miércoles, 4 de febrero de 2015

Poetry: Conrad Aiken - Improvisations: Light And Snow - Music I Heard - Nocturne Of Remembered Spring - Links








Improvisations: Light And Snow

I

The girl in the room beneath
Before going to bed
Strums on a mandolin
The three simple tunes she knows.
How inadequate they are to tell how her heart feels!
When she has finished them several times
She thrums the strings aimlessly with her finger-nails
And smiles, and thinks happily of many things.

II

I stood for a long while before the shop window
Looking at the blue butterflies embroidered on tawny silk.
The building was a tower before me,
Time was loud behind me,
Sun went over the housetops and dusty trees;
And there they were, glistening, brilliant, motionless,
Stitched in a golden sky
By yellow patient fingers long since turned to dust.

III

The first bell is silver,
And breathing darkness I think only of the long scythe of time.
The second bell is crimson,
And I think of a holiday night, with rockets
Furrowing the sky with red, and a soft shatter of stars.
The third bell is saffron and slow,
And I behold a long sunset over the sea
With wall on wall of castled cloud and glittering balustrades.
The fourth bell is color of bronze,
I walk by a frozen lake in the dun light of dusk:
Muffled crackings run in the ice,
Trees creak, birds fly.
The fifth bell is cold clear azure,
Delicately tinged with green:
One golden star hangs melting in it,
And towards this, sleepily, I go.
The sixth bell is as if a pebble
Had been dropped into a deep sea far above me . . .
Rings of sound ebb slowly into the silence.

IV

On the day when my uncle and I drove to the cemetery,
Rain rattled on the roof of the carriage;
And talkng constrainedly of this and that
We refrained from looking at the child's coffin on the seat before us.
When we reached the cemetery
We found that the thin snow on the grass
Was already transparent with rain;
And boards had been laid upon it
That we might walk without wetting our feet.

V

When I was a boy, and saw bright rows of icicles
In many lengths along a wall
I was dissappointed to find
That I could not play music upon them:
I ran my hand lightly across them
And they fell, tinkling.
I tell you this, young man, so that your expectations of life
Will not be too great.

VI

It is now two hours since I left you,
And the perfume of your hands is still on my hands.
And though since then
I have looked at the stars, walked in the cold blue streets,
And heard the dead leaves blowing over the ground
Under the trees,
I still remember the sound of your laughter.
How will it be, lady, when there is none left to remember you
Even as long as this?
Will the dust braid your hair?

VII

The day opens with the brown light of snowfall
And past the window snowflakes fall and fall.
I sit in my chair all day and work and work
Measuring words against each other.
I open the piano and play a tune
But find it does not say what I feel,
I grow tired of measuring words against each other,
I grow tired of these four walls,
And I think of you, who write me that you have just had a daughter
And named her after your first sweetheart,
And you, who break your heart, far away,
In the confusion and savagery of a long war,
And you who, worn by the bitterness of winter,
Will soon go south.
The snowflakes fall almost straight in the brown light
Past my window,
And a sparrow finds refuge on my window-ledge.
This alone comes to me out of the world outside
As I measure word with word.

VIII

Many things perplex me and leave me troubled,
Many things are locked away in the white book of stars
Never to be opened by me.
The starr'd leaves are silently turned,
And the mooned leaves;
And as they are turned, fall the shadows of life and death.
Perplexed and troubled,
I light a small light in a small room,
The lighted walls come closer to me,
The familiar pictures are clear.
I sit in my favourite chair and turn in my mind
The tiny pages of my own life, whereon so little is written,
And hear at the eastern window the pressure of a long wind, coming
From I know not where.

How many times have I sat here,
How many times will I sit here again,
Thinking these same things over and over in solitude
As a child says over and over
The first word he has learned to say.

IX

This girl gave her heart to me,
And this, and this.
This one looked at me as if she loved me,
And silently walked away.
This one I saw once and loved, and never saw her again.

