Para Entonces

Quiero morir cuando decline el día,
en alta mar y con la cara al cielo;
donde parezca un sueño la agonía,
y el alma, un ave que remonta el vuelo.

No escuchar en los últimos instantes
ya con el cielo y con el mar a solas,
más voces ni plegarias sollozantes
que el majestuoso tumbo de las olas.

Morir cuando la luz, triste retira
sus áureas redes de la onda verde,
y ser como ese sol que lento expira:
algo muy luminoso que se pierde...

Resumé

Razors pain you;

Rivers are damp;

Acids stain you;

And drugs cause cramp.

Guns aren’t lawful;

Nooses give;

Gas smells awful;

You might as well live.

Dorothy Parker

(Picture: Grave of a Suicide Victim, Wilhelm Kotarbinski)

Puedo escribir

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.

Escribir, por ejemplo: 'La noche está estrellada,

y tiritan, azules, los astros, a lo lejos.'

El viento de la noche gira en el cielo y canta.

Puedo escribir los versos más tristes esta noche.

Yo la quise, y a veces ella también me quiso.

En las noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos.

La besé tantas veces bajo el cielo infinito.

Ella me quiso, a veces yo también la quería.

Cómo no haber amado sus grandes ojos fijos.

The pearl and the ocean

A drop of rain trickled from a cloud into the ocean. When it beheld the breadth of its waters it was utterly confounded:

"What a place is this Sea, and what am I? If it is existent, verily I am non-existent." 

Whilst it was thus regarding itself with the eye of contempt, an oyster received and cherished it in its bosom.

Fortune preferred it to a place of honor; for it became a renowned royal Pearl.

Because it was humble, it found exaltation: it knocked at the door of Nonentity that it might arise into Being. 

Saʿdī

translated by Samuel Robinson.

(Picture: Leafage and drops, Jean Arp)

Y después

Los laberintos
que crea el tiempo,
se desvanecen.

(Sólo queda
el desierto.)

El corazón,
fuente del deseo,
se desvanece.

(Sólo queda
el desierto.)

La ilusión de la aurora
y los besos,
se desvanecen.

Θά ῾ρθει μιὰ μέρα

Θά ῾ρθει μιὰ μέρα ποὺ δὲ θά ῾χουμε πιὰ τί νὰ ποῦμε
Θὰ καθόμαστε ἀπέναντι καὶ θὰ κοιταζόμαστε στὰ μάτια
Ἡ σιωπή μου θὰ λέει: Πόσο εἶσαι ὄμορφη, μὰ δὲ
βρίσκω ἄλλο τρόπο νὰ στὸ πῶ
Θὰ ταξιδέψουμε κάπου, ἔτσι ἀπὸ ἀνία ἢ γιὰ νὰ
ποῦμε πὼς κι ἐμεῖς ταξιδέψαμε.
Ὁ κόσμος ψάχνει σ᾿ ὅλη του τὴ ζωὴ νὰ βρεῖ τουλάχιστο
τὸν ἔρωτα, μὰ δὲν βρίσκει τίποτα.
Σκέφτομαι συχνὰ πὼς ἡ ζωή μας εἶναι τόσο μικρὴ
ποὺ δὲν ἀξίζει κἂν νὰ τὴν ἀρχίσει κανείς.
Ἀπ᾿ τὴν Ἀθήνα θὰ πάω στὸ Μοντεβίδεο ἴσως καὶ
στὴ Σαγκάη, εἶναι κάτι κι αὐτὸ δὲ μπορεῖς
νὰ τὸ ἀμφισβητήσεις.
Καπνίσαμε -θυμήσου- ἀτέλειωτα τσιγάρα
συζητώντας ἕνα βράδυ
-ξεχνῶ πάνω σὲ τί- κι εἶναι κρῖμα γιατὶ ἦταν τόσο
 μα τόσο ἐνδιαφέρον.
Μιὰ μέρα, ἂς ἤτανε, νὰ φύγω μακριά σου ἀλλὰ κι
ἐκεῖ θά ῾ρθεις καὶ θὰ μὲ ζητήσεις
Δὲ μπορεῖ, Θέ μου, νὰ φύγει κανεὶς μοναχός του.

