"Si la música es el alimento del amor,
que siga sonando..." ya lo dijo Shakespeare.
Y que todos los días haya música.
En todas las vidas.
La música se comparte, es libre
como el aire.
Que haya más músicos/as
y menos soldados.
Sobre la poesía, por poetas
"Todo el que ha participado en conversaciones sobre poesía, lo poético, habrá tenido la experiencia de que tales conversaciones normalmente no tienen fin. En ese no querer terminar se manifiesta, así lo creo, un rasgo esencial de lo poético: su pretensión de infinitud. Una pretensión que aparte de su imposibilidad de realización, repetidamente experimentada y tenida en cuenta, siempre se abriga de nuevo."
Paul Celan
"La poesía es lo absolutamente real. Esta es la esencia de la nueva filosofía. Cuanto más poético, más verdadero."
"La poesía es lo absolutamente real. Esta es la esencia de la nueva filosofía. Cuanto más poético, más verdadero."
Novalis
My Back Pages - Bob Dylan (1964)
Crimson flames tied through my ears
Rollin' high and mighty traps
Pounced with fire on flaming roads
Using ideas as my maps
"We'll meet on edges, soon," said I
Proud 'neath heated brow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now.
Half-wracked prejudice leaped forth
"Rip down all hate," I screamed
Lies that life is black and white
Spoke from my skull. I dreamed
Romantic facts of musketeers
Foundationed deep, somehow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now.
Girls' faces formed the forward path
From phony jealousy
To memorizing politics
Of ancient history
Flung down by corpse evangelists
Unthought of, though, somehow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now.
A self-ordained professor's tongue
Too serious to fool
Spouted out that liberty
Is just equality in school
"Equality," I spoke the word
As if a wedding vow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now.
In a soldier's stance, I aimed my hand
At the mongrel dogs who teach
Fearing not that I'd become my enemy
In the instant that I preach
My pathway led by confusion boats
Mutiny from stern to bow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now.
Yes, my guard stood hard when abstract threats
Too noble to neglect
Deceived me into thinking
I had something to protect
Good and bad, I define these terms
Quite clear, no doubt, somehow.
Ah, but I was so much older then,
I'm younger than that now.
Copyright ©1964; renewed 1992 Special Rider Music
She Belongs to Me - Bob Dylan (1965)
She's an artist, she don't look back.
She's got everything she needs
She's an artist, she don't look back.
She can take the dark out of the nighttime
And paint the daytime black.
You will start out standing
Proud to steal her anything she sees.
You will start out standing
Proud to steal her anything she sees.
But you will wind up peeking through her keyhole
Down upon your knees.
She never stumbles
She's got no place to fall.
She never stumbles
She's got no place to fall.
She's nobody's child
The Law can't touch her at all.
She wears an Egyptian ring
That sparkles before she speaks.
She wears an Egyptian ring
That sparkles before she speaks.
She's a hypnotist collector
You are a walking antique.
Bow down to her on Sunday
Salute her when her birthday comes.
Bow down to her on Sunday
Salute her when her birthday comes.
For Halloween buy her a trumpet
And for Christmas, give her a drum.
Love Minus Zero, No Limit (Live at Nippon Budokan Hall, Tokyo, Japan - February/March 1978)
My love she speaks like silence,
Without ideals or violence,
She doesn't have to say she's faithful,
Yet she's true, like ice, like fire.
People carry roses,
Make promises by the hours,
My love she laughs like the flowers,
Valentines can't buy her.
In the dime stores and bus stations,
People talk of situations,
Read books, repeat quotations,
Draw conclusions on the wall.
Some speak of the future,
My love she speaks softly,
She knows there's no success like failure
And that failure's no success at all.
The cloak and dagger dangles,
Madams light the candles.
In ceremonies of the horsemen,
Even the pawn must hold a grudge.
Statues made of match sticks,
Crumble into one another,
My love winks, she does not bother,
She knows too much to argue or to judge.
The bridge at midnight trembles,
The country doctor rambles,
Bankers' nieces seek perfection,
Expecting all the gifts that wise men bring.
The wind howls like a hammer,
The night blows cold and rainy,
My love she's like some raven
At my window with a broken wing.
De Profundis - Georg Trakl
There is a stubble field on which a black rain falls.
There is a tree which, brown, stands lonely here.
There is a hissing wind which haunts deserted huts -
How sad this evening.
Past the village pond
The gentle orphan still gathers scanty ears of corn.
Golden and round her eyes are gazing in the dusk
And her lap awaits the heavenly bridegroom.
Returning home
Shepherds found the sweet body
Decayed in the bramble bush.
A shade I am remote from sombre hamlets.
The silence of God
I drank from the woodland well.
On my forehead cold metal forms.
Spiders look for my heart.
There is a light that fails in my mouth.
At night I found myself upon a heath,
Thick with garbage and the dust of stars.
In the hazel copse
Crystal angels have sounded once more.
