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domingo, 6 de marzo de 2016

Fervor de Buenos Aires - Jorge Luis Borges

Rating: 
29/02/16
Habré de levantar la vasta vida
que aún ahora es tu espejo:
cada mañana habré de reconstruirla.
(Ausencia)

I shall raise the wide life
that is still your mirror:
each morning I shall rebuild it.
(Absence)
Borges published this book in 1923. It was his first collection of poems, one that would not only represent an ode to the capital's nostalgic beauty, but also his first attempt at dealing with philosophical issues in the land of the uncertain. Of the impossible and the extreme. Lights of different colors; shadows of different shapes. A silent passion and the lyrical tone you would not expect from him. But perhaps you should.
I could relate to those kinds of poems, of course. The rest of them convey a closeness to a place that I would never be able to recognize. A devotion driven by some irresistible force that made everything seem rather foreign to me. However, many poems resonate with different meanings and emotions and thus have become part of my memory.
Inscripción en cualquier Sepulcro
No arriesgue el mármol temerario
gárrulas transgresiones al todopoder del olvido,
enumerando con prolijidad
el nombre, la opinión, los acontecimientos, la patria.
Tanto abalorio bien adjudicado está a la tiniebla
y el mármol no hable lo que callan los hombres.
Lo esencial de la vida fenecida
—la trémula esperanza,
el milagro implacable del dolor y el asombro del goce—
siempre perdurará.
Ciegamente reclama duración el alma arbitraria
cuando la tiene asegurada en vidas ajenas,
cuando tú mismo eres el espejo y la réplica
de quienes no alcanzaron tu tiempo
y otros serán (y son) tu inmortalidad en la tierra.

Inscription on any Tomb
Let not the rash marble risk
garrulous breaches of oblivion’s omnipotence,
in many words recalling
name, renown, events, birthplace.
All those glass jewels are best left in the dark.
Let not the marble say what men do not.
The essentials of the dead man’s life—
the trembling hope,
the implacable miracle of pain, the wonder of sensual delight—
will abide forever.
Blindly the willful soul asks for length of days
when its survival is assured by the lives of others,
when you yourself are the embodied continuance
of those who did not live into your time
and others will be (and are) your immortality on earth.

*

Afterglow
Siempre es conmovedor el ocaso
por indigente o charro que sea,
pero más conmovedor todavía
es aquel brillo desesperado y final
que herrumbra la llanura
cuando el sol último se ha hundido.
Nos duele sostener esa luz tirante y distinta,
esa alucinación que impone al espacio
el unánime miedo de la sombra
y que cesa de golpe
cuando notamos su falsía,
como cesan los sueños
cuando sabemos que soñamos.

Afterglow
Sunset is always disturbing
whether theatrical or muted,
but still more disturbing
is that last desperate glow
that turns the plain to rust
when on the horizon nothing is left
of the pomp and clamor of the setting sun.
How hard holding on to that light, so tautly drawn
and different,
that hallucination which the human fear of the dark
imposes on space
and which ceases at once
the moment we realize its falsity,
the way a dream is broken
the moment the sleeper knows he is dreaming.





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