Dio é morto (di Francesco Guccini)

Ho visto
la gente della mia età andare via
lungo le strade che non portano mai a niente,
cercare il sogno che conduce alla pazzia
nella ricerca di qualcosa che non trovano
nel mondo che hanno già,
lungo alle notti che dal vino son bagnate,
dentro alle stanze da pastiglie trasformate,
lungo alle nuvole di fumo del mondo fatto di città,
essere contro ad ingoiare la nostra stanca civiltà...
E un Dio che è morto
ai bordi delle strade.
Dio è morto,
nelle auto prese a rate.
Dio è morto,
nei miti dell' estate.
Dio è morto...

Mi han detto
che questa mia generazione ormai non crede
in ciò che spesso han mascherato con la fede,
nei miti eterni della patria o dell' eroe
perchè è venuto ormai il momento di negare
tutto ciò che è falsità, le fedi fatte di abitudine e paura,
una politica che è solo far carriera,
il perbenismo interessato, la dignità fatta di vuoto,
l' ipocrisia di chi sta sempre con la ragione e mai col torto...
E un Dio che è morto,
nei campi di sterminio.
Dio è morto,
coi miti della razza.
Dio è morto
con gli odi di partito.
Dio è morto...

Ma penso
che questa mia generazione è preparata
a un mondo nuovo e a una speranza appena nata,
ad un futuro che ha già in mano,
a una rivolta senza armi,
perchè noi tutti ormai sappiamo
che se Dio muore è per tre giorni e poi risorge,
in ciò che noi crediamo.
Dio è risorto,
in ciò che noi vogliamo.
Dio è risorto,
nel mondo che faremo.
Dio è risorto...

Sueño excesivo

Yo sé lo que es tener excesivo sueño. No querer despertar por las mañanas y extrañar la cama. Ver al día como intervalo entre almohada y almohada. Pasar los meses y los años añorando una situación que no sea la presente, y al mismo tiempo temerosos de abandonarla, porque esto es lo que hay, lo mejor que nos permitimos imaginar, y el sueño es nuestra vacación diaria.

Cuatro por tres

ve tu sed sal del mal da la paz

ve tu mal sé tu sed da la sal

sé tu sal da tu paz ve la sed

sal de ti da tu tú ve y sé

Lo oscuro

Echado en lo oscuro
de vida desnudo
detrás de un gran muro
corazón en nudo
en el vacío puro
la nada me pudo.

Dos cosas que enseñar a los niños

Preguntar siempre "por qué", y sinceridad con uno mismo en la búsqueda de las respuestas.

Al vent

Raimon is an amazing Spanish musician who sings in the catalan language. His lyrics are inspirational. Here is one of them:

Al vent,
la cara al vent,
el cor al vent,
les mans al vent,
els ulls al vent,
al vent del món.

I tots,
tots plens de nit,
buscant la llum,
buscant la pau,
buscant a déu,
al vent del món.

La vida ens dóna penes,
ja el nàixer és un gran plor:
la vida pot ser eixe plor;
però nosaltres al vent,
la cara al vent,
el cor al vent,
les mans al vent,
els ulls al vent,
al vent del món.

I tots,
tots plens de nit,
buscant la llum,
buscant la pau,
buscant a déu,
al vent del món.

And here is the English translation:

In the wind,
our faces in the wind,
our hearts in the wind,
our hands in the wind,
our eyes in the wind,
in the wind of the world.

And we all,
all full of night,
we look for light,
we look for peace,
we look for god,
in the wind of the world.

Life gives us sorrows,
even being born is cause for weeping:
life may indeed be that weeping;
yet we are in the wind,
our faces in the wind,
our hearts in the wind,
our hands in the wind,
our eyes in the wind,
in the wind of the world.

And we all,
all full of night,
we look for light,
we look for peace,
we look for god,
in the wind of the world.

Diario

de Juan José Millás

Seríamos unas veinticinco aves con cabeza de mujer (ya adelanto que se trataba de un sueño) y volábamos en una formación que imitaba la punta de una flecha, cuyo extremo era ocupado sucesivamente por cada uno de los miembros de la formación. El relevo se producía de manera mecánica, como si el grupo estuviera dotado de un reloj interno. Desde la altura a la que volábamos se veían unos acantilados algo siniestros, cuyos bordes parecían labios. Un poco más allá había un desierto salpicado por formaciones verdes, muy distantes entre sí, en las que pastaban animales. Al tener los ojos delante de la cara y no a los lados, como los verdaderos pájaros, nos veíamos obligadas a girar el cuello a izquierda o derecha para comprender nuestra situación en el espacio.

Yo sabía que no pertenecía a ese mundo avícola, pero intuí que me convenía disimular para no ser descubierta. Ignoraba, en cambio, si pese a ser pájaros hablábamos (puesto que teníamos bocas) o piábamos (pese a no tener pico). En esto, la bandada empezó a descender en círculos sobre un camello muerto y percibí un olor a descomposición que removió algo dentro de mi estómago. Intuí que era una manifestación del hambre, pero una vez que llegamos a tierra no empecé a comer hasta que otras aves más viejas que yo abrieron la panza del animal y le sacaron las vísceras. Actuábamos de acuerdo con unas pautas inexplicables, pero muy eficaces, pues todo el mundo comió algo, aunque en turnos diferentes.

