classic poetry
Un perro ha muerto / A dog has died
POSTED IN classic poetry September 3, 2015
Un perro ha muerto
Mi perro ha muerto.
Lo enterré en el jardín
junto a una vieja máquina oxidada.Allí, no más abajo,
ni más arriba,
se juntará conmigo alguna vez.
Ahora él ya se fue con su pelaje,
su mala educación, su nariz iría.
Y yo, materialista que no cree
en el celeste cielo prometido
para ningún humano,
para este perro o para todo perro
creo en el cielo, sí, creo en un cielo
donde yo no entraré, pero él me espera
ondulando su cola de abanico
para que yo al llegar tenga amistades.Ay no diré la tristeza en la tierra
de no tenerlo más por compañero,
que para mí jamás fue un servidor.Tuvo hacia mí la amistad de un erizo
que conservaba su soberanía,
la amistad de una estrella independienre
sin más intimidad que la precisa,
sin exageraciones:
no se trepaba sobre mi vestuario
llenándome de pelos o de sarna,
no se frotaba contra mi rodilla
como otros perros obsesos sexuales.
No, mi perro me miraba
dándome la atención que necesito,
la atención necesaria
para hacer comprender a un vanidoso
que siendo perro él,
con esos ojos, más puros que los míos,
perdía el tiempo, pero me miraba
con la mirada que me reservó
toda su dulce, su peluda vida,
su silenciosa vida,
cerca de mí, sin molestarme nunca,
y sin pedirme nada.Ay cuántas veces quise tener cola
andando junto a él por las orillas
del mar, en el invierno de Isla Negra,
en la gran soledad: arriba el aire
traspasado de pájaros glaciales,
y mi perro brincando, hirsuto, lleno
de voltaje marino en movimiento:
mi perro vagabundo y olfatorio
enarbolando su cola dorada
frente a frente al Océano y su espuma.Alegre, alegre, alegre
como los perros saben ser felices,
sin nada más, con el absolutismo
de la naturaleza descarada.No hay adiós a mi perro que se ha muerco.
Y no hay ni hubo mentira entre nosotros.Ya se fue y lo enterré, y eso era todo.
Pablo Neruda
…………………………………………….
A Dog Has DiedMy dog has died.
I buried him in the garden
next to a rusted old machine.Some day I’ll join him right there,
but now he’s gone with his shaggy coat,
his bad manners and his cold nose,
and I, the materialist, who never believed
in any promised heaven in the sky
for any human being,
I believe in a heaven I’ll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom
where my dog waits for my arrival
waving his fan-like tail in friendship.Ai, I’ll not speak of sadness here on earth,
of having lost a companion
who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine
withholding its authority,
was the friendship of a star, aloof,
with no more intimacy than was called for,
with no exaggerations:
he never climbed all over my clothes
filling me full of his hair or his mange,
he never rubbed up against my knee
like other dogs obsessed with sex.No, my dog used to gaze at me,
paying me the attention I need,
the attention required
to make a vain person like me understand
that, being a dog, he was wasting time,
but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,
he’d keep on gazing at me
with a look that reserved for me alone
all his sweet and shaggy life,
always near me, never troubling me,
and asking nothing.Ai, how many times have I envied his tail
as we walked together on the shores of the sea
in the lonely winter of Isla Negra
where the wintering birds filled the sky
and my hairy dog was jumping about
full of the voltage of the sea’s movement:
my wandering dog, sniffing away
with his golden tail held high,
face to face with the ocean’s spray.Joyful, joyful, joyful,
as only dogs know how to be happy
with only the autonomy
of their shameless spirit.There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,
and we don’t now and never did lie to each other.So now he’s gone and I buried him,
and that’s all there is to it.