Shall I count them for you upon my fingers?
Or like a priest solemnly sliding beads?
Or pretend they are roses, pale pink, yellow, and white,
And arrange them for you in a wide bowl
To be set in sunlight?
See how nicely it sounds as I count them for you—
'This girl gave her heart to me
And this, and this, . . . !
And nevertheless, my heart breaks when I think of them,
When I think their names,
And how, like leaves, they have changed and blown
And will lie, at last, forgotten,
Under the snow.

X

It is night time, and cold, and snow is falling,
And no wind grieves the walls.
In the small world of light around the arc-lamp
A swarm of snowflakes falls and falls.
The street grows silent. The last stranger passes.
The sound of his feet, in the snow, is indistinct.

What forgotten sadness is it, on a night like this,
Takes possession of my heart?
Why do I think of a camellia tree in a southern garden,
With pink blossoms among dark leaves,
Standing, surprised, in the snow?
Why do I think of spring?

The snowflakes, helplessly veering,,
Fall silently past my window;
They come from darkness and enter darkness.
What is it in my heart is surprised and bewildered
Like that camellia tree,
Beautiful still in its glittering anguish?
And spring so far away!

XI

As I walked through the lamplit gardens,
On the thin white crust of snow,
So intensely was I thinking of my misfortune,
So clearly were my eyes fixed
On the face of this grief which has come to me,
That I did not notice the beautiful pale colouring
Of lamplight on the snow;
Nor the interlaced long blue shadows of trees;

And yet these things were there,
And the white lamps, and the orange lamps, and the lamps of lilac were there,
As I have seen them so often before;
As they will be so often again
Long after my grief is forgotten.

And still, though I know this, and say this, it cannot console me.

XII

How many times have we been interrupted
Just as I was about to make up a story for you!
One time it was because we suddenly saw a firefly
Lighting his green lantern among the boughs of a fir-tree.
Marvellous! Marvellous! He is making for himself
A little tent of light in the darkness!
And one time it was because we saw a lilac lightning flash
Run wrinkling into the blue top of the mountain,—
We heard boulders of thunder rolling down upon us
And the plat-plat of drops on the window,
And we ran to watch the rain
Charging in wavering clouds across the long grass of the field!
Or at other times it was because we saw a star
Slipping easily out of the sky and falling, far off,
Among pine-dark hills;
Or because we found a crimson eft
Darting in the cold grass!

These things interrupted us and left us wondering;
And the stories, whatever they might have been,
Were never told.
A fairy, binding a daisy down and laughing?
A golden-haired princess caught in a cobweb?
A love-story of long ago?
Some day, just as we are beginning again,
Just as we blow the first sweet note,
Death itself will interrupt us.

XIII

My heart is an old house, and in that forlorn old house,
In the very centre, dark and forgotten,
Is a locked room where an enchanted princess
Lies sleeping.
But sometimes, in that dark house,
As if almost from the stars, far away,
Sounds whisper in that secret room—
Faint voices, music, a dying trill of laughter?
And suddenly, from her long sleep,
The beautiful princess awakes and dances.

Who is she? I do not know.
Why does she dance? Do not ask me!—
Yet to-day, when I saw you,
When I saw your eyes troubled with the trouble of happiness,
And your mouth trembling into a smile,
And your fingers pull shyly forward,—
Softly, in that room,
The little princess arose
And danced;
And as she danced the old house gravely trembled
With its vague and delicious secret.

XIV

Like an old tree uprooted by the wind
And flung down cruelly
With roots bared to the sun and stars
And limp leaves brought to earth—
Torn from its house—
So do I seem to myself
When you have left me.

XV

The music of the morning is red and warm;
Snow lies against the walls;
And on the sloping roof in the yellow sunlight
Pigeons huddle against the wind.
The music of evening is attenuated and thin—
The moon seen through a wave by a mermaid;
The crying of a violin.
Far down there, far down where the river turns to the west,
The delicate lights begin to twinkle
On the dusky arches of the bridge:
In the green sky a long cloud,
A smouldering wave of smoky crimson,
Breaks in the freezing wind: and above it, unabashed,
Remote, untouched, fierly palpitant,
Sings the first star.



