miércoles

Cantar de América

Quisiera poder escuchar el cantar de América,

Quisiera escuchas su profundo rumor

Quisiera que a través de mi resonara

Que el continental tono en armonía a través de mi cantara

Entre el cálido viento y el tierno aliento del día

En el eterno frescor de mi tierra

En el eterno paraíso en guerra

Colombia,

Dame tu rica energía

Para que pueda cantar la diversidad de tus tierras

Dame la virtud de las hierbas, la espléndida química de tus selvas,

Dame el conocimiento de mis ancestros

La cura del alma enferma

Las transformaciones en animales

En pensamientos

En Máscaras ideosensoriales

Déjame entrever tu secreto reino

El viajes del ancestral chaman hacia las ocultas dimensiones del espíritu

Deja que mis palabras resuenen con el tono de mis mayores

Con el profundo fuego de tu desierto vacio de horas

Con tus cálidas playas, frescas montañas, con inmensos ríos

Con valles, selvas, bosques,

Deja que mis palabras tengan la piel de tus variadas razas

El aroma de las más ricas flores del planeta

La risa y alegría de la gente

El sabor de las exóticas frutas

La textura del canto y el plumaje de los pájaros,

Escucha Colombia te invoco

Dame el Don para hablar de tus magias

De las noches que se abren amplias y melodiosas

Llenas de voces que cuelgan entre las estrellas

Llena de murmurantes aguas

del batir de hojas

Del hilo de grillos y ranas tejiendo en armonía

Una red de mitologías.

A través de la roja tierra déjame que vibre en tu tono

y contemplar pueda al primer hombre y mujer de estas tierras;

Aquí vienen en una canoa

Más allá de la vía láctea vienen

En una culebra a través del rio

Dejando una remota estela de estrellas

Vienen con las tres plantas sagradas

A soñar su trágica comedia.

Pero más allá del lado del poniente advierten las sombras de la muerte

Como una multitud de antiguas bestias haciendo rugir el tiempo

Ohh Colombia déjame entender nuestra guerra

Para hacerle un resonante verso

Y transformar su estruendo,

En una flor y un profundo fuego

Quisiera que a través de mi sonara las antiguas voces de nuestra mitología

Quisiera atrapar la esencia mágica de la energía

Ser el hijo del sol, de los peces y las plantas

Ser el chaman, el visionario, ser la víctima, el sacrificado, al secuestrado me torno

A ser el ídolo y el dios antropomorfo

Y que todo ello, siendo mío lo hicieras vuestro

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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.

miércoles

Cantar de América

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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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