Alguien a quien
has visto antes
Era
una noche para escuchar a Corelli, Geminiani
o
Manfredini. Las mesas fueron tendidas con bellos manteles blancos
y
buques de flores. Afuera de los ventanales
la
lluvia horadaba sin piedad el jardín de roca, que le quitaba importancia
a
todo el asunto. Tanto los negocios como la diversión esperaban
con
labios entreabiertos, por tantos nuevos modos de estar
con
la propia emoción y monitoreándola al mismo tiempo
era
dicha en silencio. Incluso los mozos estaban felices.
Era
el ejemplo de cuánto puede uno animarse
sin
romper el caparazón de la intimidad que nos rodea,
y
el resto también. "Pasamos tanto tiempo
tratando
de convencernos de que somos felices que no reconocemos
lo
verdadero cuando llega", dijo el empleado de Disney.
Debemos
admitir que lo tiene claro. Si siguiéramos a la naturaleza
más
de cerca nos daríamos cuenta de ello, quiero decir meter la cabeza
en
el barro y su incertidumbre de ella. Entonces es como si
la
felicidad nos quedara chica, y no al revés, como se cree
por
lo general. Somos los personajes en su novela,
y
cualquiera que dude solo necesita mirar por la ventana
más
allá del reflejo de él o de ella, hacia la luminosa, copiada,
atemporal
verdad no oficial merodeando por ahí,
esperando
la señal para entrar en acción en un escenario público,
alegre
o amenazante, da lo mismo, mientras sepamos que
está
adentro, aquí con nosotros.
Pero
la gente en la vida cambia,
así
como en la ficción. ¿Y qué pasa? ¿Es porque pensamos que nadie
está
escuchando que un día llega la urgencia de borrarse,
"Matate",
como dicen? Como si esto pudiera importarle
incluso
a los que se preocupan y se amontonan alrededor,
expresiones
de liviandad y de paz en sus rostros,
en
los que no tienes ningún rol quizás, pero aun así
su
felicidad es para ti, es tu cumpleaños, e incluso
cuando
los globos y la falsedad se mezclan con los buenos
deseos
superfluos de todos lados, son, creo, para ordenar
tu
actitud inquisidora y la impresión
que
queda en el interior de tu placer por algún bivalvo
con
quien te sientes identificado. Por supuesto,
nada
es lo suficientemente perfecto, pero esto es parte de cómo encaja
en
la variada bolsa
de
los restos del personaje que solía ser parte de ti
antes
de que el cambio ocurriera
y
de todos esos conocidos emergiendo con vigor y
humor,
como si quisieran convocarte
hacia
la intimidad, no por ser íntimo, o acogedor, o lo que fuere,
sino
porque creen que fuiste hecho para esta única
y
valiosa situación cuya tapa se abre, por completo
hacia
la gloria matinal del colorido futuro. Recuerda, no tires
el
cuadrante de situaciones no habituales solo porque están ahí.
Pueden
no estar siempre, y no has terminado de mirar a través
de
ellas aun. Mucho de lo que pasa pasa de algún modo
que
alguien iba a llegar para tabular, y nunca lo hizo,
y
aun así todo denota frescura, claridad y un viaje uniforme
para
persuadirnos de no dormir y nos lleva a preguntarnos qué nos dejarán
después
la nueva tanda de impresiones y saludos
esta
vez. Y la forma, los preceptos, son tuyos para hacer lo que te place,
como
el océano hace hierbas, y al hacerlo renueva un faro
en
una colina distante, o si no deja que la imagen completa se escurra en la
espuma.
John
Ashbery, Rochester, 1927
de
April Galleons (1987)
en
Notes from the Air, Selected Later
Poems, Harper Collins Publishers, New York, 2007
versión
© Silvia Camerotto
imagen s/d
Someone
you have seen before
It
was a night for listening to Corelli, Geminiani
Or Manfredini. The tables had been set with beautiful white cloths
And bouquets of flowers. Outside the big glass windows
The rain drilled mercilessly into the rock garden, which made light
Of the whole thing. Both business and entertainment waited
With parted lips, because so much new way of being
With one's emotion and keeping track of it at the same time
Had been silently expressed. Even the waiters were happy.
It was an example of how much one can grow lustily
Without fracturing the shell of coziness that surrounds us,
And all things as well. “We spend so much time
Trying to convince ourselves we’re happy that we don’t recognize
The real thing when it comes along,” the Disney official said.