Music I Heard

Music I heard with you was more than music,
And bread I broke with you was more than bread;
Now that I am without you, all is desolate;
All that was once so beautiful is dead.

Your hands once touched this table and this silver,
And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.
These things do not remember you, beloved,
And yet your touch upon them will not pass.

For it was in my heart that you moved among them,
And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes;
And in my heart they will remember always,
—They knew you once, O beautiful and wise.



Nocturne Of Remembered Spring

I.

Moonlight silvers the tops of trees,
Moonlight whitens the lilac shadowed wall
And through the evening fall,
Clearly, as if through enchanted seas,
Footsteps passing, an infinite distance away,
In another world and another day.
Moonlight turns the purple lilacs blue,
Moonlight leaves the fountain hoar and old,
And the boughs of elms grow green and cold,
Our footsteps echo on gleaming stones,
The leaves are stirred to a jargon of muted tones.
This is the night we have kept, you say:
This is the moonlit night that will never die.
Through the grey streets our memories retain
Let us go back again.

II.

Mist goes up from the river to dim the stars,
The river is black and cold; so let us dance
To flare of horns, and clang of cymbals and drums;
And strew the glimmering floor with roses,
And remember, while the rich music yawns and closes,
With a luxury of pain, how silence comes.
Yes, we loved each other, long ago;
We moved like wind to a music's ebb and flow.
At a phrase from violins you closed your eyes,
And smiled, and let me lead you how young we were!
Your hair, upon that music, seemed to stir.
Let us return there, let us return, you and I;
Through changeless streets our memories retain
Let us go back again.

III.

Mist goes up from the rain steeped earth, and clings
Ghostly with lamplight among drenched maple trees.
We walk in silence and see how the lamplight flings
Fans of shadow upon it the music's mournful pleas
Die out behind us, the door is closed at last,
A net of silver silence is softly cast
Over our thought slowly we walk,
Quietly with delicious pause, we talk,
Of foolish trivial things; of life and death,
Time, and forgetfulness, and dust and truth;
Lilacs and youth.
You laugh, I hear the after taken breath,
You darken your eyes and turn away your head
At something I have said
Some intuition that flew too deep,
And struck a plageant chord.
Tonight, tonight you will remember it as you fall asleep,
Your dream will suddenly blossom with sharp delight,
Goodnight! You say.
The leaves of the lilac dip and sway;
The purple spikes of bloom
Nod their sweetness upon us, lift again,
Your white face turns, I am cought with pain
And silence descends, and dripping of dew from eaves,
And jeweled points of leaves.

IV.

I walk in a pleasure of sorrow along the street
And try to remember you; slow drops patter;
Water upon the lilacs has made them sweet;
I brush them with my sleeve, the cool drops scatter;
And suddenly I laugh and stand and listen
As if another had laughed a gust
Rustles the leaves, the wet spikes glisten;
And it seems as though it were you who had shaken the bough,
And spilled the fragrance I pursue your face again,
It grows more vague and lovely, it eludes me now.
I remember that you are gone, and drown in pain.
Something there was I said to you I recall,
Something just as the music seemed to fall
That made you laugh, and burns me still with pleasure.
What were those words the words like dripping fire?
I remember them now, and in sweet leisure
Rehearse the scene, more exquisite than before,
And you more beautiful, and I more wise.
Lilacs and spring, and night, and your clear eyes,
And you, in white, by the darkness of a door:
These things, like voices weaving to richest music,
Flow and fall in the cool night of my mind,
I pursue your ghost among green leaves that are ghostly,
I pursue you, but cannot find.
And suddenly, with a pang that is sweetest of all,
I become aware that I cannot remember you;
The ghost I knew
Has silently plunged in shadows, shadows that stream and fall.

V.