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye - Leonard Cohen
I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm
Your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm
Yes, many loved before us, I know that we are not new
In city and in forest they smiled like me and you
But now it's come to distances and both of us must try
Your eyes are soft with sorrow
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye
I'm not looking for another as I wander in my time
Walk me to the corner, our steps will always rhyme
You know my love goes with you as your love stays with me
It's just the way it changes, like the shoreline and the sea
But let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie
Your eyes are soft with sorrow
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye
I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm
Your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm
Yes, many loved before us, I know that we are not new
In city and in forest they smiled like me and you
But let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie
Your eyes are soft with sorrow
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye
Your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm
Yes, many loved before us, I know that we are not new
In city and in forest they smiled like me and you
But now it's come to distances and both of us must try
Your eyes are soft with sorrow
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye
I'm not looking for another as I wander in my time
Walk me to the corner, our steps will always rhyme
You know my love goes with you as your love stays with me
It's just the way it changes, like the shoreline and the sea
But let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie
Your eyes are soft with sorrow
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye
I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm
Your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm
Yes, many loved before us, I know that we are not new
In city and in forest they smiled like me and you
But let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie
Your eyes are soft with sorrow
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye
una mochila llena de dios - patricio foglia (Paisanita Editora, 2025)
(esto es solo una parte del poema)
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en una mochila llena de dios, patricio foglia (Paisanita Editora, 2025)
libro que se presenta este sábado 11 de diciembre a las 18hs en la @libreriadelfondoycc Costa Rica 4568.
Charlas y lecturas con la participación de Esther Cross, Walter Lezcano, Nuria Suaya, Eduardo Mileo, Marina Arias y patricio foglia
Para quienes quieran leerlo: se puede encontrar en la Carriego
Casa de Carriego / Casa de la Poesía / Biblioteca Evaristo Carriego
instagram.com/poesiadesdelacarriego
Honduras 3784. Palermo, CABA, Argentina
Atención al público: Lunes a viernes, de 10 a 20hs.
Contacto: carriego.dgplbc@gmail.com
Honduras 3784. Palermo, CABA, Argentina
Atención al público: Lunes a viernes, de 10 a 20hs.
Contacto: carriego.dgplbc@gmail.com
Clown In The Moon - Dylan Thomas
My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.
I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream.
El aguaribay florecido - Juan L. Ortiz (1951) / Música: Edgardo Cardozo (2012)
Muchachas de ojos de flores y de labios de flores.
En la sombra exhalada —¿de qué su dulce hálito?—
los vestidos ligeros, muy ligeros, con pintas.
Arde de abejas el aguaribay, arde.
Ríen los ojos, los labios, hacia las islas azules
a través de la cortina
de los racimos
pálidos.
Ríen los ojos, los labios. ¿Veis las muchachas o es
la tenue sombra ebria
y bordoneada
que se alucina de muselinas claras
y de otras flores vivas —extrañas flores vivas—
riendo, riendo, riendo hacia las islas?
Muchachas de ojos de flores y de labios de flores.
Arde de abejas el aguaribay, arde.
No era necesario (Juan L. Ortiz) - Música: Edgardo Cardozo
Aquí te vi, en la tierra pura, en la tierra desnuda.
Aquí te vi, espíritu primaveral, danzar o arder serenamente como la alegría sin nombre,
transparencia imposible de una dicha flotante sobre el polvo.
Aquí te vi, niña fantasmal de velos diáfanos, en el mediodía inexistente.
No era necesario mirar el cielo ni las ramas.
For the New House - Ursula Le Guin / Para la casa nueva (Traducción de Diana Bellessi)
May this house be full of kitchen smells
and shadows and toys and nests of mice
and roars of rage and waterfalls of tears
and deep sexual silences and sounds
of mysterious origin never explained
and troves and keepsakes and a lot of junk
and a flowing like a warm wind only slower
blowing the leaves of trees and books and the fish-years
of a child’s life silvery flickering
quick, quick in the slow incessant gust
that billows out the curtains a moment
all those years from now ago.
May the sills and doort'rames
be in blessing blest at every passing.
May the roof but not the rooms know rain.
May the windows know clearly
the branch and flower of the apple tree.
And may you be in this house
as the music is in the instrument.
en Wild Oats and Fireweed, 1988
Que esta casa se llene con olores de la cocina
y con sombras y juguetes y nidos de ratones
y rugidos de furia y cascadas de lágrimas
y hondos silencios sexuales y sonidos
de origen misterioso nunca explicados
y tesoros y regalos y miles de deshechos
y un flujo como un viento cálido pero más lento
soplando las hojas de los árboles y libros y años
de pez de la vida de un niño revoloteando plateados
rápido, rápido en la lenta ráfaga incesante
que ondula las cortinas un momento
todos esos años desde ahora, hacia atrás.
Que puedan los umbrales y los marcos bendecidos
bendecir a cada paso.
Que puedan los techos pero no los cuartos conocer la lluvia.
Que las ventanas conozcan claramente
la rama y la flor del manzano.
Y que podáis estar en esta casa
como la música está en el instrumento.
