Agnetha

Lo de las dos criaturas de la serie The trip es algo inaudito. Cuando la descubrí, hace ya años, me quedé mudo. The Vaccines se quedan un pelín cortos respecto adonde la hubiera llevado yo con esa propuesta: un poco más de desangramiento, de sopor narcótico por el dolor; pero vale, va bien. Y lo de los ocelotes, pues bueno, qué vamos a decir, que uno se siente cada vez mayor.
Respecto a lo del acrónimo y la gestación del tema, aquí pueden leer, amén de lo que cuenta Steve en esa envidiable barra. Dejo a la pareja que abre, cerrando, en pleno confinamiento.


I don't want to talk
About the things we've gone through
Though it's hurting me
Now it's history
I've played all my cards
And that's what you've done too
Nothing more to say
No more ace to play
The winner takes it all
The loser standing small
Beside the victory
That's her destiny
I was in your arms
Thinking I belonged there
I figured it made sense
Building me a fence
Building me a home
Thinking I'd be strong there
But I was a fool
Playing by the rules
The gods may throw a dice
Their minds as cold as ice
And someone way down here
Loses someone dear
The winner takes it all
The loser has to fall
It's simple and it's plain
Why should I complain

But tell me does she kiss
Like I used to kiss you?
Does it feel the same
When she calls your name?
Somewhere deep inside
You must know I miss you
But what can I say
Rules must be obeyed
The judges will decide
The likes of me abide
Spectators of the show
Always staying low
The game is on again
A lover or a friend
A big thing or a small
The winner takes it all
I don't want to talk
If it makes you feel sad
And I understand
You've come to shake my hand
I apologize
If it makes you feel bad
Seeing me so tense
No self-confidence
But you see
The winner takes it all
The winner takes it all
So the winner takes it all
And the the loser has to fall
Throw a dice, cold as ice
Way down here, someone dear
Takes it all, has to fall
It seems plain to me




las circunvecinas cavidades del ocio


CAMPO DE SOLEDAD

La soledad que a veces, todavía,
te seduce a deshora, te somete
a un trato vejatorio, ¿no es la misma
que antaño te solía visitar
sin previo aviso, a horas intempestivas
o anunciándose de repente
con suavísimo trato de ramera?

La soledad de ahora se acrecienta
en su propia renuncia selectiva,
expande sus tentáculos
por las circunvecinas cavidades del ocio.

Pero ya tú no eres el mismo que solías
contribuir de grado a su caducidad,
ya eres otro inquilino
de esa dudosa deshabitación
que aún te otorga un consecuente
atisbo justiciero, una vaga
decencia inculpatoria, el desdén por lo obvio,
un repudio pugnaz por todo lo sectario
y esa humilde, obstinada convicción
de que todos aquellos que abominan
de los transgresores
padecerán un día ese otro suplicio
que otorga a los gregarios su propia soledad.

Caballero Bonald J. M.


pugnaz

Del lat. pugnax, -ācis.

1. adj. Belicosoguerrero.

Carolyn y Konstantin

Se me ha terminado y me he quedado huérfano de divertimento superlativo. Qué barbaridad tan fina.
Aquí está Fiona. A la pregunta de qué papel le gustaría interpretar en la serie amén del suyo, su respuesta es la misma que la que yo imagino de ella. Las inteligencias es lo que tienen, y las de él y ellas son las más golosas. Lo de Kim está fuera de ordenación. Como la banda sonora que acompaña a toda esta banda de animales.





end of game




inevitably last or first

Fable

We had, each of us, a set of wishes.
The number changed. And what we wished—
that changed also. Because
we had, all of us, such different dreams.

The wishes were all different, the hopes all different.
And the disasters and catastrophes, always different.

In great waves they left the earth,
even the one that is always wasted.

Waves of despair, waves of hopeless longing and heartache.
Waves of the mysterious wild hungers of youth, the dreams of childhood.
Detailed, urgent; once in a while, selfless.