Let us go in and dance once more
On the dream's glimmering floor,
Beneath the balcony festooned with roses.
Let us go in and dance once more.
The door behind us closes
Against an evening purple with stars and mist.
Let us go in and keep our tryst
With music and white roses, and spin around
In swirls of sound.
Do you forsee me, married and grown old?
And you, who smile about you at this room,
Is it foretold
That you must step from tumult into gloom,
Forget me, love another?
No, you are Cleopatra, fiercely young,
Laughing upon the topmost stair of night;
Roses upon the desert must be flung;
Above us, light by light,
Weaves the delirious darkness, petal fall,
And music breaks in waves on the pillared wall;
And you are Cleopatra, and do not care.
And so, in memory, you will always be
Young and foolish, a thing of dream and mist;
And so, perhaps when all is disillusioned,
And eternal spring returns once more,
Bringing a ghost of lovelier springs remembered,
You will remember me.

VI.

Yet when we meet we seem in silence to say,
Pretending serene forgetfulness of our youth,
"Do you remember but then why should you remember!
Do you remember a certain day,
Or evening rather, spring evening long ago,
We talked of death, and love, and time, and truth,
And said such wise things, things that amused us so
How foolish we were, who thought ourselves so wise!"
And then we laugh, with shadows in our eyes.









Poetry: Conrad Aiken - Improvisations: Light And Snow - Music I Heard - Nocturne Of Remembered Spring - Links




Ricardo M Marcenaro - Facebook

Blogs of The Solitary Dog:
Solitary Dog Sculptor:
http://byricardomarcenaro.blogspot.com
Solitary Dog Sculptor I:
http://byricardomarcenaroi.blogspot.com

Para:
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For:
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My blogs are an open house to all cultures, religions and countries. Be a follower if you like it, with this action you are building a new culture of tolerance, open mind and heart for peace, love and human respect.

Thanks :)

Mis blogs son una casa abierta a todas las culturas, religiones y países. Se un seguidor si quieres, con esta acción usted está construyendo una nueva cultura de la tolerancia, la mente y el corazón abiertos para la paz, el amor y el respeto humano.

Gracias :)





Photos: Balazs Pataki - Part 4 - 13 images - Links to more BP






Photos: Balazs Pataki - Part 4 - 13 images - Links to more BP




Ricardo M Marcenaro - Facebook

Blogs of The Solitary Dog:
Solitary Dog Sculptor:
http://byricardomarcenaro.blogspot.com
Solitary Dog Sculptor I:
http://byricardomarcenaroi.blogspot.com

Para:
comunicarse conmigo:
marcenaroescultor@gmail.com
For:
contact me:
marcenaroescultor@gmail.com


My blogs are an open house to all cultures, religions and countries. Be a follower if you like it, with this action you are building a new culture of tolerance, open mind and heart for peace, love and human respect.

Thanks :)

Mis blogs son una casa abierta a todas las culturas, religiones y países. Se un seguidor si quieres, con esta acción usted está construyendo una nueva cultura de la tolerancia, la mente y el corazón abiertos para la paz, el amor y el respeto humano.

Gracias :)





Music: Shantel - Amsterdam - Klezmer Band Bucovina Club Orchester - Manolis - 2 vids - Lyrics - Bio data - Links






  
video

Shantel - Amsterdam  - Klezmer Band Bucovina Club Orchester
 




Stefan Hantel, better known by his stage name Shantel (born 2 March 1968), is a DJ and producer based in Frankfurt, Germany. He is known for his work with gypsy brass orchestras, DJing and remixing traditional Balkan music with electronic beats.

Background and early life

Shantel is of Bukovina German descent. His grandparents on the maternal side were from the Romanian part of Bukovina.[1]
Career

Shantel began his DJ career in Frankfurt, Germany, and was inspired by the audience reaction to gypsy brass bands such as Fanfare Ciocărlia and trumpeter Boban Marković to infuse electronically tweaked Balkan gypsy music into his DJ set. Shantel released two compilations of his popular DJ night, Bucovina Club, on his own Essay label, which won the Club Global award in the 2006 BBC Radio 3 Awards for World Music. He was one of several DJs to remix recordings of Taraf de Haïdouks and Kočani Orkestar on the Electric Gypsyland compilations from Belgium's Crammed Discs label, and released his next album on that label. He gained popularity in Turkey after recording the clip of 'Disko Partizani' in Istanbul.[2] Shantel's 2007 album Disko Partizani departed somewhat from the techno sound of Bucovina Club, concentrating more on the music's Balkan roots.[3] In 2011 he released an album with Oz Almog named Kosher Nostra Jewish Gangsters Greatest Hits. This album is a wild mix of Swing, Jazz, Twist, Charleston and Yiddish songs and Ballads.

