Un agujero en el piso
Para Rene Magritte
El carpintero hizo un agujero
en el piso de la sala, y estoy parado
mirando fijo hacia abajo, ahora
a las cuatro de la tarde.
Como se paró Schliemann cuando su pala
sacudió las coronas de Troya.
Un serrín de golpe limpio brilla
sobre los grises listones gastados,
y hay una pila de viruta
de cuando colocaron el piso.
Son dorados, el color
de las cáscaras de manzana de las Hespérides.
Arrodillado, miro por debajo
donde las vigas se ocultan.
Una calle pura, apenas desarreglada
de a pedacitos y golpes de luz,
que penetran la profunda oscuridad
donde sus iguales se encontrarán.
El tubo del radiador
se eleva a media distancia
como un quiosco cerrado, parado
donde la única noticia es la noche.
Aquí no está pintado de verde,
como en el mundo visible.
Por el amor de Dios, ¿qué busco?
¿Algún tesoro o pequeño jardín?
¿O ese lugar inexplorado,
el alma misma de la casa,
donde el tiempo ha almacenado nuestros pasos
y la gran madeja de nuestras voces?
No estos, sino la extrañeza enterrada
que nutre lo conocido:
esa primavera desde la que la lámpara de pie
bebe ahora una flor más salvaje,
encendiendo el asiento damasco del amor
y toda la peligrosa habitación.
Richard Wilbur, New York, 1921- Belmont, 2017
De Advice to a Prophet and other poems, 1961
Versión ©Silvia Camerotto
A hole in the floor
for Rene Magritte
The carpenter's made a hole
In the parlor floor, and I'm standing
Staring down into it now
At four o'clock in the evening,
As Schliemann stood when his shovel
Knocked on the crowns of Troy.
A clean-cut sawdust sparkles
On the grey, shaggy laths,
And here is a cluster of shavings
From the time when the floor was laid.
They are silvery-gold, the color
Of Hesperian apple-parings.
Kneeling, I look in under
Where the joists go into hiding.
A pure street, faintly littered
With bits and strokes of light,
Enters the long darkness
Where its parallels will meet.
The radiator-pipe
Rises in middle distance
Like a shuttered kiosk, standing
Where the only news is night.
Here's it's not painted green,
As it is in the visible world.
For God's sake, what am I after?
Some treasure, or tiny garden?
Or that untrodden place,
The house's very soul,
Where time has stored our footbeats
And the long skein of our voices?
Not these, but the buried strangeness
Which nourishes the known:
That spring from which the floor-lamp
Drinks now a wilder bloom,
Inflaming the damask love-seat
And the whole dangerous room.
In the parlor floor, and I'm standing
Staring down into it now
At four o'clock in the evening,
As Schliemann stood when his shovel
Knocked on the crowns of Troy.
A clean-cut sawdust sparkles
On the grey, shaggy laths,
And here is a cluster of shavings
From the time when the floor was laid.
They are silvery-gold, the color
Of Hesperian apple-parings.
Kneeling, I look in under
Where the joists go into hiding.
A pure street, faintly littered
With bits and strokes of light,
Enters the long darkness
Where its parallels will meet.
The radiator-pipe
Rises in middle distance
Like a shuttered kiosk, standing
Where the only news is night.
Here's it's not painted green,
As it is in the visible world.
For God's sake, what am I after?
Some treasure, or tiny garden?
Or that untrodden place,
The house's very soul,
Where time has stored our footbeats
And the long skein of our voices?
Not these, but the buried strangeness
Which nourishes the known:
That spring from which the floor-lamp
Drinks now a wilder bloom,
Inflaming the damask love-seat
And the whole dangerous room.
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