El asfódelo, esa flor verdosa
Del asfódelo, esa flor verdosa,
como un botón de oro
sobre su tallo bifurcado
-salvo que es verde e inexpresiva-
vengo, querida mía,
a cantarte.
Vivimos mucho tiempo juntos
una vida llena,
si vos querés,
de flores. Así es
que me alegré
al enterarme
de que también había flores
en el infierno.
Hoy estoy colmando del recuerdo atenuado de aquellas flores
que ambos amábamos,
incluida esta pobre
cosa sin color,
-la vi por primera vez
cuando era chico-
de escaso valor entre los vivos,
aunque los muertos al verla
se preguntan:
¿qué es lo que recuerdo
que tenía una forma como esta?
mientras nuestros ojos
se cubren de lágrimas.
De amor, de amor constante
seguirá hablando,
aunque tan débil, la colorea
una pátina de púrpura
que la hace del todo creíble.
Hay algo
algo urgente
que tengo que decirte
solo a vos,
pero habrá que esperar
mientras bebo
en el goce de tu compañía,
quizá por última vez.
Y así,
con angustia en el corazón,
lo demoro
y sigo hablando
porque no me atrevo a detenerme.
Escuchame mientras hablo
contra el tiempo.
No tardará
mucho.
Yo lo había olvidado,
y no obstante veo claramente,
algo
central en el cielo
que se extiende por todas partes.
¡Un olor
brota de allí!
¡Un olor dulcísimo!
¡Madreselva! ¡Y ahora
llega el zumbido de una abeja!
¡Y todo un torrente
de memorias hermanas!
Solo dame tiempo,
tiempo para convocarlas
antes de hablar.
Dame tiempo,
tiempo.
Cuando era chico
tenía un libro
en el cual, de tanto
en tanto,
guardaba flores prensadas,
con el correr del tiempo
tuve una gran colección.
El asfódelo
entre ellas,
como un presagio.
Te traigo,
renacido,
un recuerdo de aquellas flores.
Eran dulces
al presionarlas
y conservaban
algo de su dulzura
durante mucho tiempo.
Es un curioso olor,
un olor moral,
el que me aproxima
a vos.
El color fue lo primero en irse.
Había llegado hasta mí
como un desafío,
tu querido ser,
mortal como yo,
¡la garganta del lirio
para el colibrí!
La abundancia infinita,
pensé,
me tendía los brazos.
Mil trópicos
en una floración del manzano.
La tierra generosa
brindándose a nosotros.
¡El mundo entero
vino a ser mi jardín!
Aunque el mar,
que nadie cultiva,
también es un jardín
cuando el sol lo golpea
y se despiertan
las olas.
Lo he visto
y vos también
cuando hace que todas las flores
se avergüencen.
Y está la estrella de mar
endurecida por el sol
y algas
y hierbas. Vos y yo sabíamos
de todo eso
porque los dos nacimos a la orilla del mar,
conocíamos esos cercos rojizos
al borde mismo del agua.
Allí crecen las malvas rosas
y, en su estación,
las frutillas y, más tarde,
íbamos a juntar
ciruelas silvestres.
No puedo decir
que viajé al infierno
por tu amor,
aunque a veces,
buscándote,
me encontraba allí.
No me gustaba
y quería estar
en el cielo. No dejes de escucharme.
No te alejes.
He aprendido mucho en mi vida,
de los libros
y fuera de los libros,
acerca del amor.
La muerte
no termina con él.
Hay una jerarquía
que puede ser recorrida,
creo,
en su servicio.
El premio
es una flor mágica;
un gato de veinte vidas.
Si nadie intenta alcanzarlo
el mundo
saldrá perdiendo.
Ha sido
para vos y para mi
como quien ve venir una tormenta
sobre el agua.
Permanecimos,
año tras año,
ante el espectáculo de nuestras vidas
tomados de la mano.
Ahora se despliega la tormenta.
El relámpago
corre por el borde las nubes.