Cuando hubimos saciado el hambre, una de aquellas aves dijo: "Nos vamos". Comprendí entonces que se podía hablar sin resultar sospechosa y abrí la boca para decir algo, pero me salió un garlido que hizo que todos los ojos me miraran con aprensión. Entonces me desperté, y me arreglé. En la oficina, advertí que el jefe tenía cara de camello y me sorprendió no haberme dado cuenta hasta ese día. Me sentí extraña entre los seres humanos como antes entre los pájaros, pero no dije nada, pues no sabía si allí se hablaba o se ladraba. Al poco, el jefe se puso a piar y yo coloqué los labios en forma de u para hacer lo mismo, pero me salió una palabra. Me miraron con odio y volví a despertarme, etcétera.

Diary

by Juan José Millás

We must have been some twenty five birds with woman heads (I am telling you right now, this was a dream) and we were flying in an arrow-point formation, the leading post being successively occupied by each of the members of the formation. The replacement happened mechanically, as if the group counted with an internal clock. From the height at which we flew it was possible to make out some sinister-looking cliffs, the edges of which looked like lips. A little further off there was a desert dotted by green blots very distant from each other, populated by grazing animals. Since our eyes were at the front of our faces and not on the sides, like in true birds, we had to turn our neck left and right in order to understand our situation in space.

I knew that I did not belong in that aerial world, but I sensed it was in my interest to pretend, lest I be discovered. Still I ignored whether, in spite of being birds, we spoke (since we had mouths) or tweeted (although we had no beaks). Suddenly the flock began to descend in circles towards a dead camel and I perceived a smell of decay that stirred something in my stomach. I sensed this was a manifestation of hunger, but once we arrived in the ground I did not start eating until other, older birds, opened the animal's belly and brought out its entrails. We acted according to unexplainable norms that were, nevertheless, very efficient, since we all got to eat something, although in different order.

When we had satisfied our hunger one of the birds said "We are leaving". Then I understood that it was possible to speak without seeming suspicious, so I opened my mouth to say something, but out came a squawk that turned all eyes, apprehensive, towards me. Then I woke up, and smartened up. At the office I noticed that my boss had a camel's face and it surprised me that I had not realized it till then. I felt strange among humans as I had before among birds, but I did not say anything, as I ignored whether we spoke there, or barked. After a while the boss started twittering, and I puckered my lips to do the same, but out came a word. They all looked at me with hatred and then I woke up again, etc..

Otro poema de Olav H. Hauge

Eg siktar litt yver

Ei pil som skal råka, kan ikkje gjera
mange krokar. Men ein god skyttar
reknar med fråstanden og vinden.
So når eg siktar på deg, siktar eg litt yver.


I Aim a Little Higher

For an arrow to strike, it can't make
much of an arc. Still, a good hunter
allows for wind and distance.
So when I aim at you, I aim a little higher.


Apunto un poco más arriba

Para que una flecha dé en el blanco, no puede recorrer
demasiado arco. Sin embargo, un buen arquero
toma en cuenta la distancia y el viento.
Así que cuando te apunto a ti, apunto un poco más arriba.

si el norte fuera el sur

acabo de escuchar
si el norte fuera el sur
y estoy
de acuerdo
con arjona
en parte
seríamos igual
no creo que peor
sólo igual
pero eso basta
para hacernos bajar los brazos
y decir
qué especie de
mierda
somos

o no.

prefiero creer
que romper este espejo
es necesario
para
desbancar el mito
de nosotros y ellos
de nosotros contra ellos

necesario
para ver que la identidad
separada
era sólo un
reflejo

para encontrar
la unidad
que nos permita
a todos
crear juntos un futuro
mejor

la determinación
de trabajar
juntos
para cambiar
y crecer
todos
juntos

The Secret Life of Bees

One of the characters has been beaten up by racist men. Afterwards a friend calls her hard-headed, and recriminates her for having put herself in a position where she could have been killed, when a simple apology could have spared her.

The beaten woman replies:

"I know you can't understand. Apologizing to those men would just have been a different way of dieing. Except I would have had to live with it."

A part of me loves her reply. There are ideas worth dieing for, that part tells me. Another part is distrustful, and wonders all kind of things, like "what about strategy?" and "what part of her would really have died if she had apologized" and "when she says 'I', what does she mean?"

These two parts make a whole, I think. The first one alone can be too easily manipulated; the second one, if left by itself, might turn selfish and calculating.

Michael Moore: ¡Felicitaciones por el Premio Nobel de la Paz, presidente Obama! Ahora gáneselo, por favor.