All different, except of course
the wish to go back. Inevitably
last or first, repeated
over and over—

So the echo lingered. And the wish
held us and tormented us
though we knew in our own bodies
it was never granted.

We knew, and on dark nights, we acknowledge this.
How sweet the night became then,
once the wish released us,
how utterly silent.

Louise Glück

los entresijos de la poética de la polaca

De JAROSLAW ANDERS, en Los Angeles Times, en mayo de 1998:

Hunger of Memory

JAROSLAW ANDERS IS A WRITER AND TRANSLATOR BORN IN POLAND. HE LIVES AND WORKS IN WASHINGTON, D.C

Wislawa Szymborska, who received the Nobel Prize for literature in 1996, must be one of the most reticent or most self-discerning poets of today. Of the literary career spanning more than half a century, she is willing to acknowledge only some 200 of her poems collected in eight slender volumes. This sparse body of work, however, displays unusual diversity and polychromy. Szymborska can be simultaneously highly sophisticated, pursuing involved philosophical questions in what she herself calls “essay poems,” yet also be accessible to the extent that some of her poems have been used as lyrics of popular songs. She struggles for the utmost precision of expression, yet engages in complicated linguistic games employing rich polyphonies of her native tongue, unexpected rhymes, puns, mixtures of “high” and “low” poetic styles. Most important, she is a poet of modern experience, who often hides behind a mask of an “innocent” still capable of asking “naive” questions about the origins and nature of evil. One should be grateful to Szymborska’s long-standing translators, Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh, for giving us most of her compact, intriguing verse in a superb English translation.
Born in 1923, Szymborska belongs to the generation of Polish writers who, in young adulthood, witnessed some of the worst atrocities of the century, which left a lasting impression on their terse, restrained language and their dark, disenchanted world view. It is not surprising, therefore, that a subtle, intelligent, often ironic meditation on mortality seems to be the main unifying theme of her poetry. Her most recent poems include a number of moving valedictions addressed to deceased friends. Yet the theme of perpetual, universal fading and departing--not only of people, nations, living organisms but also memories, images, shadows and reflections--was present in her poetry from the very beginning. The very first poem in this volume, “I’m Working on the World,” written when the poet was in her 30s, contains a moving invocation to an ideal death:
When it comes you’ll be dreaming
that you don’t need to breathe;
that breathless silence is
the music of the dark
and it’s part of the rhythm
to vanish like a spark.
One of the recurrent motifs in Szymborska’s poetry is a kind of existential contest between living, that is mortal, beings and inanimate matter, which often serves as a reminder of life’s impermanence and imperfection. In “Museum,” life is presented as a race--decided, as we are made to believe, long before it had started--between the human body and objects, in which “The crown has outlasted the head. / The hand has lost out to the glove. / The right shoe has defeated the foot.” Free of the inner division into mind and matter, almost impervious to time and unable to experience pain, objects evoke the admiration and envy of perplexed human beings. In “Conversation With a Stone,” the poet knocks “at the stone’s front door” demanding to be allowed to partake, at least for a moment, in its tranquil, if inhuman, reality. “You shall not enter. . . . You lack the sense of taking part,” answers the stone contemptuously. “I don’t have a door.”
If inanimate objects represent the ultimate economy of existence, living organisms epitomize its magnificent but also extravagant and wasteful generosity. In “Returning Birds,” birds have returned too early from their winter migration (“Rejoice, O reason: instinct can err, too”) and now are dying of cold:
. . . a death
that doesn’t suit their well-wrought throats and splendid claws,
their honest cartilage and conscientious webbing,
the heart’s sensible sluice, the entrails’ maze,
the nave of ribs, the vertebrae in stunning enfilades,
feathers deserving their own wing in any crafts museum,
the Benedictine patience of the beak.
The last word in the poem belongs, again, to a stone that comments “in its own archaic, simpleminded way” on life as “a chain of failed attempts.”
It is possible to read such a passage as a general meditation on life’s frailty that seems to mock and contradict its amazing complexity and beauty. Those familiar with the poet’s native realm, however, will guess that it is the memory of war and the Holocaust that engenders her imagery and gives it an unmistakably moral resonance. There are moments when, despite the author’s taciturn style, the experience of her wartime generation speaks through her poems directly and with shattering force. “Write it down. Write it. With ordinary ink / on ordinary paper: they weren’t given food, / they all died of hunger.” Thus begins a poem, “Starvation Camp Near Jaslo.” The Nazi death camp in Jaslo, in southern Poland, was one of those places where inmates were crowded in an empty, fenced space and left to die a slow death without food and water. This is not an easy subject for a poem, but Szymborska handles it masterfully by reversing the pastoral image of nurturing nature:
Sunny. Green. A forest close at hand,
with wood to chew on, drops beneath the bark to drink--
a view served round the clock,
until you go blind. Above, a bird
whose shadow flicked its nourishing wings
across their lips. Jaws dropped,
teeth clattered.
This is less a “moral indictment” than an expression of existential horror that an event like this could somehow become a part of the human universe. The horror is deepened by the anonymity of death--the erasure of memory that inevitably follows an act of genocide. In the same poem, Szymborska writes:
History rounds off skeletons to zero.
A thousand and one is still only a thousand.
That one seems never to have existed:
a fictitious fetus, an empty cradle,
a primer opened for no one,
air that laughs, cries, and grows,
stairs for a void bounding out to the garden,
no one’s spot in the ranks.
One of Szymborska’s poems, as well as a book published in 1976, is entitled “A Large Number,” and the notion of statistical abstraction often figures in her poems as a kind of death’s double, a shadow that enters the stage after the massacre to wipe out the stains and to prepare the ground for new atrocities. It is, therefore, a moral duty to remember everything that is singular--to save and preserve the concrete, particular facts, moments, sensations. And yet, this labor of memory is also increasingly difficult and frustrating. The past and the present have become too crowded and chaotic. When, in the poem “Census,” no less than seven cities are uncovered at the site of mythical Troy, “Hexameters burst” while multitudes unrecorded in verse clamor in vain for our attention:
We three billion judges
have problems of our own,
our own inarticulate rabble,
railroad stations, bleachers, protests and processions,
vast numbers of remote streets, floors, and walls.
We pass each other once for all time in department stores
shopping for a new pitcher.
Homer is working in the census bureau.
No one knows what he does in his spare time.
Cities without their own epic, the author suggests, can easily share the fate of Atlantis: “Hypothetical. Dubious. / Uncommemorated. / Never extracted from air, / fire, water, or earth.” (“Atlantis”), or even that of Hiroshima from the poem “Written in a Hotel,” which, unlike the celebrated Kyoto, was considered undistinguished, one of countless “inferior cities” of the world.
Many of Szymborska’s poems are laments on the insufficiency of human perception that leaves so much of the world unnoticed, undescribed, “beyond the reach / of our presence.” In “A Large Number,” she speaks of this anguish directly:
My choices are rejections, since there is no other way,
but what I reject is more numerous,
denser, more demanding than before.
A little poem, a sigh, at the cost of indescribable losses.
The thought that the human mind may be the only mirror in which the universe can see its own reflection, perhaps its only recourse to nonbeing, is in Szymborska’s poetry a source of constant guilt, which sometimes reaches semi-religious intensity:
My apologies to everything that I can’t be everywhere at once.
My apologies to everyone that I can’t be each woman and each man.
I know I won’t be justified as long as I live,
since I myself stand in my own way.
-- “UNDER ONE SMALL STAR”
The darkness of Szymborska’s vision is undeniable. In her universe, man is alone, unaided by any transcendental guidance, his perceptive faculties and moral instincts evidently not up to the task with which they have been burdened. Unable to hold in his mind the plurality and diversity of things, he seems doomed to reduce them first to abstractions and then to ashes. Still, it would be hard to classify this vision as entirely pessimistic. The poet’s reluctance to become yet another prophet of doom is dramatized in “Soliloquy for Cassandra,” in which the eponymous doomsayer ponders the futility of her prophetic powers. She loved the people of Troy, but loved them “From heights beyond life. / From the future. Where it’s always empty / and nothing is easier than seeing death.” Those who did not want to hear the prophecy are dead,
But in them they bore a moist hope,
a flame fuelled by its own flickering.
They really knew what a moment means,
oh any moment, any one at all
before--
It turns out I was right.
Though some critics see it as her weakness, Szymborska seems to be determined not to discount the “moist hope” completely. In “Reality Demands,” she takes us on a tour of the famous slaughter grounds of history--from Actium and Chaeronea, through Kosovo Polje and Borodino, to Verdun and Hiroshima--to show that they in fact became places like any other--with gas stations, ice cream parlors, holiday resorts and useful factories. “So much is always going on, / that it must be going on all over,” she says. “Perhaps all fields are battlefields, / those we remember / and those that are forgotten.” Should we be horrified or relieved by that realization? “What moral flows from this?” asks the poet. “Probably none. / Only the blood flows, drying quickly, / and, as always, a few rivers, a few clouds.” Thus life remains a contradiction and a puzzle. The universe does not want to yield a direct answer about its “moral,” or purpose, but it does not preclude a search for one, either:
I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility
that existence has its own reason for being.
-- “POSSIBILITIES”
This may not be much of a consolation--says the Polish poet’s quiet, intelligent voice--but it is the only one we can expect and perhaps the only one we need.