Μανόλης Ἀναγνωστάκης

(Picture: Melancholy, Odilon Redon)

Mal Du Depart

Θὰ μείνω πάντα ἰδανικὸς κι ἀνάξιος ἐραστὴς
τῶν μακρυσμένων ταξιδιῶν καὶ τῶν γαλάζιων πόντων,
καὶ θὰ πεθάνω μία βραδιά, σὰν ὅλες τὶς βραδιές,
χωρὶς νὰ σχίσω τὴ θολὴ γραμμὴ τῶν ὁριζόντων.

Γιὰ τὸ Μαδράς, τὴ Σιγγαπούρ, τ᾿ Ἀλγέρι καὶ τὸ Σφὰξ
θ᾿ ἀναχωροῦν σὰν πάντοτε περήφανα τὰ πλοῖα,
κι ἐγώ, σκυφτὸς σ᾿ ἕνα γραφεῖο μὲ χάρτες ναυτικούς,
θὰ κάνω ἀθροίσεις σὲ χοντρὰ λογιστικὰ βιβλία.

Death Will Come with Your Eyes

Death will come with your eyes—
this death that accompanies us
from morning till night, sleepless,
deaf, like an old regret
or a stupid vice. Your eyes
will be a useless word,
a muted cry, a silence.
As you see them each morning
when alone you lean over
the mirror. O cherished hope,
that day we too shall know
that you are life and nothing.

We come and go, but for the gain, where is it?

We come and go, but for the gain, where is it?

And spin life's woof, but for the warp, where is it?

And many a righteous man has burned to dust

In heaven's blue rondure, but their smoke, where is it?


Omar Khayyam

(Translated by Edward Henry Whinfield)

(Picture: Allegory of Prudence, Titian)

Epitaph On A Tyrant

Perfection, of a kind, was what he was after,
And the poetry he invented was easy to understand;
He knew human folly like the back of his hand,
And was greatly interested in armies and fleets
When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter.
And when he cried the little children died in the streets.

W. H. Auden

(Picture: Untitled, Kukryniksy)

Be silent

Be silent; don’t speak.
It is a shame; stop your voice;
Be silent already.
And if speech is made of silver
Silence is made of gold.
The first words I heard as a child
when I cried, laughed, played were
“be silent!”
At school they told me half truths; they told me: “what do you care? Be silent”
When a girl first kissed me, they told me “Shhh be silent; don’t say a word”
Stop your voice; and don’t speak; be silent.
This went on until I became 20 years old.
The words of the grown up; the silence of the child.
I saw blood in the streets
“what do you care” they told me “you gonna get in trouble, be silent”
Later on my bosses got angry
“don’t get involved; keep your nose clean; be silent”
I got married, had children; I taught them to be silent
My wife was loyal and industrious and knew how to be silent.
She had a prudent mother who told her: “be silent”
During leap years my parents, my neighbors advised me
“be silent; don’t get involved; pretend you did not see anything; be silent”
We might have not had an envied relationship with our neighbors
But we were connected to them by
“be silent”
“Be silent” this person said and that one.
Those high up: “be silent”
Those below: “be silent.”
“Be silent” said our neighborhood
“Be silent” our city.
We swallowed our tongue.
We have a mouth but no voice
We even formed an association:
“The silent ones”
And there were many of us: a whole country, a big power
But mute
We were successful; we reached high goals; we received medals and rewards
Only with “be silent”
This “be silent” a great art.
Teach it to your children, your wife, your mother in law
And when you feel the need to speak
Deracinate your tongue
Make it stop.
Cut it off completely
Throw it to the dogs
It is an unnecessary tool when you don’t use it correctly.
You will sleep well at night this way; no nightmares; no doubts; no guilt
You will not feel ashamed in front of your kids
You will save yourself from having to speak
To say “you are right; I am like you; one of you”
But ahhh!
How
-Wretched me-
How I wish I could speak
But you will not
You will become a salivating verbalist
Cut off your tongue
Cut it off now
Become a mute
Since you are not gonna speak; you should dare that much.
Cut off your tongue.
This way you will be consistent with my plans
With my dreams
I retain my tongue amidst tears and cries
Because I fear that there will come a moment
Where I won’t be able to take it anymore
I will burst out
I won’t be afraid
I will hope
And every minute
I will fill my throat
With one syllable
One whisper
One stutter
One howl
Which will tell me:
SPEAK!