Discography

    Super Mandarine (1994)
    Club Guerilla (1995)
    Auto Jumps & Remixes (1997)
    EP (1997)
    No. 2 (1997)
    "II" EP (1998)
    Higher than the Funk (1998)
    Oh So Lovely EP (1998)
    Oh So Lovely Remixes (1998)
    Backwood (2001)
    Great Delay (2001)
    Inside (2001)
    Bucovina (2003)
    Disko (2003)
    Bucovina Club Vol. 2 (2005)
    Gypsy Beats and Balkan Bangers (2006)
    Disko Partizani (2007)
    Disko Partizani Remixes (2008)
    Planet Paprika (2009)
    Kosher Nostra Jewish Gangsters Greatest Hits (2011)
    Anarchy + Romance (2013)

More:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shantel

video

Shantel - Manolis

They got you down Manolis
What have you done to me
No song we've no funky beat
still feel a killer beat
whats wrong with you Manolis
you were the one so proud (or bright)
They got you down say let this
let this get tonight

Stefan Hantel (n. 1 de enero de 1968 en Fráncfort del Meno), conocido como Shantel, es un productor y músico alemán. Es conocido por sus aproximaciones electrónicas a la música popular de los Balcanes.

Biografía

Stefan Hantel es descendiente de inmigrantes de la Bucovina (sus abuelos maternos). 1991 se mudó de manera transitoria a París para estudiar diseño gráfico, haciendo sus primeros pasos como DJ en la capital francesa. Al volver a Alemania en 1994, fundó la empresa discográfica Essay Recordings y una discoteca de música electrónica. En 1998, su socio Daniel Haaksmann se mudó a Berlín, razón por la cual la compañía de discos se cerró temporalmente.

En 2001, viajó a Chernivtsi, la ciudad natal de sus abuelos, y desde este momento se empezó a interesar por la música de los Balcanes. En 2002, publicó el compilado Bucovina Club con remixes electrónicos de bandas balcánicas conocidas. En 2003, reactivó a su label y contrató a varias bandas de los Balcanes. En 2005, publicó la segunda parte de su compilado, Bucovina Club 2. Algunos de los temas fueron utilizados en películas como Borat.

En 2007, publicó a su primer disco solista, Disko Partizani, el cual tuvo su mayor éxito en Austria, dónde llegó al puesto 17 de los rankings de venta. También en Alemania y Polonia llegó a los rankings comerciales.

Discografía

    Club Guerilla (1995)
    Auto Jumps & Remixes (1997)
    Higher than the Funk (1998)
    Great Delay (2001)
    Bucovina Club (2003)
    Bucovina Club Vol. 2 (2005)
    Disko Partizani (2007)
    The Edge of Heaven (Auf der anderen Seite) - 2007 (banda de sonido)
    Planet Paprika (2009)
    Anarchy + Romance (2013)


http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shantel



Music: Shantel - Amsterdam  - Klezmer Band Bucovina Club Orchester - Manolis - 2 vids - Lyrics - Bio data - Links




Ricardo M Marcenaro - Facebook

Blogs of The Solitary Dog:
Solitary Dog Sculptor:
http://byricardomarcenaro.blogspot.com
Solitary Dog Sculptor I:
http://byricardomarcenaroi.blogspot.com

Para:
comunicarse conmigo:
marcenaroescultor@gmail.com
For:
contact me:
marcenaroescultor@gmail.com


My blogs are an open house to all cultures, religions and countries. Be a follower if you like it, with this action you are building a new culture of tolerance, open mind and heart for peace, love and human respect.

Thanks :)

Mis blogs son una casa abierta a todas las culturas, religiones y países. Se un seguidor si quieres, con esta acción usted está construyendo una nueva cultura de la tolerancia, la mente y el corazón abiertos para la paz, el amor y el respeto humano.