Pablo Neruda
Ratacind cu luna
POSTED IN classic poetry August 31, 2015
Ratacind cu lunaE-aşa frumos să rătăceşti o noapte,
cu luna, ca o amforă, pe umăr,
să simţi, asemeni fructelor prea coapte,
cum cad în tine gînduri fără număr.Se-ntinde caldarîmul ca o apă,
ademenind molatecă piciorul,
şi casele-şi răsfaţă larg pridvorul,
în care luna n-a putut să-ncapă,şi-a curs – argint şi miere – prin grădină…
Splendoarea ei poate-a făcut să cadă
– pierdute-ntr-o beţie de lumină –
atîtea flori de-acacia pe stradă,şi ea-i aceea care-n astă seară
îţi face dor de-o vorbă de iubire
şi de-un fermecător odinioară
pierdut în nu ştiu cîte cimitire.Asemeni unui braţ de fată moartă
e luna ce te duce-aşa, de umăr –
stafie, tu şi ea, din poartă-n poartă,
să numeri gîndurile fără număr.Opreşte-te, cuprinde-ţi capu-n mîini,
şi, dacă nu se poate altfel, plîngi.
Că luna, luna asta n-o s-o stîngi
decît cu jarul soarelui de mîni…
Tonight the world has been able to observe a spectacular celestial phenomenon – the Supermoon, also known as the Sturgeon Moon. It is the first of three consecutive “supermoons” occurring this year.
Photo: 29.08.2015, Finland, almost midnight
Magda Isanos
The Wild Flower’s Song
POSTED IN classic poetry July 14, 2015
The Wild Flower’s Song
As I wander’d the forest,
The green leaves among,
I heard a wild flower
Singing a song.I slept in the Earth
In the silent night,
I murmur’d my fears
And I felt delight.In the morning I went
As rosy as morn,
To seek for new joy;
But O! met with scorn.
William Blake
Time and Eternity
POSTED IN classic poetry July 14, 2015
Time and EternityI lost a world the other day.
Has anybody found?
You ’ll know it by the row of stars
Around its forehead bound.A rich man might not notice it;
Yet to my frugal eye
Of more esteem than ducats.
Oh, find it, sir, for me!Emily Dickinson
Io guardo per li prati ogni
POSTED IN classic poetry July 14, 2015
Io guardo per li prati ogni
Io guardo per li prati ogni fior bianco,
per rimembranza di quel che mi face
sì vago di sospir ch’io ne chieggo anco.
E’ mi rimembra de la bianca parte
che fa col verdebrun la bella taglia,
la qual vestio Amore
nel tempo che, guardando Vener Marte,
con quell sua saetta che più taglia
mi diè per mezzo il core:
e quando l’aura move il bianco fiore,
rimembro de’ begli occhi il dolce bianco
per cui lo mio desir mai non fie stanco.
Cino da Pistoia
Florile culese
POSTED IN classic poetry July 14, 2015
Florile culeseFlorile culese în pahare plâng
Si visând la fluturi, la livezi cu soare
Florile culese în pahare mor.Tristele potire picura-asa jalnic
Pete de lumina.
Lunca toata crede ca sunt doar petale.
Numai eu stiu însa ca sunt lacrimi grele,
Sfarmaturi de suflet.Un bondar le-aduce vesti de la surori.
Creste nostalgia vestedelor flori.Florile culese, florile de câmp
Mor de nostalgie, mor visând la fluturi,
La livezi, la soare.8 aprilie 1929
Eugen Ionesco
One crucifixion is recorded
POSTED IN classic poetry July 14, 2015
One crucifixion is recordedOne Crucifixion is recorded—only—
How many be
Is not affirmed of Mathematics—
Or History—One Calvary—exhibited to Stranger—
As many be
As persons—or Peninsulas—
Gethsemane—Is but a Province—in the Being’s Centre—
Judea—
For Journey—or Crusade’s Achieving—
Too near—Our Lord—indeed—made Compound Witness—
And yet—
There’s newer—nearer Crucifixion
Than That—Emily Dickinson
XVII
POSTED IN classic poetry July 14, 2015
XVIILady, i will touch you with my mind.
Touch you and touch and touch
until you give
me suddenly a smile,shyly obscene(lady i will
touch you with my mind.)Touch
you,that is all,lightly and you utterly will become
with infinite carethe poem which i do not write.
e. e. cummings
To see her is a Picture
POSTED IN classic poetry July 13, 2015
To see her is a PictureTo see her is a Picture –
To hear her is a Tune –
To know her an Intemperance
As innocent as June –
To know her not – Affliction –
To own her for a Friend
A warmth as near as if the Sun
Were shining in your Hand –
Emily Dickinson
When You Are Old
POSTED IN classic poetry July 12, 2015
When You Are OldWhen you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.William Butler Yeats