Aziz Nesin

(Picture:Silence, Odilon Redon)

Juegas todos los días

Juegas todos los días con la luz del universo.
Sutil visitadora, llegas en la flor y en el agua.
Eres más que esta blanca cabecita que aprieto
como un racimo entre mis manos cada día.

A nadie te pareces desde que yo te amo.
Déjame tenderte entre guirnaldas amarillas
.Quién escribe tu nombre con letras de humo entre las estrellas del sur?
Ah déjame recordarte como eras entonces, cuando aún no existías.

Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Robert Frost

(Picture: Fire red and gold, Eyvind Earle)

Θερμοπύλες

Τιμή σ’ εκείνους όπου στην ζωή των
ώρισαν και φυλάγουν Θερμοπύλες.
Ποτέ από το χρέος μη κινούντες·
δίκαιοι κ’ ίσιοι σ’ όλες των τες πράξεις,
αλλά με λύπη κιόλας κ’ ευσπλαχνία·
γενναίοι οσάκις είναι πλούσιοι, κι όταν
είναι πτωχοί, πάλ’ εις μικρόν γενναίοι,
πάλι συντρέχοντες όσο μπορούνε·
πάντοτε την αλήθεια ομιλούντες,
πλην χωρίς μίσος για τους ψευδομένους.

Και περισσότερη τιμή τούς πρέπει
όταν προβλέπουν (και πολλοί προβλέπουν)
πως ο Εφιάλτης θα φανεί στο τέλος,
κ’ οι Μήδοι επί τέλους θα διαβούνε

Κ. Π. Καβάφης


Thermopylae 

Honor to those who in the life they lead
define and guard a Thermopylae.
Never betraying what is right,
consistent and just in all they do
but showing pity also, and compassion;
generous when they are rich, and when they are poor,
still generous in small ways,
still helping as much as they can;
always speaking the truth,
yet without hating those who lie.

And even more honor is due to them
when they foresee (as many do foresee)
that in the end Ephialtis will make his appearance,
that the Medes will break through after all.

Constantine P. Cavafy

Translated by Edmund Keeley/Philip Sherrard

(Picture: The enigma, Gustave Dore)

If I Could Tell You

Time will say nothing but I told you so
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be sold, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reason why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.

W. H. Auden

(Picture: The West Wind, Winslow Homer)

Άρνηση

Στο περιγιάλι το κρυφό
κι άσπρο σαν περιστέρι
διψάσαμε το μεσημέρι·
μα το νερό γλυφό.

Πάνω στην άμμο την ξανθή
γράψαμε τ' όνομά της·
ωραία που φύσηξεν ο μπάτης
και σβήστηκε η γραφή.

Mε τι καρδιά, με τι πνοή,
τι πόθους και τι πάθος,
πήραμε τη ζωή μας· λάθος!
κι αλλάξαμε ζωή.

Γιώργος Σεφέρης


Denial

On the secret seashore
white like a pigeon
we thirsted at noon;
but the water was brackish.

On the golden sand
we wrote her name;
but the sea-breeze blew
and the writing vanished.

With what spirit, what heart,
what desire and passion
we lived our life: a mistake!
So we changed our life.

Giorgos Seferis

Translated by Edmund Keeley and Phillip Sherrard

(Picture: The Yellow Sand, Arthur Hughes)

Ode to Solitude

Happy the man, whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,

Whose flocks supply him with attire,

Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcern’dly find

Hours, days, and years slide soft away,

In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day.

Sound sleep by night; study and ease,

Together mixt; sweet recreation:

And innocence, which most does please

With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,

Thus unlamented let me die,

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie. Alexander Pope (Picture: A Man in a Room, Rembrandt)