De Michael Moore, AlterNet
Publicado el 9 de octubre de 2009
http://www.alternet.org/story/143192/
Traducido por Mariano Giampietri


Estimado presidente Obama,

Qué maravilla que hoy se le haya dado reconocimiento por ser un hombre de paz. Sus declaraciones cristalinas y absolutas – que va a cerrar Guantánamo, que va a sacar a nuestras tropas de Irak, que quiere un mundo libre de armas nucleares, que le haya admitido a los iraníes que en 1953 fuimos responsables del derrocamiento del presidente que habían elegido democráticamente, su gran discurso al mundo musulmán en El Cairo, que haya eliminado el inutilísimo término “La Guerra contra el Terror”, que le haya puesto fin a la tortura… Todas estas cosas nos han hecho sentir, a nosotros y al resto del mundo, un poco más seguros, sobre todo en vista del desastre de los últimos ocho años. En ocho meses ha realizado usted un giro de 180 grados y ha llevado a este país en una dirección mucho más cuerda.

Pero…

A nadie se le pasa por alto la ironía de que este premio le haya sido otorgado el segundo día de nuestro noveno año de guerra en Afganistán. En este momento se encuentra usted frente a una encrucijada. Puede tomar el rumbo que le sugieren los generales y expandir la guerra (que resultará en una derrota ya demasiado predecible) o puede declarar el final a Las Guerras de Bush, y traer a casa a todas nuestras tropas. Ahora. Eso es lo que haría un verdadero hombre de paz.

No hay nada de malo en hacer lo que el otro tipo no pudo: capturar al hombre u hombres responsables del homicidio en masa de 3000 personas del 9 de septiembre del 2001. PERO ESO NO ES ALGO QUE PUEDA USTED HACER CON TANQUES Y TROPAS. Busca a un hombre, no a un ejército. Para deshacerse de un ratón no se necesita un cartucho de dinamita.

En cuanto al Talibán, eso ya es otra cosa. Ése es un problema que debe resolver la gente de Afganistán, tal como lo hicimos nosotros en 1776, los franceses en 1789, los cubanos en 1959, los nicaragüenses en 1979 y la gente de Berlín Oriental en 1989. Una cosa segura en todas las revoluciones de gente que quiere ser libre es que, en última instancia, son ellos mismos quienes deben conseguir tal libertad. Puede que alguien les brinde apoyo, pero la libertad definitivamente no se entrega, y menos desde el asiento de conductor de un vehículo militar que ni siquiera es el propio.

Tiene usted que ponerle fin a nuestras actividades en Afganistán ahora mismo. Si no lo hace, en Oslo no tendrá otra opción sino devolver el premio.

Sinceramente,
Michael Moore
MMFlint@aol.com
MichaelMoore.com

P.D.: Su oposición se ha pasado la mañana atacándolo por haber traído tanta buena voluntad a este país. ¿Por qué odian tanto a los Estados Unidos? Tengo el presentimiento de que, si encontrara usted hoy mismo la cura para el cáncer, lo denunciarían por destruir la libre empresa, ya que los centros médicos que se ocupan del cáncer tendrían que cerrar. Luego hay quienes dicen que no ha hecho usted nada para merecer este premio… En lo que a mí concierne, el sólo hecho de haber decidido meterse en ese campo minado de odio e intentar deshacer el daño irreparable perpetrado por el presidente anterior, es algo que aprecio, junto a millones de otras personas. Es, además, un acto de verdadera valentía. Por eso le dieron el premio. En este momento todo el mundo está pendiente de los EEUU –de usted– para que salve al planeta. Literalmente. No los desilusionemos. 


Hvem kan segla for utan vind

Un poema sueco. No sé ni quién es el autor, ni cuándo se escribió, pero me encanta:

Hvem kan segla for utan vind?

Hvem kan ro utan årar?

Hvem kan skiljas frå venen sin utan at fella tårar?

Jag kan segla for utan vind,
och jag kan ro utan årar,
men jag kan inte skiljas frå venen min utan at fella tårar.

Who can sail without wind?
Who can row without oars?
Who can part from one's friend without shedding tears?

I can sail without wind,
and I can row without oars,
but I cannot part from my friend without shedding tears.

The Ordinary of Newgate's Account of the Behaviour, Confession, and Last Speech of George Skelthorpe, executed at Tyburn on March 23rd, 1709

At the Sessions held at Justice-Hall in the Old- Baily, on Wednesday the 2d, and Thursday the 3d, and then adjourn'd to Thursday the 10th day of March 1708-9, Seven Persons being found Guilty of Death, received Sentence accordingly. Of these 7, One only is order'd for Execution, and the other Six have obtain'd a gracious Reprieve; which I hope they will take care to improve into further Mercy.

As soon as they were cast for their Lives [i.e formally sentenced to be hanged], I constantly attended them every day: And upon each of the following Solemn Days, viz.

1. Sunday the 6th.
2. Tuesday, the Anniversary of Her Majesty's Accession to the Throne, being the 8th. of this instant March,
3. Ashwednesday the 9th.
4. Sunday the 13th.
5. Sunday the 20th.