El cielo es plácido
hacia el norte,
un resplandor azul
mientras la tormenta se acumula.
Una flor
que pronto alcanzará
su punto culminante.
Bailábamos
en nuestras mentes
y leíamos juntos un libro.
¿te acordás?
Era un libro importante.
Y así los libros
entraron en nuestras vidas
¡El mar! ¡El mar!
Siempre
que pienso en el mar
me viene a la mente
la Ilíada
y el desliz público de Helena
del cual surgió.
De no haber sido por eso
no hubiera habido poema sino mundo,
y al recordar
aquellos pétalos carmesí
caídos entre las piedras,
estaríamos hablando simplemente
de asesinato.
La orquídea sexual que entonces floreció
y que envió a tantos
hombres desinteresados
a la tumba,
ha legado su memoria
a una raza de locos
o de héroes;
si el silencio es virtud
el mar solitario
en su multiplicidad,
conserva alguna esperanza.
La tormenta
resultó malograda,
pero nosotros seguimos
tras los pensamientos que suscitó,
para volver a cimentar nuestras vidas.
Es la mente,
la mente
la que debe ser sanada
antes de la intervención
de la muerte,
y el deseo volverá a ser un jardín.
El poema
es complicado y es complicado el lugar
que hacemos en nuestras vidas
para el poema.
El silencio también puede ser complicado,
pero no se llega muy lejos
con el silencio.
Vuelve a empezar.
Es como el catálogo
de naves de Homero:
sirve para llenar el tiempo.
Lo digo con figuras,
aceptablemente; tus vestidos
son también figuras,
no podríamos entendernos
de otra manera. Cuando hablo
de flores
es para recordar
que alguna vez
fuimos jóvenes.
No todas las mujeres son Helena,
ya lo sé,
pero llevan a Helena en sus corazones.
Querida mía,
también está en el tuyo, por eso
te amo
y no podría amarte de otra manera.
Imaginate que ves
un campo hecho de mujeres,
todas de un blanco plateado.
¿Qué podrías hacer
sino amarlas?
¡La tormenta estalla
o se desvanece! No es
el fin del mundo.
El amor es otra cosa,
o eso creía yo,
un jardín que se expande,
-aunque te conocí como mujer
y jamás te vi de otra manera-
hasta ocupar
todo el mar
y todos sus jardines.
Era el amor del amor,
el amor que se traga todo lo demás,
un amor agradecido,
un amor por la naturaleza, por las personas,
por los animales,
un amor que engendra
mansedumbre y bondad;
eso era lo que me movía
y lo que yo había visto en vos.
Debería haberme dado cuenta,
y no lo hice,
de que el lirio de los valles
es una flor que enferma a muchos
de los que la huelen.
Tuvimos nuestros hijos,
rivales en la embestida general.
Los hice a un lado
aunque me ocupé de ellos,
tanto como cualquier hombre
puede ocuparse de sus hijos,
según mis luces.
Entenderás
que tenía que encontrarme con vos
después de esa prueba,
y que todavía estoy por encontrarte.
El amor
ante el que también te inclinarás
junto a mi-
una flor,
una flor muy endeble
será nuestra garantía,
y no porque seamos
demasiado débiles
como para hacerlo de otro modo,
sino porque,
en la plenitud de mi fuerza,
yo había arriesgado lo que había que arriesgar
para probar
que nos amábamos
mientras mis huesos crujían
porque no podía gritártelo
en el acto.
Del asfódelo, esa flor verdosa,
vengo, querida mía,
a cantarte.
Mi corazón vibra
al pensar en traerte noticias
de algo
que te concierne a vos
y que concierne a muchas personas. Fijate en
lo que se hace pasar por novedad.
No vas a encontrar nada ahí, pero sí
en los poemas despreciados.
Es difícil
encontrar noticias en los poemas
pero cada día los hombres mueren miserablemente
por carecer
de lo que en ellos se encuentra.