En Gemelas del sueño / The Twins, the Dream (Grupo editorial Norma, impreso en Colombia, Bogotá, primera edición impresa para América Latina y España, 1998)
Pequeño vals Vienés - Federico García Lorca (1940) / Take This Waltz - Leonard Cohen (1986)
En Viena hay diez muchachas,
un hombro donde solloza la muerte
y un bosque de palomas disecadas.
Hay un fragmento de la mañana
en el museo de la escarcha.
Hay un salón con mil ventanas.
¡Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Toma este vals con la boca cerrada.
Este vals, este vals, este vals,
de sí, de muerte y de coñac
que moja su cola en el mar.
Te quiero, te quiero, te quiero,
con la butaca y el libro muerto,
por el melancólico pasillo,
en el oscuro desván del lirio,
en nuestra cama de la luna
y en la danza que sueña la tortuga.
¡Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Toma este vals de quebrada cintura.
En Viena hay cuatro espejos
donde juegan tu boca y los ecos.
Hay una muerte para piano
que pinta de azul a los muchachos.
Hay mendigos por los tejados.
Hay frescas guirnaldas de llanto.
¡Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Toma este vals que se muere en mis brazos.
Porque te quiero, te quiero, amor mío,
en el desván donde juegan los niños,
soñando viejas luces de Hungría
por los rumores de la tarde tibia,
viendo ovejas y lirios de nieve
por el silencio oscuro de tu frente.
¡Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Toma este vals del "Te quiero siempre".
En Viena bailaré contigo
con un disfraz que tenga
cabeza de río.
¡Mira qué orilla tengo de jacintos!
Dejaré mi boca entre tus piernas,
mi alma en fotografías y azucenas,
y en las ondas oscuras de tu andar
quiero, amor mío, amor mío, dejar,
violín y sepulcro, las cintas del vals.
y un bosque de palomas disecadas.
Hay un fragmento de la mañana
en el museo de la escarcha.
Hay un salón con mil ventanas.
¡Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Toma este vals con la boca cerrada.
Este vals, este vals, este vals,
de sí, de muerte y de coñac
que moja su cola en el mar.
Te quiero, te quiero, te quiero,
con la butaca y el libro muerto,
por el melancólico pasillo,
en el oscuro desván del lirio,
en nuestra cama de la luna
y en la danza que sueña la tortuga.
¡Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Toma este vals de quebrada cintura.
En Viena hay cuatro espejos
donde juegan tu boca y los ecos.
Hay una muerte para piano
que pinta de azul a los muchachos.
Hay mendigos por los tejados.
Hay frescas guirnaldas de llanto.
¡Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Toma este vals que se muere en mis brazos.
Porque te quiero, te quiero, amor mío,
en el desván donde juegan los niños,
soñando viejas luces de Hungría
por los rumores de la tarde tibia,
viendo ovejas y lirios de nieve
por el silencio oscuro de tu frente.
¡Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Toma este vals del "Te quiero siempre".
En Viena bailaré contigo
con un disfraz que tenga
cabeza de río.
¡Mira qué orilla tengo de jacintos!
Dejaré mi boca entre tus piernas,
mi alma en fotografías y azucenas,
y en las ondas oscuras de tu andar
quiero, amor mío, amor mío, dejar,
violín y sepulcro, las cintas del vals.
There's a shoulder where Death comes to cry
There's a lobby with nine hundred windows
There's a tree where the doves go to die
There's a piece that was torn from the morning
And it hangs in the Gallery of Frost
Ay, Ay, Ay, Ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz
Take this waltz with the clamp on it's jaws
Oh I want you, I want you, I want you
On a chair with a dead magazine
In the cave at the tip of the lily
In some hallway where love's never been
On a bed where the moon has been sweating
In a cry filled with footsteps and sand
Ay, Ay, Ay, Ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz
Take its broken waist in your hand
This waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz
With it's very own breath of brandy and Death
Dragging it's tail in the sea
There's a concert hall in Vienna
Where your mouth had a thousand reviews
There's a bar where the boys have stopped talking
They've been sentenced to death by the blues
Ah, but who is it climbs to your picture
With a garland of freshly cut tears?
Ay, Ay, Ay, Ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz
Take this waltz it's been dying for years
There's an attic where children are playing
Where I've got to lie down with you soon
In a dream of Hungarian lanterns
In the mist of some sweet afternoon
And I'll see what you've chained to your sorrow
All your sheep and your lilies of snow
Ay, Ay, Ay, Ay
Take this waltz, take this waltz
With its "I'll never forget you, you know!"
This waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz ...
With its very own breath of brandy and death
Dragging its tail in the sea
And I'll dance with you in Vienna
I'll be wearing a river's disguise
The hyacinth wild on my shoulder
My mouth on the dew of your thighs
And I'll bury my soul in a scrapbook
With the photographs there, and the moss
And I'll yield to the flood of your beauty
My cheap violin and my cross
And you'll carry me down on your dancing
To the pools that you lift on your wrist
Oh my love, Oh my love
Take this waltz, take this waltz
It's yours now. It's all that there is
{Instrumental}
(Ay, Ay, Ay, Ay)
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