Proverbs of Hell - William Blake (1757–1827)


In seed time learn, in harvest teach, in winter enjoy. Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead. The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom. Prudence is a rich ugly old maid courted by Incapacity. He who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence. The cut worm forgives the plow. Dip him in the river who loves water. A fool sees not the same tree that a wise man sees. He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star. Eternity is in love with the productions of time. The busy bee has no time for sorrow. The hours of folly are measur'd by the clock, but of wisdom: no clock can measure. All wholsom food is caught without a net or a trap. Bring out number weight & measure in a year of dearth. No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings. A dead body, revenges not injuries. The most sublime act is to set another before you. If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise. Folly is the cloke of knavery. Shame is Prides cloke. ~ Prisons are built with stones of Law, Brothels with bricks of Religion. The pride of the peacock is the glory of God. The lust of the goat is the bounty of God. The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God. The nakedness of woman is the work of God. Excess of sorrow laughs. Excess of joy weeps. The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves, the raging of the stormy sea, and the destructive sword, are portions of eternity too great for the eye of man. The fox condemns the trap, not himself. Joys impregnate. Sorrows bring forth. Let man wear the fell of the lion, woman the fleece of the sheep. The bird a nest, the spider a web, man friendship. The selfish smiling fool, & the sullen frowning fool, shall be both thought wise, that they may be a rod. What is now proved was once, only imagin'd. The rat, the mouse, the fox, the rabbit: watch the roots; the lion, the tyger, the horse, the elephant, watch the fruits. The cistern contains; the fountain overflows. One thought, fills immensity. Always be ready to speak your mind, and a base man will avoid you. Every thing possible to be believ'd is an image of truth. The eagle never lost so much time, as when he submitted to learn of the crow. ~ The fox provides for himself, but God provides for the lion. Think in the morning. Act in the noon. Eat in the evening. Sleep in the night. He who has suffer'd you to impose on him knows you. As the plow follows words, so God rewards prayers. The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction. Expect poison from the standing water. You never know what is enough unless you know what is more than enough. Listen to the fools reproach! it is a kingly title! The eyes of fire, the nostrils of air, the mouth of water, the bread of earth. The weak in courage is strong in cunning. The apple tree never asks the beech how he shall grow, nor the lion, the horse, how he shall take his prey. The thankful receiver bears a plentiful harvest. If others had not been foolish, we should be so. The soul of sweet delight, can never be defil'd. When thou seest an Eagle, thou seest a portion of Genius, lift up thy head! As the catterpiller chooses the fairest leaves to lay her eggs on, so the priest lays his curse on the fairest joys. To create a little flower is the labour of ages. Damn, braces: Bless relaxes. The best wine is the oldest, the best water the newest. Prayers plow not! Praises reap not! Joys laugh not! Sorrows weep not! ~ The head Sublime, the heart Pathos, the genitals Beauty, the hands & feet Proportion. As the air to a bird of the sea to a fish, so is contempt to the contemptible. The crow wish'd every thing was black, the owl, that every thing was white. Exuberance is Beauty. If the lion was advised by the fox, he would be cunning. Improvement makes strait roads, but the crooked roads without Improvement, are roads of Genius. Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires. Where man is not nature is barren. Truth can never be told so as to be understood, and not be believ'd. Enough! or Too much!




From "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell"








La primera vez - Santiago Sylvester


Cada vez es más difícil hacer algo por primera vez: cuestión de
tiempo para saberlo.
La primera vez que como una fabada, que leo un soneto,
que me acuesto con una mujer;
la primera vez que veo un muerto, un río crecido, dos perros
peleando en la calle:
ya nada de esto es posible.


Acumular experiencias es buscar seguridad,
pero siempre queda algo para la primera vez: un deporte que nunca
practicamos, tocar un instrumento, un amor del que
ignorábamos todo, una ciudad que no está en los mapas;


siempre habrá algo nuevo si nos empeñamos en buscarlo,
incluso el riesgo de hallar lo no querido: por esta línea merodea la
muerte,
siempre atenta, siempre queriendo acontecer,
siempre por primera vez.




(de Llaman a la puerta, 2019)






El poeta y el filósofo - León Felipe


"Yo no soy filósofo.

El filósofo dice: Pienso… luego existo.

Yo digo: Lloro, grito, aúllo, blasfemo… luego existo

Creo que la filosofía arranca del primer juicio. 

La poesía, del primer lamento.

No sé cuál fue la palabra primera que dijo el primer filósofo del mundo.

La que dijo el primer poeta fue:
¡Ay!
¡Ay!
Este es el primer verso más antiguo que conocemos.

