miércoles, febrero 17, 2010

su yo y el sol eran uno


El planeta en la mesa

Ariel estaba feliz de haber escrito sus poemas.
Eran de un tiempo que recordaba
o de algo visto que le gustó.

Otras creaciones del sol
eran basura y confusión
y la mata madura se retorcía.

Su yo y el sol eran uno
y sus poemas, aunque creaciones de su ser,
eran, no menos, creaciones del sol.

No era importante que perduraran.
Lo importante era que poseyeran
algún rasgo o carácter,

alguna riqueza, aunque sea captada a medias,
en la pobreza de sus palabras,
del planeta del que formaban parte.

Wallace Stevens, Reading, Pennsylvania, 1879- Hartford, Connecticut,1955
versión © silvia camerotto
imagen: Rob Gonsalves, Table Top


The planet on the table

Ariel was glad he had written his poems.
They were of a remembered time
Or of something seen that he liked.

Other makings of the sun
Were waste and welter
And the ripe shrub writhed.

His self and the sun were one
And his poems, although makings of his self,
Were no less makings of the sun.

It was not important that they survive.
What mattered was that they should bear
Some lineament or character,

Some affluence, if only half-perceived,
In the poverty of their words,
Of the planet of which they were part.

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