Gracias :)





Poesia: Samuel Beckett - de Poemas en Ingles - Whoroscope (Horóscoño) - Links a mas SB







Whoroscope
(Horóscoño) ¹

¿Qué es esto?
¿Un huevo?
Por los hermanos Boot, apesta a fresco.
Dáselo a Gillot.

Cómo estás, Galileo,
¡y sus terceras sucesivas!²
¡Asqueroso viejo nivelador³ copernicano hijo de vivandera!
Nos movemos, dijo, al fin nos marchamos-¡Porca Madonna!
como un contramaestre o un Pretendiente saco-de-patatas cargando
                                                                                                              contra el enemigo.
Esto no es moverse, sino conmoverse.

Qué es esto ?
¿Una tortilla acerba o una que ha florecido?
¡Dos ovarios revueltos con prosticiutto?*
¿Cuánto tiempo lo invaginó, la emplumada?
Tres días y cuatro noches?
Dáselo a Gillot.

Faulhaber, Beeckman y Pedro el Rojo
venid ahora en un alud de nubarrones o en la cristalina nube de
                                                                                           Gassendi, roja como el sol,
y os limaré todas vuestras gallinas-y-medio
o limaré una lente bajo el edredón en la mitad del día.

Pensar que era él, mi propio hermano, Pedro el Bravucón
y que no usaba de silogismo alguno
como si Papi aún estuviera con vida.
¡Ea!, pásame esa calderilla,
¡dulce sudor molido de mi hígado ardiente!
¡Qué días aquéllos, sentado al lado de la estufa, arrojando jesuitas
                                                                                                                  por el tragaluz!

¿Y ése, quién es? ¿Hals?
Que espere.

¡Mi adorable bizquita!
Yo me escondía y me buscabas**.
Y Francine, precioso fruto mío de un feto casa-y-gabinete!
¡Vaya una exfoliación!
¡Su pequeña epidermis grisácea y desollada, y rojas las amígdalas!
Hija única mía
Azotada por la fiebre hasta en el turbio restañar de su sangre...
¡sangre!
¡Oh, Harvey de mi corazón!
¿qué harán los rojos y los blancos, los muchos en los pocos
(querido Harvey sangre-girador¹º)
para arremolinarse por este batidor resquebrajado?
Y el cuarto Enrique llegó a la cripta de la flecha.
¿Qué es esto?
¿Desde cuando?
Incúbalo¹¹.

Un viento de maldad empujaba la desesperación de mi sosiego
contra las escarpadas cimas de la señora
única:
no una vez ni dos, sino...
(¡Burdel de Cristo, empóllalo!)
en una sola anegación de sol.
(Jesuitastros, copien, por favor.)
Por lo tanto adelante con las medias de seda sobre el traje de punto
                                                                                                                 y la piel mórbida...
qué estoy diciendo, la suave tela...
y vámonos a Ancona, sobre el brillante Adriático,
y adiós unos instantes a la amarilla llave de los Rosacruces.
Ellos no saben qué es lo que hizo el dueño de todos los que hacen,
que a la nariz le toca el beso del aire todo fétido y fragante
y a los tímpanos, y al trono del orificio fecal
y a los ojos su zigzag.
De esta manera Le bebemos y Le comemos
y el Beaune aguado y los duros cubitos de pan Bimbo¹²
porque Él puede danzar
igual cerca que lejos de Su Esencia Danzante
y tan triste o tan vivo como requiere el cáliz, la bandeja.
¿Qué te parece, Antonio?

¡En el nombre de Bacon, me empollaréis el huevo!
¿O deberé tragárme fantasmas de caverna?

¡Anna María!
Ella lee a Moisés y dice que su amor está crucificado.
¡Leider!  ¡Leider!¹³ Florecía pero se marchitó,
pálido y abusivo periquito en el escaparate de una calle mayor.
No, si creo desde el Principio a la última palabra, te lo juro.
¡Fallor, ergo sum!¹
viejo frôleur¹ esquivo
Toll-ó y legg-ó¹*
y se abrochó el chaleco de redentorista.
No importa, pasémoslo por alto.
Soy un niño atrevido, ya lo sé,
luego no soy mi hijo
(aunque fuese portero)
ni el de Joaquín mi padre,
sino astilla de un palo perfecto que no es viejo ni nuevo
pétalo solitario de una gran rosa, alta y resplandeciente.