el índigo en mayo

Me había olvidado de esta dupla. Me gusta mucho la versión de Silvio. La original, de LEA, una de sus perlas magníficas.
Cierto que huí de los fastos y los oropeles
Y que jamás puse en venta ninguna quimera,
Siempre evité ser un súbdito de los laureles
Porque vivir era un vértigo y no una carrera.
Pero quiero que me digas, amor,
Que no todo fue naufragar
Por haber creído que amar
Era el verbo más bello
Dímelo
Me va la vida en ello.
Cierto que no prescindí de ningún laberinto
Que amenazara con un callejón sin salida
Ante otro "más de lo mismo" creí en lo distinto
Porque vivir era búsqueda y no una guarida.
Pero quiero que me digas, amor,
Que no todo fue naufragar
Por haber creído que amar
Era el verbo más bello
Dímelo
Me va la vida en ello.
Cierto que cuando aprendí que la vida iba en serio
Quise quemarla deprisa jugando con fuego
Y me abrasé defendiendo mi propio criterio
Porque vivir era más que unas reglas en juego.

Pero quiero que me digas, amor,
Que no todo fue naufragar
Por haber creído que amar
Era el verbo más bello
Dímelo
Me va la vida en ello.





Carino

Quien quiera tirar del hilo de esta fascinante historia, aquí tiene al hijo de uno de ellos.
Alucinante.

me ha contado todos sus pesares


Stupid now with shame and sorrow,
In the night I hear him sobbing.
But sometimes he talks a little.
He has told me all his troubles.
Si alguien quiere el poema completo, aquí lo tiene. Traducido no lo encontré. Y cuerpo, y creo que tampoco cabeza, no tengo para hacerlo yo. Octosílabos, por cierto.



la existencialista sensación de cautividad



 

A mí me deja atónito la obra de Malevich y, desde luego, prefiero otras piezas antes que el círculo negro sobre fondo blanco. Pero se entiende lo de Rafael. 
Hablaba hace poco aquí, casualmente, de NataliaLa cola de burro. Todo muy cerradito, muy bien.
Este hombre encarcelado y su sensación, por ejemplo, me abruma. Y en el enlace original que dejo, donde se puede ver en un detalle enorme, es apabullante.
No sé, vuelvo a decir que vivimos en un nivel de ignorancia tan superlativo y tan dirigido a donde interesa, que no es precisamente esto que aborda, o trata, mi entrada, que cada vez que se presenta me quedo chafado: tanta ignorancia vestida de oropel vacuo.