I preach'd to them and others then present, both in the Morning and Afternoons, upon these several Texts.

1. Upon Job 14.14. If a man die, shall he live again? All the days of my appointed time will I wait till my change come.
2. Upon Psal. 40.16. Let all those that seek Thee, rejoice and be glad in Thee: Let such as love Thy Salvation, say continually, The Lord be magnify'd.
3. Upon Isai. 55, 6 & 7. Seek ye the Lord while He may be found. Call ye upon Him while He is near. Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man his thoughts, and let him return unto the Lord, and He will have mercy upon him; and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon.
4. Upon Luke 24.46 & 47. (Part of the 2d Morning-Lesson). And (Jesus) said unto them, Thus it is written, and this it beloved Christ to suffer, and to rise from the Dead the third Day: And that Repentance and Remission of Sins should be preached in his Name amongst all Nations, beginning at Jerusalem.
5. Upon Prov. 28.13. He that covers his Sins shall not prosper: But whoso confesses and forsakes them, shall have Mercy.

I shall not here (as I usually do in the like Cases) set down the Heads of those Sermons: That would make this Paper of a larger Extent than I intend it. This only I shall observe, That I concluded every one of those ten Set Discourses with such an Extempore Exhortation and Application, as I thought most suitable to the Condemned; whom I visited and pray'd with in the Chapel twice every day, and had sometimes under private Examination. And then it was that I received from George Skelthorp his Confession, as hereafter follows.

This George Skelthorp, the only Person that is now to suffer, was try'd upon two Indictments, and found guilty of both. The first was for assaulting William Hills, upon the QUEEN's High-way (that is in the Streets from the Strand through the New Buildings to Covent-garden) and taking from him 4s. 6d. on the 18th of February last. The other Indictment was for his assaulting James Booker on the 27th of the said Month of February, and taking from him a Gold-Ring, a Muslin Neck-Cloth, and 10s. in Money, in or about the same place, where he had committed the former Robbery. The Account that he gave me, First, of himself; and then of what has a relation to those Facts of which he was accus'd, and for which he was condemn'd, was this:

First, As to himself; He said, he was about 25 years of age, born at St. Edmunds Bury, in the County of Suffolk; That he had been for a time a Domestick Servant in the Families of some Gentlemen, both in the Country and here in Town, and for above these Seven years last past, in the QUEEN's Service, first in Ireland, in the Regiment of Colonel Granfield, in Captain North's Company; and then in Flenders in the same Regiment, and afterwards here in HER MAJESTY's First Regiment of Foot-Guards, in Brigadier Totton's Company: That as he had not had much Education in Matters of Religion, and knew very little of that which is a great Help thereto (viz. Reading) but what he had of himself pickt up of late; so he was easily induced to a Loose Life of Drinking, Whoring, and Breaking the Sabbath-day, and totally neglecting the Service of God. All which heinous and crying Sins were now very grievous to him, and lay very heavy upon his Conscience.

Secondly, As to what concern'd the Facts for which he was to die; he deny'd his being guilty of them, or of any Crime that should have brought him before any Justice; but this only, That he knowing the time when, and the places where some Sodomites were resorting about Covent-Garden, he went to stand in their Way, and when any of them would (as they often did) carry him to a By-place thereabouts to commit their foul Acts with him, he went with them; and then he taking hold of them, threaten'd them, that he would presently bring them before a Justice, unles they gave him Satisfaction. By which means (he said) he got a great deal of Money at several times, of such Persons; who rather than suffer themselves to be exposed (some of them being Men of good appearance) gave him either Money, Rings, or Watches, or what else they had then about them. Which he would fain perswade me was the only thing that had brought this Prosecution upon him; acknowledging at the same time, that it was just with God thus to punish him, for having concealed and conniv'd at those foul Acts, which he easily might have discover'd and brought to Justice, as he ought to have done. But the Love of filthy Lucre had kept him from it; though it had not as yet (but he could not tell whether if he had gone on in that Trade, it would not at last have) brought him to yield to their lewd and foul Practices. This is the Substance of what he said; adding only as to this Matter, That there was a certain publick House about Covent-Garden, where he knew those Sodomites us'd frequently to meet, and had seen some of them there several times, And it now repented him, that he had not made a Discovery of them, as he often had fair opportunities for it.

He seem'd all along, from the time of his Trial to that of his Death, to be very willing both to learn and practice those Religious Duties, which (by his own Confession) he had too much neglected before. He desired both my Instructions and Prayers, which he had, and I hope were not bestow'd in vain. But God knows the Heart of Man. He was very attentive to the Word of God, when read and expounded to him; and I could not observe any thing in his Behaviour, but what was becoming a Man under his sad Circumstances. He pray'd very earnestly to God for the Pardon of his Sins; and declar'd, that he forgave all his Enemies, and dy'd in Charity with all Men.

When he was carry'd this Day from Newgate in a Cart to the Place of Execution, I met him there, and discharged, for the last time, my Ministerial Office to him. I exhorted him more and more to repent and clear his conscience before he dy'd. To which he return'd this answer, That he repented with all his heart of all the Sins that he ever had committed, and trusted in God for Mercy, through the Merits of Jesus Christ. And here he further declar'd, That what he had told me before was true; and, That his Guilt was no other than he had then confess'd to me.

After this I pray'd and sung some Penitential Psalms with him: I made him rehearse the Articles of our Christian Faith: And then he said, That by the Grace of God he would die in that Faith, and hop'd for Eternal Life and Salvation.

Then he spoke to the People to this effect, That he had serv'd the QUEEN seven Years, and been in five Campaigns; That he had been a wild Young-man, and would be rambling abroad instead of going to Church: That tho' he was not guilty of those Robberies for which he was now to suffer, (that is to say, just in the manner as they were sworn agaisnt thim) yet as he had greatly offended God, so God had justly brought him to this his Shameful and Untimely End. This he acknowledg'd. Now there being (it seems) one of the Witnesses that had sworn against him, close by the Cart, he was entring upon a Discourse with him in his own Justification of the Facts he was charg'd withal; but upon my telling him, That this was not a proper Time and Place to reflect upon any body but himself; and, That he should consider the few minutes he had now to live in this World, and think on that Great GOD, before whose Tribunal he just going to appear, &c. he presently return'd to his Prayers, That God would be pleas'd to forgive him a great Sinner. He desir'd all Young Men, and others, to take Warning by him, and avoid his Sins, that they might not come to the like Condemnation. Sometimes he would express some uneasiness for his now having had the same Mercy shewn him as the other six Persons that receiv'd Sentence with him: But being made sensible, that his Crimes appear'd greater than theirs, he seeme'd to be more satisfied, and acquiesce in the Justice of his Condemnation. He solemnly (and that more than twice) declar'd here, That he died in Charity with all the World, and freely forgave all those that had done him any Injury, as he desir'd to have Forgiveness at God's Hand.

This being done, I retired; and after some further time allow'd him for his private Devotions, the Cart drew away, and he was turn'd off; all the while calling upon God in these and the like Ejaculations, Lord JESUS have mercy upon me! Lord receive my Soul, &c.

This is all the Account here to be given of this Dying Person, by

PAUL LORRAIN, Ordinary of Newgate.
March 23. 1708/9

China, 816 A.C.

Yuan Zhen to Bo JuYi:

Other people too have friends they love;
But ours was a love such as few friends have known.
You were all my sustenance; it mattered more
To see you daily than to get my morning food.
And if there was a single day when we did not meet
I would sit listless, my mind in a tangle of gloom.
To think we are now thousands of miles apart,
Lost like clouds, each drifting on his far way!
Those clouds on high, where many winds blow,
What is their chance of ever meeting again?
And if in open heaven those beings of the air
Are driven and thwarted, what of Man below?

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


Bo JuYi to Yuan Zhen:

Last night the clouds scattered everywhere,
for a thousand leagues the same moon color.
At dawn's coming I saw you in dreams;
it must be you were thinking of me.
In my dream I grasped your hand,
asked you what your thoughts were.
You said you thought of me with pain,
had no one to send a letter through.

When I awoke, I still had not spoken in reply.
a knock-on-the-door sound, rap rap!
Saying, "A messenger from Shangzhou,"
he delivered a letter of yours.
From the pillow I rose sudden and startled,
putting on my clothes topsy-turvy.
I opened the seal, saw the hand-letter,
one sheet, thirteen lines.

La luna

de Jaime Sabines (gracias, Valeria!)

La luna se puede tomar a cucharadas
o como una cápsula cada dos horas.
Es buena como hipnótico y sedante
y también alivia
a los que se han intoxicado de filosofía.
Un pedazo de luna en el bolsillo
es mejor amuleto que la pata de conejo:
sirve para encontrar a quien se ama,
para ser rico sin que lo sepa nadie
y para alejar a los médicos y las clínicas.
Se puede dar de postre a los niños
cuando no se han dormido,
y unas gotas de luna en los ojos de los ancianos
ayudan a bien morir. Pon una hoja tierna de la luna
debajo de tu almohada
y mirarás lo que quieras ver.
Lleva siempre un frasquito del aire de la luna
para cuando te ahogues,
y dale la llave de la luna
a los presos y a los desencantados.
Para los condenados a muerte
y para los condenados a vida
no hay mejor estimulante que la luna
en dosis precisas y controladas.

Al futuro tú

El futuro tú
no será como nadie.
ni como Mambrú
ni como las caries.

El futuro tú
será hijo del aire
cero esclavitud
nada que lo empañe.

Del futuro tú
deseo que ame
más allá del tú
y aprenda del aire.

Que al futuro tú
la sed de saber
nunca se le acabe.

En mi uña cabes...
pero eso era ayer.
Mi futuro tú.