¿Estás maduro al fin
pálido y esbelto tordo mío, de seno desdoblado?
¡Qué ricamente huele
este aborto de volantón!
Lo comeré con tenedor para pescado.
Clara y plumas y yema.
Me alzaré luego y empezaré a moverme
hacia Raab de las nieves,
la matinal amazona asesina confesada por el papa,
Cristina la destripadora.

Oh Weulles, no derrames la sangre de un franco
que ha subido los peldaños amargos
(René du Perron...)
y otórgame mi hora
segunda inescrutable sin estrellas.


Versión de Jenaro Talens







 NOTAS DEL TRADUCTOR:

"Escrito en el verano de 1930 para participar en un concurso de poesía sobre
el tema del Tiempo, organizado por Nancy Cunard, con un premio de 10 libras,
que ganó. El jurado estaba compuesto  por la misma Nancy Cunard y por Richard
Aldington, quien sugirió al autor que añadiese las notas  para la publicación.
Basado en la biografía de Descartes escrita a finales del siglo XVII por AdrienBaillet,
se sometió a una de las normas del concurso: que el poemano tuviese mas de
100 versos y fue publicado en una edición de 300 ejemplares, 100 de ellos
firmados por el autor, por cuenta de la HoursPress de Nancy Cunard."
 ¹   Horóscoño:  Contracción de Whore y Horoscope. El juego fonético del original es
      intraducible.
 ²   y sus terceras sucesivas: El cambio de persona verbal ( del esperable yours al
      inesperado his) es lo que marca la confusión que el propio Beckett señala entre
      Galileo Galilei y su padre Vincenzo Galilei, autor del Diálogo dellamusicaantica
      e della moderna (Firenze, 1581). De ahí el calificativo saco-de-patatas.
 ³   Viejo nivelador: oldCopernican lead-swinging en el original. Alusión al péndulo
       de la torre de Pisa, hecho por Galileo.
    Pretendiente saco-de-patatas: Pretendiente al trono del movimiento, trono
      inmóvil sobre un cuerpo móvil -la Tierra-, de ahí el calificativo de saco-de-patatas.
    no es moverse sino con moverse: En el original that 's notmoving, that 's moving.
      Al igual que las dos citas anteriores hace referencia a los dos tipos de movimiento:
      el del hombre sobre la Tierra fija -según la doctrina geocéntrica- y el del planeta
      dentro del sistema solar, según el heliocentrismo propuesto por Copérnico.
      En la primera versión traduje "esto no es moverse sino ser movido". En la medida
      en que "conmover" (el otro significado de tomove)  incluye la lectura de "mover
      con" he preferido corregir aquí la primitiva versión para mantener el doble sentido
      del original.
 *   dos ovarios revueltos, fritos con prosticiutto: Juego de palabras sobre la semejanza
      huevo-ovario y la identidad de raíz de próstata y prosciutto, jamón, en italiano.
    Gassendi: Pierre Gassendi, sacerdote y canónigo de Dijon, (1592 - 1655). Filósofo
       materialista, opuesto a las ideas de Descartes. Perteneciente al grupo de renacentistas
       rezagados, no aceptaba la afirmación de Dios y del alma como verdades primeras y
       oponía su idea del conocimiento a través de los sentidos al innatismo y espiritualismo
       propios del pensamiento cartesiano.
    sentado al lado de la estufa: Se refiere a la estufa de que habla Descartes en la segunda
       parte de su Discurso del método: "Me hallaba entonces en Alemania ( ...) no teniendo
       afortunadamente preocupaciones ni pasiones que me turbaran, permanecía todo el día
       encerrado solo al lado de la estufa, donde tenía todo para entretener mis pensamientos".
       (Trad. J. