Vinteren
Spre meg i natta som blør sin helfarga koloraturdronning
tøm meg i blikket som tenker alt
vimer, virrer, svimrer, svirrer
hakt sammen til glassharmonikafjær
bremser krystallspisst
men faller og legger seg til rette
En klagende solofiolin fyker inn i sprekken mellom satsene
tjukner til ei barokk utligning
et lettere orkester, porøst av pauser
som om den ikke har noen egen ide
lytter den seg inn mot en klarinettsvart a
Men stakk ikke stormen med basun over Mozartplads?
Lot ikke et arbeidsløst rekviem vredens tamponger vrimle?
På nytt syr instrumentene fuglefangeren inn i filler:
danser en annen frihet enn deg
Jo Eggen (Lillehammer, Noruega, 1952). Poeta.
Poetical Quill Souls
Poetical Quill Souls
This blog contains a collection of renowned and young authors from around the world poems in the languages in which they were originally written. Each file includes author’s photo or portrait and brief biography. We offer news and announcements of interest to professional and amateur writers (writing competitions, poetry press, etc) too.
Este blog recoge una selección de poemas de reputados autores y jóvenes promesas de todo el mundo en las lenguas en las que fueron escritos originalmente. Se incluye en cada ficha una breve reseña biográfica del autor y fotos o cuadros de éste. Se complementa el grueso del material con datos de interés para escritores profesionales o aficionados a la literatura (como información sobre certámenes literarios, editoriales dedicadas a la poesía, etc).
Marvin Bell
The Self and the Mulberry
I wanted to see the self, so I looked at the mulberry.
It had no trouble accepting its limits,
yet defining and redefining a small area
so that any shape was possible, any movement.
It stayed put, but was part of all the air.
I wanted to learn to be there and not there
like the continually changing, slightly moving
mulberry, wild cherry and particularly the willow.
Like the willow, I tried to weep without tears.
Like the cherry tree, I tried to be sturdy and productive.
Like the mulberry, I tried to keep moving.
I couldn't cry right, couldn't stay or go.
I kept losing parts of myself like a soft maple.
I fell ill like the elm. That was the end
of looking in nature to find a natural self.
Let nature think itself not manly enough!
Let nature wonder at the mystery of laughter.
Let nature hypothesize man's indifference to it.
Let nature take a turn at saying what love is!
I wanted to see the self, so I looked at the mulberry.
It had no trouble accepting its limits,
yet defining and redefining a small area
so that any shape was possible, any movement.
It stayed put, but was part of all the air.
I wanted to learn to be there and not there
like the continually changing, slightly moving
mulberry, wild cherry and particularly the willow.
Like the willow, I tried to weep without tears.
Like the cherry tree, I tried to be sturdy and productive.
Like the mulberry, I tried to keep moving.
I couldn't cry right, couldn't stay or go.
I kept losing parts of myself like a soft maple.
I fell ill like the elm. That was the end
of looking in nature to find a natural self.
Let nature think itself not manly enough!
Let nature wonder at the mystery of laughter.
Let nature hypothesize man's indifference to it.
Let nature take a turn at saying what love is!
Marvin Bell (New York, EE UU, 1937). Profesor. Poeta y editor. Entre sus reconocimientos, el Premio Lamont de Poesía de la Academia de Poetas Americanos (1969). Poeta laureado (2000).
Zurelys López Amaya
Desnuda
A Any Ambrosio
Una amiga besaba la tumba de Edith Piaf
con sus labios rosados.
Cerraba los ojos y besaba la piedra congelada
donde los poetas duermen
sus huesos blancos guardan una luz
el secreto de sus amantes desnudos
mientras en otra tumba
no lejos
se oyen los versos amaestrados por el invierno.
Una amiga con los ojos cerrados deja la marca de
sus labios en la tumba de Edith Piaf.
A Any Ambrosio
Una amiga besaba la tumba de Edith Piaf
con sus labios rosados.
Cerraba los ojos y besaba la piedra congelada
donde los poetas duermen
sus huesos blancos guardan una luz
el secreto de sus amantes desnudos
mientras en otra tumba
no lejos
se oyen los versos amaestrados por el invierno.
Una amiga con los ojos cerrados deja la marca de
sus labios en la tumba de Edith Piaf.
Zurelys López Amaya (La Habana, Cuba, 1967). Licenciada en Comunicación Social por la Universidad de La Habana. Poeta, narradora y ensayista.
Tô Thùy Yên
Vẫn là
Vẫn là tiếng thinh lặng kinh hoàng
Ðâu đó quanh đây
Do một vật đã rơi buông từ chỗ rất cao
Còn để lại.
Vẫn là nỗi khuya khoắt đuối tuyệt
Ðâu đó quanh đây
Của những bước chân hồ nghi thất lạc
Về tự lãng quên xa.
Vẫn là cơn tức tưởi cầm nén
Ðâu đó quanh đây
Bục ra từ xương thịt tủi phận
Khốn quẩn tồn sinh.
Vẫn là niềm nhớ nhung oan khuất
Ðâu đó quanh đây
Về những khôn thiêng chưa hề hiển dạng
Ngày đêm chứng giám ta.
Vẫn là sự đeo đẳng rợn người
Ðâu đó quanh đây
Của những điệu ru hời vướng vất thiên cổ
Ðầm cây cỏ hôn mê.
Tô Thùy Yên , nacido Ðinh Thành Tiên (Gia Dinh, Vietnam, 1938). Poeta.
Vẫn là tiếng thinh lặng kinh hoàng
Ðâu đó quanh đây
Do một vật đã rơi buông từ chỗ rất cao
Còn để lại.
Vẫn là nỗi khuya khoắt đuối tuyệt
Ðâu đó quanh đây
Của những bước chân hồ nghi thất lạc
Về tự lãng quên xa.
Vẫn là cơn tức tưởi cầm nén
Ðâu đó quanh đây
Bục ra từ xương thịt tủi phận
Khốn quẩn tồn sinh.
Vẫn là niềm nhớ nhung oan khuất
Ðâu đó quanh đây
Về những khôn thiêng chưa hề hiển dạng
Ngày đêm chứng giám ta.
Vẫn là sự đeo đẳng rợn người
Ðâu đó quanh đây
Của những điệu ru hời vướng vất thiên cổ
Ðầm cây cỏ hôn mê.
Tô Thùy Yên , nacido Ðinh Thành Tiên (Gia Dinh, Vietnam, 1938). Poeta.
Paul Hoover
The Mill
This is the evening when a bird nests in a hat
left in the street by a flying man, a man of worlds and heat, of vellum and fog
and sculptures that lurk when we're not looking, this is the evening.
This is the moment when traffic passes as I have taught it to pass,
as I have learned the way, this is the moment.
This is the place where snow was invented.
This is the town it falls on, consisting of three houses
with plastic lights in the doorway, a man who touches his woman
as she likes to be touched--no matter how warm, always snow--
and the hand that turns the world, this is the place.
This is the life that keeps me awake at night,
its distances and skin, and this is time with its foot in a crack,
unable to move yet passing, this is the life.
This is the hour when the crime was committed;
this is the first cause watching. This is the river drowning
and a filthy shadow washing its hands, this is the hour.
This is the little fish eating the big one. This is the man
who lives by the railroad tracks; this is the train passing.
This is the mill where grain was turned, this is the grain
unfinished, and this is the empty bed of the stream
that used to turn the wheel, this is the mill of absence.
This is the evening when a bird nests in a hat
left in the street by a flying man, a man of worlds and heat, of vellum and fog
and sculptures that lurk when we're not looking, this is the evening.
This is the moment when traffic passes as I have taught it to pass,
as I have learned the way, this is the moment.
This is the place where snow was invented.
This is the town it falls on, consisting of three houses
with plastic lights in the doorway, a man who touches his woman
as she likes to be touched--no matter how warm, always snow--
and the hand that turns the world, this is the place.
This is the life that keeps me awake at night,
its distances and skin, and this is time with its foot in a crack,
unable to move yet passing, this is the life.
This is the hour when the crime was committed;
this is the first cause watching. This is the river drowning
and a filthy shadow washing its hands, this is the hour.
This is the little fish eating the big one. This is the man
who lives by the railroad tracks; this is the train passing.
This is the mill where grain was turned, this is the grain
unfinished, and this is the empty bed of the stream
that used to turn the wheel, this is the mill of absence.
Paul Hoover (Harrisonburg, Virginia, EEUU, 1946). Profesor de Escritura Creativa en la Universidad Estatal de San Francisco State. Poeta y editor.
Hélène Dorion
Chacun va, dans sa caverne d’enfant
Chacun va, dans sa caverne d’enfant
retrouve les ombres animées d’oiseaux, de poissons
de reptiles sur les murs
ses jeux de sable et d’eau
qui emplissaient l’univers.
Toutes choses se dispersent, aujourd’hui
que la nuit chute dans l’immensité
le ciel qu’alors tu regardais comme un manège
a défait son chapiteau.
Tu regagnes le fond de l’enfance
où chacun est loin, si loin dans son monde
de figures éphémères.
Comme chacun, tu lutteras aux portes de la caverne
contre le reflet qui s’y glisse encore.
Chacun va, dans sa caverne d’enfant
retrouve les ombres animées d’oiseaux, de poissons
de reptiles sur les murs
ses jeux de sable et d’eau
qui emplissaient l’univers.
Toutes choses se dispersent, aujourd’hui
que la nuit chute dans l’immensité
le ciel qu’alors tu regardais comme un manège
a défait son chapiteau.
Tu regagnes le fond de l’enfance
où chacun est loin, si loin dans son monde
de figures éphémères.
Comme chacun, tu lutteras aux portes de la caverne
contre le reflet qui s’y glisse encore.
Hélène Dorion (Quebec, Canada, 1958). Novelista, poeta y ensayista. Entre sus galardones: Prix International de Poésie Wallonie-Bruxelles (1992), Prix du Festival International de Poésie de Roumanie (1997), Prix Mallarmé (2005), Prix du Gouverneur général du Canada (2006).
Manuel Antonio
Ao afogado
Xa che levaron os ollos
relingadores de lonxanías
e pescadores de profundidades
Xa che levaron a voz
enmallados n' a furna xiróvaga
por onde escoan as tempestades
Xa che levaron os azos
enmallados n' a rede sonora
d' os cordaxes ereutos
O vento aínda escovaba
c’ as poucas d’ escuma
n' a xerga
mais cadaleitos
Ibas xuntando soedades
Por un burato d' o Mar
chopaches un día a buscarte
A noiva goleta
enloitada de branco
que cose roitas esquencidas
acena n' o vento as suas velas
como ese pano d' as despedidas.
Manuel Antonio Pérez Sánchez (Rianxo, Galicia, España, 1900 - 1930). Poeta.
Xa che levaron os ollos
relingadores de lonxanías
e pescadores de profundidades
Xa che levaron a voz
enmallados n' a furna xiróvaga
por onde escoan as tempestades
Xa che levaron os azos
enmallados n' a rede sonora
d' os cordaxes ereutos
O vento aínda escovaba
c’ as poucas d’ escuma
n' a xerga
mais cadaleitos
Ibas xuntando soedades
Por un burato d' o Mar
chopaches un día a buscarte
A noiva goleta
enloitada de branco
que cose roitas esquencidas
acena n' o vento as suas velas
como ese pano d' as despedidas.
Manuel Antonio Pérez Sánchez (Rianxo, Galicia, España, 1900 - 1930). Poeta.
Ali Babatschahi ( علی باباچاهی )
زندانی ِ اختیاری
مردی که خودش را تمام روز
در یک اتاق زندانی میکند
اصلاً دیوانه نیست
یا انار متراکمیست که در پوست خودش جا خوش کرده
یا پیاز متورمیست که لایهلایه پرده بر نمیدارد از تنهاییاش
در بیروت مردی را دیدم با پای گچگرفته
که از تابوت بیرون نمیپرید
پلنگ هم در قفس آهنین تصوّری از آزادی دارد
در جنگ تن به تن هر دو پا گذاشتیم به فرار
من از یک طرف
من ِ دیگر من از طرف دیگر
و شانه به شانه به خانه رسیدیم دقیقاً
و من زیر یک سقفِ دراز به دراز
دراز کشیدم.