…( ) el filósofo cree en la razón y el poeta en la locura.

El filósofo dice: Para encontrar la verdad hay que organizar el cerebro.

Y el poeta: Para encontrar la verdad hay que reventar el cerebro, hay que hacerlo explotar. La verdad está más allá de la caja de música y del gran fichero filosófico. (…)"

 









Nada como una buena salud - Santiago Sylvester


Es increíble la cantidad de remedios: para cada mal, una cura:
para el mal de ojo, el asma, la mala fe;
hay ungüentos para el cuerpo y para el alma: ambos lo
necesitan, y a veces es el mismo:
se curan el desencanto, las aguas negras, el orzuelo: hasta
la ignorancia
tiene cura o mata.

Hay gotas para ver mejor
y para no ver;
diarrea, paso del tiempo, secreciones, caspa, desconcierto:
a cada uno su antídoto.
Para el descreimiento, cataplasma;
para el abuso de fe, antifebril: el método socrático
también sirve;
si se le enferma el yo, no olvide que está hecho
y puede estar deshecho: su enemigo es el sarro de la
satisfacción: se quita con lejía.

Si su empacho es de pasado, quítese el chaleco, combata
el monumento abstracto;
si hay exceso de futuro, no haga nada: un lustro más y
estará como nuevo;
lo peor es abundancia de presente: da jactancia: y ahí sí,
purga de la fuerte: que raspe hasta el hueso;
y no se crea inmortal: también eso tiene cura.






(de El que vuelve a ver, 2016)







Anagnórisis



Anagnórisis (del griego ἀναγνώρισις, «reconocimiento») 

O agnición. 
Es un recurso narrativo
en el que un personaje pasa 
de la ignorancia 
al conocimiento, al descubrir 

un dato esencial 
sobre su identidad, 
su pasado, sus seres queridos 
o su entorno.

Este concepto fue definido 
por Aristóteles en su Poética 
en el marco de la tragedia griega clásica, 

donde solía ir de la mano 
de la peripecia 
(el giro repentino de la trama) 
y la catarsis.








Song - William Shand


I am so old when she is far,
So young when she is near.

I am the wound, I am the scar,
And wrinkled on the floor,

So meaningless and deathly still
When she has gone her way.

Yet I am the creative will
When she is in my day.

I am so old when she denies,
So lost when she is far.

But O so young when in her eyes
Love is an open star.










Nature, the gentlest mother - Emily Dickinson


Nature, the gentlest mother
Impatient of no child,
The feeblest or the waywardest,—
Her admonition mild

In forest and the hill
By traveller is heard,
Restraining rampant squirrel
Or too impetuous bird.

How fair her conversation,
A summer afternoon,—
Her household, her assembly;
And when the sun goes down

Her voice among the aisles
Incites the timid prayer
Of the minutest cricket,
The most unworthy flower.

When all the children sleep
She turns as long away
As will suffice to light her lamps;
Then, bending from the sky,

With infinite affection
And infiniter care,
Her golden finger on her lip,
Wills silence everywhere.








Edad de oro - Jorge Teillier


Un día u otro
todos seremos felices.
Yo estaré libre
de mi sombra y mi nombre.
El que tuvo temor
escuchará junto a los suyos
los pasos de su madre,
el rostro de la amada será siempre joven
al reflejo de la luz antigua en la ventana,
y el padre hallará en la despensa la linterna
para buscar en el patio
la navaja extraviada.

No sabremos
si la caja de la música
suena durante horas o un minuto;
tú hallarás –sin sorpresa–
el atlas sobre el cual soñaste con extraños países.
Tendrás en tus manos
un pez venido del río de tu pueblo,
y Ella alzará sus párpados
y será de nuevo pura y grave
como las piedras lavadas por la lluvia.

Todos nos reuniremos
bajo la solemne y aburrida mirada
de personas que nunca han existido,
y nos saludaremos sonriendo apenas
pues todavía creemos estar vivos.









Oscar Wilde

  

"The true friend will stab you in the front."

 

"Un/a verdadero/a amigo/a te va a dar una puñalada por adelante."


Oscar Wilde






No te apures Carablanca (tango) en la Casa de Carriego interpretado por Salvador Fernández

 


@soficumusica y @salvador_fernandez__ en la Casa de Carriego preparando un homenaje a Evaristo (dic)


No te apures Carablanca (Tango, 1942)
Música: Roberto Garza / Letra: Carlos Bahr




Horacio Rega Molina


"Sé de versos que no son poesía, como un montón de plumas no es un ala."