Escuchame,
porque a mí también me concierne
y a todo aquel
que quiera morir apaciblemente en su cama.
Asphodel, That Greeny Flower
Of asphodel, that greeny flower,
like a buttercup
upon its branching stem-
save that it's green and wooden-
I come, my sweet,
to sing to you.
We lived long together
a life filled,
if you will,
with flowers. So that
I was cheered
when I came first to know
that there were flowers also
in hell.
Today
I'm filled with the fading memory of those flowers
that we both loved,
even to this poor
colorless thing-
I saw it
when I was a child-
little prized among the living
but the dead see,
asking among themselves:
What do I remember
that was shaped
as this thing is shaped?
while our eyes fill
with tears.
Of love, abiding love
it will be telling
though too weak a wash of crimson
colors it
to make it wholly credible.
There is something
something urgent
I have to say to you
and you alone
but it must wait
while I drink in
the joy of your approach,
perhaps for the last time.
And so
with fear in my heart
I drag it out
and keep on talking
for I dare not stop.
Listen while I talk on
against time.
It will not be
for long.
I have forgot
and yet I see clearly enough
something
central to the sky
which ranges round it.
An odor
springs from it!
A sweetest odor!
Honeysuckle! And now
there comes the buzzing of a bee!
and a whole flood
of sister memories!
Only give me time,
time to recall them
before I shall speak out.
Give me time,
time.
When I was a boy
I kept a book
to which, from time
to time,
I added pressed flowers
until, after a time,
I had a good collection.
The asphodel,
forebodingly,
among them.
I bring you,
reawakened,
a memory of those flowers.
They were sweet
when I pressed them
and retained
something of their sweetness
a long time.
It is a curious odor,
a moral odor,
that brings me
near to you.
The color
was the first to go.
There had come to me
a challenge,
your dear self,
mortal as I was,
the lily's throat
to the hummingbird!
Endless wealth,
I thought,
held out its arms to me.
A thousand tropics
in an apple blossom.
The generous earth itself
gave us lief.
The whole world
became my garden!
But the sea
which no one tends
is also a garden
when the sun strikes it
and the waves
are wakened.
I have seen it
and so have you
when it puts all flowers
to shame.
Too, there are the starfish
stiffened by the sun
and other sea wrack
and weeds. We knew that
along with the rest of it
for we were born by the sea,
knew its rose hedges
to the very water's brink.
There the pink mallow grows
and in their season
strawberries
and there, later,
we went to gather
the wild plum.
I cannot say
that I have gone to hell
for your love
but often
found myself there
in your pursuit.
I do not like it
and wanted to be
in heaven. Hear me out.
Do not turn away.
I have learned much in my life
from books
and out of them
about love.
Death
is not the end of it.
There is a hierarchy
which can be attained,
I think,
in its service.
Its guerdon
is a fairy flower;
a cat of twenty lives.
If no one came to try itthe world
would be the loser.
It has been
for you and me
as one who watches a storm
come in over the water.
We have stood
from year to year
before the spectacle of our lives
with joined hands.
The storm unfolds.
Lightning
plays about the edges of the clouds.
The sky to the north
is placid,
blue in the afterglow
as the storm piles up.
It is a flower
that will soon reach
the apex of its bloom.
We danced,
in our minds,
and read a book together.
You remember?
It was a serious book.
And so books
entered our lives.
The sea! The sea!
Always
when I think of the sea
there comes to mind
the Iliad
and Helen's public fault
that bred it.
Were it not for that
there would have been
no poem but the world
if we had remembered,
those crimson petals
spilled among the stones,
would have called it simply
murder.
The sexual orchid that bloomed then
sending so many
disinterested
men to their graves
has left its memory
to a race of fools
or heroes
if silence is a virtue.
The sea alone
with its multiplicity
holds any hope.
The storm
has proven abortive
but we remain
after the thoughts it roused
to
re-cement our lives.