(postdata agregada el 15 de octubre de 2010: hoy cumplís 5 meses, Consuelo, y aquel futuro tú resultaste ser vos. Prometo hacer lo posible porque este poema se te cumpla.)

Setenta balcones y ninguna flor

de Baldomero Fernández Moreno

Setenta balcones hay en esta casa,
setenta balcones y ninguna flor.
¿A sus habitantes, Señor, qué les pasa?
¿Odian el perfume, odian el color?

La piedra desnuda de tristeza agobia,
¡Dan una tristeza los negros balcones!
¿No hay en esta casa una niña novia?
¿No hay algún poeta bobo de ilusiones?

¿Ninguno desea ver tras los cristales
una diminuta copia de jardín?
¿En la piedra blanca trepar los rosales,
en los hierros negros abrirse un jazmín?

Si no aman las plantas no amarán el ave,
no sabrán de música, de rimas, de amor.
Nunca se oirá un beso, jamás se oirá una clave...

¡Setenta balcones y ninguna flor!

Nombres que me gustan

Cielo, Luz, Flor, Aurora, Amalia, Margarita, Eva, Quillén (Luna), Ágata, Camila, Carlota, Celia, Dana, Alelí, Elisa, Ema, Filipa,
Nehuén (Fuerte), Enzo, Andrés, Boris, Dan, Dante, Andante, Emilio, Félix, Horacio, Alejo, Antu (Sal en araucano)

La parábola de los talentos

En esta parábola un señor se va de viaje y deja su dinero, repartido en cantidades diversas, en manos de tres de sus siervos. A uno lo pone a cargo de 5 talentos, a otro de 2, y al tercero, de 1.

Los siervos que estaban a cargo de 5 y 2 talentos respectivamente, se ponen a comerciar con ellos y con sus ganancias doblan la cantidad de dinero a su cuidado, pero el tercer siervo simplemente entierra su talento, para mantenerlo al seguro.

Cuando después de mucho tiempo el señor vuelve, se muestra encantado con los dos primeros siervos, y les promete que los pondrá a cargo de muchas cosas más, puesto que se portaron tan bien con unos pocos talentos.

El tercer siervo, por su parte, explica sus acciones aduciendo temor, pues no quería correr el riesgo de perder el talento de su señor, a quien ve como a "un hombre duro, que cosecha donde no siembra y recoge donde no esparce".

El señor le responde, muy enojado, que si eso es lo que piensa de él, con más razón tendría que haber hecho algo con el dinero. Dice que el tercer siervo es "malo y perezoso" y ordena que le quiten su talento, sentenciando que "a todo el que tiene le será dado, y tendrá en abundancia; pero al que no tiene, aun lo que tiene le será quitado". Luego llama al siervo "inútil" y lo hace echar a la calle oscura.

La moraleja a extraer de este texto es obvia, sobre todo teniendo en cuenta que la unidad monetaria en cuestión se llama "talento": todos tenemos ciertas habilidades y capacidades, y tenemos que hacer lo mejor que podamos con ellas, mientras las poseamos. Mientras más hagamos, mejor nos irán las cosas, y si no hacemos nada, esas capacidades se atrofiarán y luego no podremos usarlas, incluso si lo deseamos.

Un precepto maravilloso, e interesante también porque presta argumentos en contra de quienes interpretan la biblia literalmente.

Por otro lado, me disgusta el elemento económico de la parábola... Además, el argumento literal de la historia es crudelísimo: este señor es muy sádico.

Las parábolas funcionan porque crean paralelos, pero si el señor es dios, a mí me parece que se comporta de forma mucho más mezquina y haragana que el tercer siervo.

Lo que pasa en realidad es que este precepto funciona mucho mejor sin la existencia de ningún señor. Tenemos que hacer lo mejor posible con los talentos que tenemos NO porque nadie nos los haya dado, sino porque intentarlo con todas nuestras fuerzas es nuestra mejor chance de alcanzar cualquier medida de felicidad para nosotros y quienes nos rodean.

La meseta

Subí hasta aquí, mas no para llegar
sino porque nací en una ladera:
abajo se veía una pradera
sin límites, rotunda como el mar.

Fui arriba entonces, puesto que al trepar
el horizonte nunca el mismo era
por delante. Que siempre cambio hubiera
fue todo cuanto yo aprendí a desear.

Ahora que el ascenso ha terminado
creía haber conquistado lo subido
pero parece que nada ha cambiado.

Abajo la pradera se ha extendido,
pues la altura me la ha desparramado
y es invisible el camino batido.

Poem to someone who's fallen asleep in the back seat

Akimbo
is the adjective to use
when your limbs
go each their own way.

Akimbo
like a man
so named
from some country
where they play drums
and have a thick rainforest.

Hello, Akimbo!
What's up today?
Nothing much, just saw Ikumba at the corner.
He was just drumming away.

Akimbo.

But that's not it, after all.

It looks plain
UNCOMFORTABLE

like
my chair sank under me
oops!

like
I've been hit in the back of the head
auch.

like
this is really worrying me
hmm...

like
I have to try and hold it in until these people get the hell
out.

