst of that ordeal of packing to go and open my guitar. I have a Conde guitar, which was made in Spain in the great workshop at Number 7 Gravina Street; a beautiful instrument that I acquired over 40 years ago. I took it out of the case and I lifted it. It seemed to be filled with helium -- it was so light. And I brought it to my face. I put my face close to the beautifully designed rosette, and I inhaled the fragrance of the living wood. You know that wood never dies.
I inhaled the fragrance of cedar as fresh as the first day that I acquired the guitar. And a voice seemed to say to me, "You are an old man and you have not said thank you; you have not brought your gratitude back to the soil from which this fragrance arose." And so I come here tonight to thank the soil and the soul of this people that has given me so much -- because I know just as an identity card is not a man, a credit rating is not a country.
Now, you know of my deep association and confraternity with the poet Federico García Lorca. I could say that when I was a young man, an adolescent, and I hungered for a voice, I studied the English poets and I knew their work well, and I copied their styles, but I could not find a voice. It was only when -- when I read, even in translation, the works of Lorca that I understood that there was a voice. It is not that I copied his voice; I would not dare. But he gave me permission to find a voice, to locate a voice; that is, to locate a self, a self that that is not fixed, a self that struggles for its own existence.
And as I grew older I understood that instructions came with this voice. What were these instructions? The instructions were never to lament casually. And if one is to express the great inevitable defeat that awaits us all, it must be done within the strict confines of dignity and beauty.
And so I had a voice, but I did not have an instrument. I did not have a song.
And now I’m going to tell you very briefly a story of how I got my song.
Because -- I was an indifferent guitar player. I banged the chords. I only knew a few of them. I sat around with my college friends, drinking and singing the folk songs, or the popular songs of the day, but I never in a thousand years thought of myself as a musician or as a singer.
One day in the early '60s, I was visiting my mother’s house in Montreal. The house is beside a park and in the park there's a tennis court where many people come to watch the beautiful young tennis players enjoy their sport. I wandered back to this park which I’d known since my childhood, and there was a young man playing a guitar. He was playing a flamenco guitar, and he was surrounded by two or three girls and boys who were listening to him. I loved the way he played. There was something about the way he played that -- that captured me.
It was the way I wanted to play -- and knew that I would never be able to play.
And I sat there with the other listeners for a few moments and when there was a -- a silence, an appropriate silence, I asked him if he would give me guitar lessons. He was a young man from Spain, and we could only communicate in my broken French and his broken French. He didn’t speak English. And he agreed to give me guitar lessons. I pointed to my mother’s house which you could see from the tennis court, and we made an appointment; we settled the price.
And he came to my mother’s house the next day and he said, “Let me hear you play something.” I tried to play something. He said, “You don’t know how to play, do you?" I -- I said, “No, I really don’t know how to play.” He said, "First of all, let me tune your guitar. It’s -- It's all out of tune.” So he took the guitar, and -- and he tuned it. He said, "It’s not a bad guitar." It -- It wasn’t the Conde, but it wasn’t a bad guitar. So he handed it back to me. He said, “Now play.”
[I] couldn’t play any better.
He said "Let me show you some chords." And he took the guitar and he produced a sound from that guitar that I'd never heard. And he -- he played a sequence of chords with a tremolo, and he said, "Now you do it." I said, "It’s out of the question. I can’t possibly do it." He said, "Let me put your fingers on the frets." And he -- he put my fingers on the frets. And he said, "Now, now play." It -- It was a mess. He said, "I’ll come back tomorrow."
He came back tomorrow. He put my hands on the guitar. He -- He placed it on my lap in the way that was appropriate, and I began again with those six chords -- six chord progression that many, many flamenco songs are based on.
I was a little better that day.
The third day -- improved, somewhat improved. But I knew the chords now. And I knew that although I couldn’t coordinate my fingers with my thumb to produce the correct tremolo pattern, I knew the chords -- I knew them very, very well by this point.
The next day, he didn’t come. He didn’t come. I had the number of his -- of his boarding house in Montreal. I phoned to find out why he had missed the appointment, and they told me that he'd taken his life -- that he committed suicide. I knew nothing about the man. I -- I did not know what part of Spain he came from. I did not know why he came to Montreal. I did not know why he stayed there. I did not know why he he appeared there in that tennis court. I did not know why he took his life. I -- I was deeply saddened, of course.
But now I disclose something that I’ve never spoken in public. It was those six chords -- it was that guitar pattern that has been the basis of all my songs and all my music.
So now you will begin to understand the dimensions of the gratitude I have for this country.
Everything that you have found favorable in my work comes from this place.
Everything, everything that you have found favorable in my songs and my poetry are inspired by this soil.
So I thank you so much for the warm hospitality that you have shown my work because it is really yours, and you have allowed me to affix my signature to the bottom of the page.
Thank you so much, ladies and gentlemen.

*Discurso de aceptación del Premio Príncipe de Asturias, 2011.