He's got a point, you must admit. If we followed nature
More closely we'd realize that, I mean really getting your face pressed
Into the muck and indecision of it. Then it’s as if
We grew out of our happiness, not the other way round, as is
Commonly supposed. We're the characters in its novel,
And anybody who doubts that need only look out of the window
Past his or her own reflection, to the bright, patterned,
Timeless unofficial truth hanging around out there,
Waiting for the signal to be galvanized into a crowd scene,
Joyful or threatening, it doesn't matter, so long as we know
It's inside, here with us.
But people do change in life,
As well as in fiction. And what happens then? Is it because we think nobody's
Listening that one day it comes, the urge to delete yourself,
"Take yourself out," as they say? As though this could matter
Even to the concerned ones who crowd around,
Expressions of lightness and peace on their faces,
In which you play no part perhaps, but even so
Their happiness is for you, it's your birthday, and even
When the balloons and fudge get tangled with extraneous
Good wishes from everywhere, it is, I believe, made to order
For your questioning stance and that impression
Left on the inside of your pleasure by some bivalve
With which you have been identified. Sure,
Nothing is ever perfect enough, but that's part of how it fits
The mixed bag
Of leftover character traits that used to be part of you
Before the change was performed
And of all those acquaintances bursting with vigor and
Humor, as though they wanted to call you down
Into closeness, not for being close, or snug, or whatever,
But because they believe you were made to fit this unique
And valuable situation whose lid is rising, totally
Into the morning-glory-colored future. Remember, don't throw away
The quadrant of unused situations just because they're here:
They may not always be, and you haven't finished looking
Through them all yet. So much that happens happens in small ways
That someone was going to get around to tabulate, and then never did,
Yet it all bespeaks freshness, clarity and an even motor drive
To coax us out of sleep and start us wondering what the new round
Of impressions and salutations is going to leave in its wake
This time. And the form, the precepts, are yours to dispose of as you will,
As the ocean makes grasses, and in doing so refurbishes a lighthouse
On a distant hill, or else lets the whole picture slip into foam.
Or Manfredini. The tables had been set with beautiful white cloths
And bouquets of flowers. Outside the big glass windows
The rain drilled mercilessly into the rock garden, which made light
Of the whole thing. Both business and entertainment waited
With parted lips, because so much new way of being
With one's emotion and keeping track of it at the same time
Had been silently expressed. Even the waiters were happy.
It was an example of how much one can grow lustily
Without fracturing the shell of coziness that surrounds us,
And all things as well. “We spend so much time
Trying to convince ourselves we’re happy that we don’t recognize
The real thing when it comes along,” the Disney official said.
He's got a point, you must admit. If we followed nature
More closely we'd realize that, I mean really getting your face pressed
Into the muck and indecision of it. Then it’s as if
We grew out of our happiness, not the other way round, as is
Commonly supposed. We're the characters in its novel,
And anybody who doubts that need only look out of the window
Past his or her own reflection, to the bright, patterned,
Timeless unofficial truth hanging around out there,
Waiting for the signal to be galvanized into a crowd scene,
Joyful or threatening, it doesn't matter, so long as we know
It's inside, here with us.
But people do change in life,
As well as in fiction. And what happens then? Is it because we think nobody's
Listening that one day it comes, the urge to delete yourself,
"Take yourself out," as they say? As though this could matter
Even to the concerned ones who crowd around,
Expressions of lightness and peace on their faces,
In which you play no part perhaps, but even so
Their happiness is for you, it's your birthday, and even
When the balloons and fudge get tangled with extraneous
Good wishes from everywhere, it is, I believe, made to order
For your questioning stance and that impression
Left on the inside of your pleasure by some bivalve
With which you have been identified. Sure,
Nothing is ever perfect enough, but that's part of how it fits
The mixed bag
Of leftover character traits that used to be part of you
Before the change was performed
And of all those acquaintances bursting with vigor and
Humor, as though they wanted to call you down
Into closeness, not for being close, or snug, or whatever,
But because they believe you were made to fit this unique
And valuable situation whose lid is rising, totally
Into the morning-glory-colored future. Remember, don't throw away
The quadrant of unused situations just because they're here:
They may not always be, and you haven't finished looking
Through them all yet. So much that happens happens in small ways
That someone was going to get around to tabulate, and then never did,
Yet it all bespeaks freshness, clarity and an even motor drive
To coax us out of sleep and start us wondering what the new round
Of impressions and salutations is going to leave in its wake
This time. And the form, the precepts, are yours to dispose of as you will,
As the ocean makes grasses, and in doing so refurbishes a lighthouse
On a distant hill, or else lets the whole picture slip into foam.
No hay comentarios.:
Publicar un comentario