Hans Would Wince

The fog is deep
and of cigarette smoke.
The foghorn is hoarse
punk rock guitars
that drift in
when she opens the door.

She then falls
more than sits,
petite
like the little mermaid
except this ain't Copenhagen bay
but some messy dorm's
dayroom
and rather than a sea-slicked rock
what she's crumpled down on
is a half deflated
red plush
airbag.

No scaly fish tail flipflops
on the dusty carpet
but tails she has,
nevertheless:
the pony kind
one blue
one orange
and flip-flop do go
her eyelids
a few times
before she definitely falls
asleep.

Lava lamp light
glints off her piercings
like sun rays do off the green waves
and deep as the ocean
is the rumor of her snores.

Play Death

To play Death,
take first thing your glasses off,
so that she knows who's in charge.
Play with her
and not at her.

Play as in toy with,
as in laugh at,
to make it always obvious
that you aren't truly
giving in or up.

You should always play
Death in an unnatural way,
because that she is not
and both you and her can tell
the difference.

Play Death
as a mime pretends to ride a horse
with a broom between his legs.

Play Death ludicrously,
in no position
that she would adopt
if left to her own devices.

When you play Death
be always
cackling,
insane.

Particularly
when it is her turn
to play.

Paper

Paper has a certain bounciness,
like mulchy soil.
It's made to be looked at
and yet it looks back.

Bored by your penetrating glare
it spurts up its dark riches,
geisers of black inked letters
and forest-dense images that
piped through your pupils,
power your neurons.
Curiosity put-put-putters on,
soul and thoughts get rolling.

That which inspires

WE EACH STAND ALONE, BUT WE ALL HAVE THAT IN COMMON.

PADRE NUESTRO

Padre nuestro que estás no sé dónde,
haz que no peleemos por tu nombre;
Venga a nosotros el razonamiento;
Hágase presente la empatía
en toda mente, incluso la mía;
El pan nuestro de cada día démosnoslo unos a otros no sólo hoy,
y perdonémonos nuestras ofensas, así como nos damos la oportunidad
de mejorar como personas;
Si caemos en la tentación,
puedan todos librarse del mal
y que nos sirva de lección;
Pues nuestros son la responsabilidad, el peligro y la determinación, por siempre.
Amén

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Our father who art who knows where,
let us not fight for your name;
May reasoning come;
Room for empathy be done in all minds, even mine;
Let us give each other every day our daily bread
and let us forgive each other our trespasses, as we give each other the chance of becoming better people;
If temptation overcomes us,
may everyone be delivered from evil
and let it be a lesson to all involved;
For ours is the responsibility, the danger and the resolve, for ever.
Amen.

Your Friend (by Khalil Gibran)

Your friend is your needs answered.
He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.
And he is your board and your fireside,
for you come to him with hunger,
and you seek him for peace.

Tu amigo es la respuesta a tus necesidades.
Es el campo que siembras con amor y cosechas con gratitud.
Él es tu hogar y tu mesa,
pues acudes a él cuando tienes hambre
y lo buscas cuando precisas paz.

Hávamál

Norse poetry from around the IX century. Here are some fragments:


Elds er þörf, þeims inn er kominn ok á kné kalinn;
matar ok váða er manni þörf, þeim er hefr um fjall farit.

Den som har komme inn og frys på knea, treng eld.
Den som har fare i fjell, treng mat og klede.

He who comes in with cold-shaking knees, needs fire.
He who has experienced the danger of the mountain, needs food and clothing.

- - -

Er-a svá gótt sem gótt kveða öl alda sona,
því at færa veit, er fleira drekkr síns til geðs gumi.

Øl er kje så godt for vettet som folk seier det er.
Når ølet går inn, går vettet ut.

Beer is not so good for wits as people say it is.
When beer goes in, wit is lost.

- - -

Ungr var ek forðum, fór ek einn saman, þá varð ek villr vega;
auðigr þóttumk, er ek annan fann,
maðr er manns gaman.

Då eg var ung og fór aleine, fór eg vill på vegen.
Då eg møtte ein annan, syntest eg at eg blei rikk.
Mann er mannens glede.

Once I was young and wandered alone and knew nothing of the road.
When I found a comrade, I felt rich,
for man is man's delight.

Harp Song of the Dane Women (by Rudyard Kipling)

WHAT is a woman that you forsake her,
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre.
To go with the old grey Widow-maker?

She has no house to lay a guest in
But one chill bed for all to rest in,
That the pale suns and the stray bergs nest in.

She has no strong white arms to fold you,
But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you
Out on the rocks where the tide has rolled you.

Yet, when the signs of summer thicken,
And the ice breaks, and the birch-buds quicken,
Yearly you turn from our side, and sicken- -

Sicken again for the shouts and the slaughters.
You steal away to the lapping waters,
And look at your ship in her winter-quarters.

