Anáfora
A Marjorie Carr Stevens
in memoriam
Cada día
comienza con tanta
ceremonia,
con pájaros, con campanas
con
silbatos de una fábrica;
nuestros
ojos se abren primero
a cielos
de un oro tan blanco,
a paredes
tan brillantes
que por
un instante nos preguntamos
“¿De
dónde viene la música, la energía?
¿Para qué
inefable criatura que pasamos por alto
fue hecho
el día?” Oh, él aparece de inmediato
y asume
su naturaleza terrena
de inmediato, de inmediato cae
víctima de prolongadas intrigas,
asumiendo memoria y mortal
fatiga mortal.
Cayendo
de a poco a la vista
y
bañándose de caras salpicadas,
oscureciéndose,
condensado toda su luz;
a pesar
de todos los sueños
malgastados
en él con esa mirada,
que sufre
nuestros usos y abusos,
se hunde
a través de los cambios de los cuerpos,
se hunde
a través de los cambios de clases
a la
noche al mendigo en el parque
que,
cansado, sin una lámpara o un libro
prepara estudios estupendos;
el ardiente evento
de cada día en interminable
interminable acuerdo.
Elizabeth Bishop, Worcester, 1911- Boston, 1979
De North
& South, 1946
En Elizabeth
Bishop, Complete Poems, Chatto&Windus, London, 2004
Version ©
Silvia Camerotto
imagen de
Gustav Klimt, Water Serpents,
en Art.Com
Anaphora
In memory of Marjorie
Carr Stevens
Each day with so much ceremony
begins, with birds, with bells,
with whistles from a factory;
such white-gold skies our eyes
first open on, such brilliant walls
that for a moment we wonder
"Where is the music coming from, the energy?
The day was meant for what ineffable creature
we must have missed?" Oh promptly he
appears and takes his earthly nature
instantly, instantly falls
victim of long intrigue,
assuming memory and mortal
mortal fatigue.
More slowly falling into sight
and showering into stippled faces,
darkening, condensing all his light;
in spite of all the dreaming
squandered upon him with that look,
suffers our uses and abuses,
sinks through the drift of bodies,
sinks through the drift of vlasses
to evening to the beggar in the park
who, weary, without lamp or book
prepares stupendous studies:
the fiery event
of every day in endless
endless assent.
begins, with birds, with bells,
with whistles from a factory;
such white-gold skies our eyes
first open on, such brilliant walls
that for a moment we wonder
"Where is the music coming from, the energy?
The day was meant for what ineffable creature
we must have missed?" Oh promptly he
appears and takes his earthly nature
instantly, instantly falls
victim of long intrigue,
assuming memory and mortal
mortal fatigue.
More slowly falling into sight
and showering into stippled faces,
darkening, condensing all his light;
in spite of all the dreaming
squandered upon him with that look,
suffers our uses and abuses,
sinks through the drift of bodies,
sinks through the drift of vlasses
to evening to the beggar in the park
who, weary, without lamp or book
prepares stupendous studies:
the fiery event
of every day in endless
endless assent.
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