Déjenme así. Mi corazón no pide... - Horacio Rega Molina


Déjenme así. Mi corazón no pide
nada más; pues no hay vida tan hermosa
como la que uno para sí decide.
Mi arcilla es mía; nadie hará otra cosa.

¿De qué recuerdos quieren que me olvide?
¿Qué huida me proponen, temerosa?
¿De qué peligros dicen que me cuide
si tengo los del verso y de la prosa?

¿Quién procura tomarme la medida
y el peso, y en el libro de lecciones
anotarme un examen de conciencia?

¿Qué haría con el alma corregida?
Gracias, Dios mío, porque Tú no pones
mi manera de ser en penitencia.






September 1, 1939 - W. H. Auden (1907–1973)


I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.

Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.

Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.

From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
“I will be true to the wife,
I’ll concentrate more on my work,”
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the deaf,
Who can speak for the dumb?

All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.

Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.











From Another Time by W. H. Auden, published by Random House. Copyright © 1940 W. H. Auden, renewed by the Estate of W. H. Auden. Used by permission of Curtis Brown, Ltd.




Zamba para Olvidarte - Letra: Julio Fontana / Música: Daniel Toro (1976)

No sé para qué volviste
Si ya empezaba a olvidar
No sé si ya lo sabrás
Lloré cuando vos te fuiste
No sé para qué volviste
Qué mal me hace recordar

La tarde se ha puesto triste
Y yo prefiero callar
¿Para qué vamos a hablar
De cosas que ya no existen?
No sé para que volviste
Ya ves que es mejor no hablar

Qué pena me da
Saber que al final de este amor
Ya no queda nada
Sólo una pobre canción
Da vueltas por mi guitarra
Y hace rato que te extraña
Mi zamba para olvidar

Mi zamba vivió conmigo
Parte de mi soledad
No sé si ya lo sabrás
Mi vida se fue contigo
Contigo, mi amor, contigo
Qué mal me hace recordar
Mis manos ya son de barro
Tanto apretar al dolor

Y ahora que me falta el sol
No sé qué venís buscando
Llorando, mi amor, llorando
También olvídame vos

Qué pena me da
Saber que al final de este amor
Ya no queda nada
Sólo una pobre canción
Da vueltas por mi guitarra
Y hace rato que te extraña
Mi zamba para olvidar






A Cold Spring - Elizabeth Bishop


Nothing is so beautiful as spring.

—Gerard Manley Hopkins.



A cold spring:
The violet was flawed on the lawn.
For two weeks or more the trees hesitated;
the little leaves waited,
carefully indicating their characteristics.
Finally a grave green dust
settled over your big and aimless hills.
One day, in a chill white blast of sunshine,
on the side of one a calf was born.
The mother stopped lowing,
taking a long time to eat the afterbirth,
a wretched flag,
but the calf got up promptly
and seemed inclined to feel gay.

The next day
was much warmer.
Greenish-white dogwood infiltrated the wood,
each petal burned, apparently, by a cigarette butt,
and the blurred redbud stood
beside it, motionless, but almost more
like movement than any placeable color.
Four deer practiced leaping over your fences.
The infant oak leaves swung through the sober oak.
Song sparrows were wound up for the summer
and in the maple the complementary cardinal
cracked a whip, and the sleeper awoke,
stretching miles of green limbs from the South.
In his cap the lilacs whitened;
then one day they fell like snow.

Now, in the evening,
a new moon comes.
The hills grow softer. Tufts of long grass show
where each cow-flop lies.
The bullfrogs are sounding,
slack strings plucked by heavy thumbs.
Beneath the light, against your white front door,
the smallest moths, like Chinese fans,
flatten themselves, silver and silver-gilt
over pale yellow, orange, or gray.
Now, from the thick grass, the fireflies
begin to rise:
up, then down, then up again—
lit on the ascending flight,
drifting simultaneously to the same height,
exactly like the bubbles in champagne.
(Later on they rise much higher.)
And your shadowy pastures will be able to offer
these particular glowing tributes
every evening now throughout the summer.










Published in the print edition of the May 31, 1952, issue. As part of an effort to make The New Yorker’s archive more accessible to readers, this story was digitized by an automated process and may contain transcription errors.

Elizabeth Bishop, a recipient of the Pulitzer Prize, began contributing poetry to The New Yorker in 1940. She died in 1979.





Ars poetica - Archibald MacLeish (1892–1982)


A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,

Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—

A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.

*

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs,

Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind—

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.

*

A poem should be equal to:
Not true.

For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.

For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea—

A poem should not mean
But be.