El poema definitivo es abstracto
¿Entre qué se retuerce este día? El orador
se compone a sí mismo en Este Bello Mundo Nuestro
y duda del nacimiento del planeta y vacila sobre su madurez,
e izquierda, y derecha. La pregunta en particular -aquí
la respuesta en particular a la pregunta en particular
no es lo que importa -la pregunta es lo que importa.
Si el día se retuerce, no es con revelaciones.
Uno sigue haciendo preguntas. Esa, entonces, es una
de las categorías. Dicho así, este plácido lugar
cambia. No es tan triste como creímos.
Para ser triste, No debe haber preguntas. Es un intelecto
lleno de curvas y esquives de un lado a otro,
retorcimientos en ángulos y distancias erróneos,
no un intelecto en el que seamos rápidos: presente
en todo lugar al mismo tiempo, polo de niebla
de la comunicación. Sería suficiente
si estuviéramos siempre, solo una vez, en el medio, fijos
en Este Bello Mundo Nuestro y no como ahora,
en vano al límite, suficiente para estar
completos, porque en el medio, aunque solo fuera en sentido,
y en ese enorme sentido, nada más gozo.
Wallace Stevens, Reading, 1879- Hartford, 1955
De The Auroras of Autumn, Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 1950
Versión ©Silvia Camerotto
The Ultimate Poem Is Abstract
This day writhes with what? The lecturer
On This Beautiful World Of Ours composes himself
And hems the planet rose and haws it ripe,
On This Beautiful World Of Ours composes himself
And hems the planet rose and haws it ripe,
And red, and right. The particular question—here
The particular answer to the particular question
Is not in point—the question is in point.
The particular answer to the particular question
Is not in point—the question is in point.
If the day writhes, it is not with revelations.
One goes on asking questions. That, then, is one
Of the categories. So said, this placed space
One goes on asking questions. That, then, is one
Of the categories. So said, this placed space
Is changed. It is not so blue as we thought. To be blue,
there must be no questions. It is an intellect
Of windings round and dodges to and fro,
there must be no questions. It is an intellect
Of windings round and dodges to and fro,
Writhings in wrong obliques and distances,
Not an intellect in which we are fleet: present
Everywhere in space at once, cloud-pole
Not an intellect in which we are fleet: present
Everywhere in space at once, cloud-pole
Of communication. It would be enough
If we were ever, just once, at the middle, fixed
In This Beautiful World Of Ours and not as now,
If we were ever, just once, at the middle, fixed
In This Beautiful World Of Ours and not as now,
Helplessly at the edge, enough to be
Complete, because at the middle, if only in sense,
And in that enormous sense, merely enjoy.
Complete, because at the middle, if only in sense,
And in that enormous sense, merely enjoy.
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