Los
barcos
luchan en un mar que la
tierra en parte encierra
protegiéndolos de los fuertes
golpes
de un océano
ingobernable, que cuando quiere
tortura los más grandes
cascos, el mejor hombre sabe
contraatacar sus
golpes, y los derrota sin piedad.
Como polilla entre
niebla, centelleante en el insignificante
brillo de los días
despejados, con amplias velas hinchadas
que vuelan al viento sacudiendo
el agua costera
de sus proas afiladas,
mientras la tripulación las trepa
como hormigas,
preparándolas con diligencia, soltándolas,
apurándose mientras se
dan vuelta, inclinándose y habiendo
atrapado otra vez al
viento, hombro a hombro, se dirigen a la meta.
En un área protegida de
aguas abiertas rodeada de
naves mayores y menores
que, obsequiosas -torpes
y agitándose- los siguen, parecen jóvenes, extraños
como la brillo de un
ojo feliz, viven en gracia
con todo lo que para la
mente es inútil, libre y
por naturaleza deseado.
Ahora el mar que los sostiene
es caprichoso, bañando
sus lustrosos lados, como si buscara
una mínima falla, pero
fracasando por completo.
Hoy no hay carrera. El
viento regresa. Los barcos
se mueven, disputando
la largada, se da la señal y
parten. Ahora las olas los
golpean, pero son muy
fuertes, se escabullen,
pero ajustan las lonas.
Brazos con manos
apretadas intentado aferrarse a las proas.
Cuerpos arrojados con
negligencia son segregados en el trayecto.
Es un mar de caras
alrededor, en agonía, en desesperación
hasta que el horror de
la carrera comienza aturdiendo la mente,
todo el mar se
convierte en un enredo de cuerpos mojados
perdidos para el mundo
cargando lo que no pueden sostener. Rotos,
golpeados, desolados,
estirándose de entre los muertos para ser llamados,
gritan, ¡fallando, fallando!
sus gritos crecen
entre las olas quietas
mientras los diestros barcos los ignoran.
William Carlos
Williams, Rutherford, 1883- 1963
en The Collected Poems: Volume I 1909-1939, New Directions, 1986
versión © Silvia
Camerotto
J. W. W. Turner, The Slave Ships
The Yachts
contend
in a sea which the land partly encloses
shielding them from the too-heavy blows
of an ungoverned ocean which when it chooses
tortures the biggest hulls, the best man knows
to pit against its beatings, and sinks them pitilessly.
Mothlike in mists, scintillant in the minute
brilliance of cloudless days, with broad bellying sails
they glide to the wind tossing green water
from their sharp prows while over them the crew crawls
ant-like, solicitously grooming them, releasing,
making fast as they turn, lean far over and having
caught the wind again, side by side, head for the mark.
In a well guarded arena of open water surrounded by
lesser and greater craft which, sycophant, lumbering
and flittering follow them, they appear youthful, rare
as the light of a happy eye, live with the grace
of all that in the mind is fleckless, free and
naturally to be desired. Now the sea which holds them
is moody, lapping their glossy sides, as if feeling
for some slightest flaw but fails completely.
Today no race. Then the wind comes again. The yachts
move, jockeying for a start, the signal is set and they
are off. Now the waves strike at them but they are too
well made, they slip through, though they take in canvas.
Arms with hands grasping seek to clutch at the prows.
Bodies thrown recklessly in the way are cut aside.
It is a sea of faces about them in agony, in despair
until the horror of the race dawns staggering the mind,
the whole sea become an entanglement of watery bodies
lost to the world bearing what they cannot hold. Broken,
beaten, desolate, reaching from the dead to be taken up
they cry out, failing, failing! their cries rising
in waves still as the skillful yachts pass over.
shielding them from the too-heavy blows
of an ungoverned ocean which when it chooses
tortures the biggest hulls, the best man knows
to pit against its beatings, and sinks them pitilessly.
Mothlike in mists, scintillant in the minute
brilliance of cloudless days, with broad bellying sails
they glide to the wind tossing green water
from their sharp prows while over them the crew crawls
ant-like, solicitously grooming them, releasing,
making fast as they turn, lean far over and having
caught the wind again, side by side, head for the mark.
In a well guarded arena of open water surrounded by
lesser and greater craft which, sycophant, lumbering
and flittering follow them, they appear youthful, rare
as the light of a happy eye, live with the grace
of all that in the mind is fleckless, free and
naturally to be desired. Now the sea which holds them
is moody, lapping their glossy sides, as if feeling
for some slightest flaw but fails completely.
Today no race. Then the wind comes again. The yachts
move, jockeying for a start, the signal is set and they
are off. Now the waves strike at them but they are too
well made, they slip through, though they take in canvas.
Arms with hands grasping seek to clutch at the prows.
Bodies thrown recklessly in the way are cut aside.
It is a sea of faces about them in agony, in despair
until the horror of the race dawns staggering the mind,
the whole sea become an entanglement of watery bodies
lost to the world bearing what they cannot hold. Broken,
beaten, desolate, reaching from the dead to be taken up
they cry out, failing, failing! their cries rising
in waves still as the skillful yachts pass over.
No hay comentarios.:
Publicar un comentario