It is the mind
the mind
that must be cured
short of death's
intervention,
and the will becomes again
a garden. The poem
is complex and the place made
in our lives
for the poem.
Silence can be complex too,
but you do not get far
with silence.
Begin again.
It is like Homer's
catalogue of ships:
it fills up the time.
I speak in figures,
well enough, the dresses
you wear are figures also,
we could not meet
otherwise. When I speak
of flowers
it is to recall
that at one time
we were young.
All women are not Helen,
I know that,
but have Helen in their hearts.
My sweet,
you have it also, therefore
I love you
and could not love you otherwise.
Imagine you saw
a field made up of women
all silver-white.
What should you do
but love them?
The storm bursts
or fades! it is not
the end of the world.
Love is something else,
or so I thought it,
a garden which expands,
though I knew you as a woman
and never thought otherwise,
until the whole sea
has been taken up
and all its gardens.
It was the love of love,
the love that swallows up all else,
a grateful love,
a love of nature, of people,
of animals,
a love engendering
gentleness and goodness
that moved me
and that I saw in you.
I should have known,
though I did not,
that the lily-of-the-valley
is a flower makes many ill
who whiff it.
We had our children,
rivals in the general onslaught.
I put them aside
though I cared for them.
as well as any man
could care for his children
according to my lights.
You understand
I had to meet you
after the event
and have still to meet you.
Love
to which you too shall bow
along with me-
a flower
a weakest flower
shall be our trust
and not because
we are too feeble
to do otherwise
but because
at the height of my power
I risked what I had to do,
therefore to prove
that we love each other
while my very bones sweated
that I could not cry to you
in the act.
Of asphodel, that greeny flower,
I come, my sweet,
to sing to you!
My heart rouses
thinking to bring you news
of something
that concerns you
and concerns many men. Look at
what passes for the new.
You will not find it there but in
despised poems.
It is difficult
to get the news from poems
yet men die miserably every day
for lack
of what is found there.
Hear me out
for I too am concerned
and every man
who wants to die at peace in his bed
besides.
is complex and the place made
in our lives
for the poem.
Silence can be complex too,
but you do not get far
with silence.
Begin again.
It is like Homer's
catalogue of ships:
it fills up the time.
I speak in figures,
well enough, the dresses
you wear are figures also,
we could not meet
otherwise. When I speak
of flowers
it is to recall
that at one time
we were young.
All women are not Helen,
I know that,
but have Helen in their hearts.
My sweet,
you have it also, therefore
I love you
and could not love you otherwise.
Imagine you saw
a field made up of women
all silver-white.
What should you do
but love them?
The storm bursts
or fades! it is not
the end of the world.
Love is something else,
or so I thought it,
a garden which expands,
though I knew you as a woman
and never thought otherwise,
until the whole sea
has been taken up
and all its gardens.
It was the love of love,
the love that swallows up all else,
a grateful love,
a love of nature, of people,
of animals,
a love engendering
gentleness and goodness
that moved me
and that I saw in you.
I should have known,
though I did not,
that the lily-of-the-valley
is a flower makes many ill
who whiff it.
We had our children,
rivals in the general onslaught.
I put them aside
though I cared for them.
as well as any man
could care for his children
according to my lights.
You understand
I had to meet you
after the event
and have still to meet you.
Love
to which you too shall bow
along with me-
a flower
a weakest flower
shall be our trust
and not because
we are too feeble
to do otherwise
but because
at the height of my power
I risked what I had to do,
therefore to prove
that we love each other
while my very bones sweated
that I could not cry to you
in the act.
Of asphodel, that greeny flower,
I come, my sweet,
to sing to you!
My heart rouses
thinking to bring you news
of something
that concerns you
and concerns many men. Look at
what passes for the new.
You will not find it there but in
despised poems.
It is difficult
to get the news from poems
yet men die miserably every day
for lack
of what is found there.
Hear me out
for I too am concerned
and every man
who wants to die at peace in his bed
besides.
(Fuente: Basta de texto)
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