خیلی خوب شد
چند تابلو مختلف دور و برم میخکوب شد
نه عاشق ِ عاشقم
نه کُشته ـ مُردهٔ شهری که ساکنانش در صدف خودشان
گوشماهی ِ خودشانند
قطع امید نمیکنم / امّا
از مردی که در یک اتاق زندانی شده
یا مُردهای که روی تختخواب دراز کشیده.
مردی که خودش را تمام روز
در یک اتاق زندانی میکند
اصلاً دیوانه نیست
یا انار متراکمیست که در پوست خودش جا خوش کرده
یا پیاز متورمیست که لایهلایه پرده بر نمیدارد از تنهاییاش
در بیروت مردی را دیدم با پای گچگرفته
که از تابوت بیرون نمیپرید
پلنگ هم در قفس آهنین تصوّری از آزادی دارد
در جنگ تن به تن هر دو پا گذاشتیم به فرار
من از یک طرف
من ِ دیگر من از طرف دیگر
و شانه به شانه به خانه رسیدیم دقیقاً
و من زیر یک سقفِ دراز به دراز
دراز کشیدم.
خیلی خوب شد
چند تابلو مختلف دور و برم میخکوب شد
نه عاشق ِ عاشقم
نه کُشته ـ مُردهٔ شهری که ساکنانش در صدف خودشان
گوشماهی ِ خودشانند
قطع امید نمیکنم / امّا
از مردی که در یک اتاق زندانی شده
یا مُردهای که روی تختخواب دراز کشیده.
Ali Babatschahi ( علی باباچاهی ) (Busher, Irán, 1942). Periodista, poeta y crítico.
Geoffrey Chaucer
The Love Unfeigned
O YONGE fresshe folkes, he or she,
In which that love up groweth with your age,
Repeyreth hoom from worldly vanitee,
And of your herte up-casteth the visage
To thilke god that after his image
Yow made, and thinketh al nis but a fayre
This world, that passeth sone as floures fayre.
And loveth him, the which that right for love
Upon a cros, our soules for to beye,
First starf, and roos, and sit in hevene a-bove;
For he nil falsen no wight, dar I seye,
That wol his herte al hoolly on him leye.
And sin he best to love is, and most meke,
What nedeth feyned loves for to seke?
O YONGE fresshe folkes, he or she,
In which that love up groweth with your age,
Repeyreth hoom from worldly vanitee,
And of your herte up-casteth the visage
To thilke god that after his image
Yow made, and thinketh al nis but a fayre
This world, that passeth sone as floures fayre.
And loveth him, the which that right for love
Upon a cros, our soules for to beye,
First starf, and roos, and sit in hevene a-bove;
For he nil falsen no wight, dar I seye,
That wol his herte al hoolly on him leye.
And sin he best to love is, and most meke,
What nedeth feyned loves for to seke?
Geoffrey Chaucer (Londres, Inglaterra, 1343 – 1400). Filosofo y piplomático. Poeta.
Luis Colder
Tierra
La tierra se asombra de la raíz, del segundo
que recorre el sendero de las encinas;
piensa en ti, labrador de palabras,
que siembras tinta en el vientre
de la hojarasca, en la corteza de la tradición
de sentirte Dios caprichoso fusilando
verbos en las tapias blancas de la amanecida.
La tierra juega con la gravedad de soportarte,
asume que volverás aunque te subas a las nubes
y a su codicia de atravesar fronteras; sabe esperarte
aunque llegues tarde surcado por las simas
del amor al musgo de las últimas verbenas.
La tierra se asombra de la raíz, del segundo
que recorre el sendero de las encinas;
piensa en ti, labrador de palabras,
que siembras tinta en el vientre
de la hojarasca, en la corteza de la tradición
de sentirte Dios caprichoso fusilando
verbos en las tapias blancas de la amanecida.
La tierra juega con la gravedad de soportarte,
asume que volverás aunque te subas a las nubes
y a su codicia de atravesar fronteras; sabe esperarte
aunque llegues tarde surcado por las simas
del amor al musgo de las últimas verbenas.
Luis Colder (Monforte de Lemos, Galicia, España, 1962). Licenciado en Filología Hispánica. Poeta.
Suscribirse a:
Entradas (Atom)