Espejo
Envejezco bajo la
intensidad
de miradas curiosas.
Disparates,
trato de decir, niños no puedo enseñarles
cómo vivir. Si no eres tú, ¿quién lo hará?
Llora, uno de
ellos, fuerte, agarrando mi estructura
dorada hasta que
el mundo se tambalea. Si no eres tú,
¿quién lo hará?
En medio de sus
visitas la mesa, su orden
bíblico, helecho
y Cachemira, todo pasado cambia,
lo hace muy bien Si
alguna vez siento curiosidad
sobre lo que
otros soportan,
a través de la
sala tu das ejemplos,
abierta de par en
par, soleada, todo lo que no
soy. Abrazas el
mundo entero sin preocuparte ni una vez
por ordenarlo.
Eso requiere reflexión. Afuera
algo es elegido.
Las bandanas rojas y blancas
llegan a mi
corazón. Un lindo joven
pasa a caballo.
Ahora la puerta se cierra. Hester
me confía su
primera infelicidad.
Esto, verás,
nunca hubiera encajado,
pero para mí.
¿Por qué es que
me abandonan más
y más? Tarde una noche
insomne de verano
me esforcé por mantenerme a
cinco velas de tu
respiración. No, dijo la
prima viuda, déjalos salir. Lo hice.
La habitación
rebosaba de un sonido apagado, toda la catarata.
Muselina de tu
sueño. . .
Años después, dos
de los nietos crecidos
se sientan con
las novelas boca abajo en el alféizar,
contenido para
reflexionar sobre tu alta transparencia,
tus nubes, campos
marrones, caqui lejos
y el ciprés
cerca. Uno habla. ¡Qué superficiales
son las apariencias! Desde entonces, como si un pez
hubiera roto la estirpe
perfecta de mi reflexión,
tengo lapsos. Sospecho
que me miran por la
espalda, donde no hay nada, miradas frías
a través de las
fallas ciegas de mi mente. Como los días
a medida que se alargan
las décadas, esta visión
se agranda y
ennegrece. No sé de quién es
pero creo que espera
que mi última estirpe
se ampolle, se
escame, flote hoja por la vida, cada lámina-
soberbia muda cuesta
abajo, hasta un punto muerto
del que ni
siquiera harás vibrar ningún brillante
acorde en mí, y
ante una voluntad anónima,
eco de la mía, soy
manso.
James Merrill, New York, 1926- Tucson, 1995
En James Merrill, Collected
Poems, Random House, Alfred A. Knopf, 2001
Versión © Silvia Camerotto
Mirror
I grow old under an
intensity
Of questioning looks. Nonsense,
I try to say, I cannot teach you children
How to live.—If not you, who will?
Cries one of them aloud, grasping my gilded
Frame till the world sways. If not you, who will?
Between their visits the table, its arrangement
Of Bible, fern and Paisley, all past change,
Does very nicely. If ever I feel curious
As to what others endure,
Across the parlor you provide examples,
Wide open, sunny, of everything I am
Not. You embrace a whole world without once caring
To set it in order. That takes thought. Out there
Something is being picked. The red-and-white bandannas
Go to my heart. A fine young man
Rides by on horseback. Now the door shuts. Hester
Confides in me her first unhappiness.
This much, you see, would never have been fitted
Together, but for me. Why then is it
They more and more neglect me? Late one sleepless
Midsummer night I strained to keep
Five tapers from your breathing. No, the widowed
Cousin said, let them go out. I did.
The room brimmed with gray sound, all the instreaming
Muslin of your dream . . .
Years later now, two of the grown grandchildren
Sit with novels face-down on the sill,
Content to muse upon your tall transparence,
Your clouds, brown fields, persimmon far
And cypress near. One speaks. How superficial
Appearances are! Since then, as if a fish
Had broken the perfect silver of my reflectiveness,
I have lapses. I suspect
Looks from behind, where nothing is, cool gazes
Through the blind flaws of my mind. As days,
As decades lengthen, this vision
Spreads and blackens. I do not know whose it is,
But I think it watches for my last silver
To blister, flake, float leaf by life, each milling-
Downward dumb conceit, to a standstill
From which not even you strike any brilliant
Chord in me, and to a faceless will,
Echo of mine, I am amenable.
Of questioning looks. Nonsense,
I try to say, I cannot teach you children
How to live.—If not you, who will?
Cries one of them aloud, grasping my gilded
Frame till the world sways. If not you, who will?
Between their visits the table, its arrangement
Of Bible, fern and Paisley, all past change,
Does very nicely. If ever I feel curious
As to what others endure,
Across the parlor you provide examples,
Wide open, sunny, of everything I am
Not. You embrace a whole world without once caring
To set it in order. That takes thought. Out there
Something is being picked. The red-and-white bandannas
Go to my heart. A fine young man
Rides by on horseback. Now the door shuts. Hester
Confides in me her first unhappiness.
This much, you see, would never have been fitted
Together, but for me. Why then is it
They more and more neglect me? Late one sleepless
Midsummer night I strained to keep
Five tapers from your breathing. No, the widowed
Cousin said, let them go out. I did.
The room brimmed with gray sound, all the instreaming
Muslin of your dream . . .
Years later now, two of the grown grandchildren
Sit with novels face-down on the sill,
Content to muse upon your tall transparence,
Your clouds, brown fields, persimmon far
And cypress near. One speaks. How superficial
Appearances are! Since then, as if a fish
Had broken the perfect silver of my reflectiveness,
I have lapses. I suspect
Looks from behind, where nothing is, cool gazes
Through the blind flaws of my mind. As days,
As decades lengthen, this vision
Spreads and blackens. I do not know whose it is,
But I think it watches for my last silver
To blister, flake, float leaf by life, each milling-
Downward dumb conceit, to a standstill
From which not even you strike any brilliant
Chord in me, and to a faceless will,
Echo of mine, I am amenable.