You forget our mirth, and talk at the tables,
The kine in the shed and the horse in the stables
To pitch her sides and go over her cables.

Then you drive out where the storm-clouds swallow,
And the sound of your oar-blades, falling hollow,
Is all we have left through the months to follow.

Ah, what is Woman that you forsake her,
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,
To go with the old grey Widow-maker?

Din tanke er fri

En la clase de noruego escuchamos esta canción, que es una traducción noruega de una canción alemana que, durante la Segunda Guerra Mundial, era popular entre la resistencia. El título significa "tu pensamiento es libre".

Din tanke er fri,
hvem tror du den finner.
Den flykter forbi,
slik skygger forsvinner.
Den kan ikke brennes,
av fiender kjennes.
Og slik vil det alltid bli:
Din tanke er fri.

Jeg tenker hva jeg vil,
mitt ønske bestemmer.
I stillhet blir det til,
i ukjente drømmer.
Min tanke og lengsel
vil bryte hvert stengsel.
Og slik vil de alltid bli:
Min tanke er fri!

Og tvinges vi inn
bak jernslåtte dører,
da flykter den vind
som tankene fører.
Fordi våre tanker
kan rive ned skranker.
Os slik vil de alltid bli:
Vår tanke er fri!

Olav H. Hauge

A new poet I've found. Well, in fact, he's not so new. He wrote a while ago. Høgne introduced us to some of his poems in the nynorsk class. Here they are:

DET ER DEN DRAUMEN

Det er den draumen me ber på
at noko vedunderleg skal skje,
at det må skje --
at tidi skal opna seg
at hjarta skal opna seg
at dører skal opna seg
at berget skal opnsa seg
at kjeldor skal springa --
at draumen skal opna seg,
at me ei morgonstund skal glida inn
på ein våg me ikkje har visst um.

IT'S THE DREAM

It's the dream we carry in secret
that something miraculous will happen,
that it must happen --
that time will open
that the heart will open
that doors will open
that the rockface will open
that springs will gush --
that the dream will open,
that one morning we will glide into
some little harbour we didn't know was there.

**********

I DAG SÅG EG...

I dag såg eg to månar --
ein ny og ein gamal.

Eg har stor tru på ny-månen,
men det er vel den gamle.


TODAY I SAW...

Today I saw two moons --
a new one and an old one.

I have great confidence in the new moon,
but it is the same as the old one.

**********

KATTEN

Katten sit i tunet når du kjem.

Snakk litt med katten,
det er han som er varast i garden.

THE CAT

The cat sits in the yard when you come.

Speak a little with the cat;
it is him who's best acquainted with the farm.

Sullabullyam

This is a poem/song written by norwegian author Edvard Hoem. It talks about how everything passes and disappears from the world; even of the most sublime things that are, no traces will be left after a time... And yet, joyously, SULLABULLYAM!!!

Når vi har forlate den rullande jord,
og vatnet og vinden stryk ut våre spor,
når alt det vi sleit med er slutt og forbi,
høyr songen vi syng om den bortfarne tid.
Sullabullyam!

Lik lyset frå stjerner som ikkje fekk namn,
lik draumen om liv i den eviges famn,
slik styrer vår lengsel frå mørker og grav
til kystar ein stad bakom himmel og hav.
Sullabullyam!

Alt vakkert skal kverve i botnlause rom.
Den søtaste smak skal bli bitter og tom.
Og du som eg elska, skal også forgå!
Vi jublar mot vårar vi aldri skal sjå!
Sullabullyam!

Så lytt til ei nynning når natta er still,
ja, lytt til vår song når vi ikkje er til.
Høyr fuglar og harper og stigande song,
frå oss som gjekk bort, men som levde ein gong!
Sullabullyam!

Marble

What did Sabina think about Hadrian's relationship with Antinous? What were Hadrian feelings for each of them? How did they fill their days? What did they say to each other and what did they refrain from saying? Was there fear, love, submission, hate, pain, acquiescence, indifference? How were their lives like before they met? What were Antinous' expectations for the adulthood he never reached?

I'd love to know. These marble portraits, particularly Hadrian's, look so very lifelike and expressive. I know they do not hold the answers, but they must have been posed for, or been copied from posed-for originals. How much do these faces communicate of the thoughts that fleeted behind them when they were flesh? Antinous, idolized, was re-sculpted so many times after his death that he is somehow the least real to me, and thus the hardest to read. Sabina, on the other hand... did her bitterness and resignation and sadness truly pass into the stone, or am I just imagining them?

Armani Jeans Publicity

Here's a picture of a 5m x 5m poster advertising Armani Jeans at Termini Train Station in Rome. If you happen to go there these days, you'll see it still.
My thoughts (funnily, all questions) on looking at this add are:
1) Are these the jeans one buys when one is a drug addict and/or drunk and/or anorexic and/or suicidally depressed?
2) After the photo shoot, did the Emporio Armani people also provide the necessary medical care to these two girls?
3) If this is a jeans add, why didn't they include an image of the jeans in the poster?