lunes

Vehementes bailan las fuerzas

aquí en la roca inmóvil del presente

en la articulación del cosmos

Brotan los recuerdos como flores
y el aire pasa resonando con voces ancestrales

Se cubre de vegetación los sentidos y los pensamientos

Tengo piel rugosa como árbol

Mis pies se extienden como raíces en las profundidades de la tierra

Donde penetran y absorben las fuerzas

Y crezco alto,
Soy torre de aromática madera
y aquí en mi tronco resuena el rio del tiempo

rio de fibras y sueños

Entre las amplias ramas

las hojas penden y escuchan como orejas

el murmullo mágico de grillos y ranas

Cuelgan frutos maduros

Húmedas estrellas cargadas de infinito

son soles fijos

En la noche bailan y giran las semillas fugitivas como una risa

en rededor del eje se teje las fibras

vibran las florestrellas

El aroma, el jugo y las semilla de la vida

se entretejen en nervios que se extienden

sobre si misma crecen y se multiplican las deliciosas formas

son planetas abrazados con ardientes colores

son recuerdos

hilos

pensamientos

un velo fluyendo en el espacio

sonidos que ascienden amplios y melodiosos

van en una corriente apasionada de formas

raptos de alegrías en un jardín de fábulas

cargado con el aire mistico de rituales ancestrales

voces que resuenan en todo los sentidos

recuerdos transformados en las situaciones presentes,

formas internas sobre formas externas

suenan

ritmos y bailes

saltan los sonidos y colores

se transforman los significados

todo se ondea en un íntimo rítmo

pasa la forma y se disuelve

pasa y se dibuja

pasa entretejida de otras formas

otras y la misma

en un juego de correspondencias

se hacen visible las esencias

las formas del tiempo se disuelven en el espacio

abriéndose a otra región espaciotemporal donde la energía fluye más intensa,

agudiza esos sonidos que escuchas

escucha con los ojos
mira
idealmente

vibra

el infinito en la forma del ritmo resuena

y saltan los sentidos

se despierta los aromas de las flores

y ascienden en espirales tibias a través el diáfano espacio

y se revisten los cuerpos

y vibran de deseo y si dicen

yo quiero

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Poema. The oxen of the Sun by James Joyce

The voices blend and fuse in clouded silence: silence that is the infinite of space: and swiftly, silently the soul is wafted over regions of cycles of cycles of generations that have lived. A region where grey twilight ever descends, never falls on wide sagegreen pasturefields, shedding her dusk, scattering a perennial dew of stars. She follows her mother with ungainly steps, a mare leading her fillyfoal. Twilight phantoms are they yet moulded in prophetic grace of structure, slim shapely haunches, a supple tendonous neck, the meek apprehensive skull. They fade, sad phantoms: all is gone. Agendath is a waste land, a home of screechowls and the sandblind upupa. Netaim, the golden, is no more. And on the highway of the clouds they come, muttering thunder of rebellion, the ghosts of beasts. Huuh! Hark! Huuh! Parallax stalks behind and goads them, the lancinating lightnings of whose brow are scorpions. Elk and yak, the bulls of Bashan and of Babylon, mammoth and mastodon, they come trooping to the sunken sea, Lacus Mortis. Ominous, revengeful zodiacal host! They moan, passing upon the clouds, horned and capricorned, the trumpeted with the tusked, the lionmaned the giantantlered, snouter and crawler, rodent, ruminant and pachyderm, all their moving moaning multitude, murderers of the sun.

Onward to the dead sea they tramp to drink, unslaked and with horrible gulpings, the salt somnolent inexhaustible flood. And the equine portent grows again, magnified in the deserted heavens, nay to heaven's own magnitude, till it looms, vast, over the house of Virgo. And, lo, wonder of metempsychosis, it is she, the everlasting bride, harbinger of the daystar, the bride, ever virgin. It is she, Martha, thou lost one, Millicent, the young, the dear, the radiant. How serene does she now arise, a queen among the Pleiades, in the penultimate antelucan hour, shod in sandals of bright gold, coifed with a veil of what do you call it gossamer! It floats, it flows about her starborn flesh and loose it streams emerald, sapphire, mauve and heliotrope, sustained on currents of cold interstellar wind, winding, coiling, simply swirling, writhing in the skies a mysterious writing till after a myriad metamorphoses of symbol, it blazes, Alpha, a ruby and triangled sign upon the forehead of Taurus."

Where Do You Think You Will Be? BY HAFIZ

I am sitting on a mountain.
I am casting shadows into the sky.
I did not invite it but the sun has come
And is now playing tag with my feet.
I am whispering to clouds today,
“Watch out for my shoulders,”
For I wish no harm
To all my soft friends.
Where do you think you will Be
When God reveals Himself
Inside of you?
I was so glad to hear
That every pillow in this world
Will become stuffed with
My soul and beard.
I am sitting on a mountain range.
I am a precious body of living water
Offered to the earth
From Light’s own hands.
Why ever talk of miracles
When you are destined to become
Infinite love.
Still, the Final Grace was left:
For all of existence and Hafiz to blend
And to find that I am every pillow
Offering comfort
To each mind and
Foot

Poema en video: Borges y yo de Jorge Luis Borges por Jorge Luis Borges
Poema en audio: La noche cíclica de Jorge Luis Borges por Jorge Luis Borges

Verso místico.

From Paracelsus R. Browning

TRUTH is within ourselves; it takes no rise
From outward things, whate’er you may believe.
There is an inmost centre in us all,
Where truth abides in fullness; and around,
Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems it in,	5
This perfect, clear perception—which is truth.
A baffling and perverting carnal mesh
Binds it, and makes all error: and, to KNOW,
Rather consists in opening out a way
Whence the imprisoned splendour may escape,	10
Than in effecting entry for a light
Supposed to be without.

II I knew, I felt, (perception unexpressed,
Uncomprehended by our narrow thought,
But somehow felt and known in every shift	15
And change in the spirit,—nay, in every pore
Of the body, even,)—what God is, what we are
What life is—how God tastes an infinite joy
In infinite ways—one everlasting bliss,
From whom all being emanates, all power	20
Proceeds; in whom is life for evermore,
Yet whom existence in its lowest form
Includes; where dwells enjoyment there is he:
With still a flying point of bliss remote,
A happiness in store afar, a sphere	25
Of distant glory in full view; thus climbs
Pleasure its heights for ever and for ever.
The centre-fire heaves underneath the earth,
And the earth changes like a human face;
The molten ore bursts up among the rocks,	30
Winds into the stone’s heart, outbranches bright
In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds,
Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask—
God joys therein! The wroth sea’s waves are edged
With foam, white as the bitten lip of hate,	35
When, in the solitary waste, strange groups
Of young volcanos come up, cyclops-like,
Staring together with their eyes on flame—
God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride.
Then all is still; earth is a wintry clod:	40
But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes
Over its breast to waken it, rare verdure
Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between
The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost,
Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face;	45
The grass grows bright, the boughs are swoln with blooms
Like chrysalids impatient for the air,
The shining dorrs are busy, beetles run
Along the furrows, ants make their ade;
Above, birds fly in merry flocks, the lark	50
Soars up and up, shivering for very joy;
Afar the ocean sleeps; white fishing-gulls
Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe
Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek
Their loves in wood and plain—and God renews	55
His ancient rapture. Thus He dwells in all,
From life’s minute beginnings, up at last
To man—the consummation of this scheme
Of being, the completion of this sphere
Of life: whose attributes had here and there	60
Been scattered o’er the visible world before,
Asking to be combined, dim fragments meant
To be united in some wondrous whole,
Imperfect qualities throughout creation,
Suggesting some one creature yet to make,	65
Some point where all those scattered rays should meet
Convergent in the faculties of man.

lunes

Vehementes bailan las fuerzas

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Glassyens

Más que un número

dixon

Poema. The oxen of the Sun by James Joyce

Where Do You Think You Will Be? BY HAFIZ

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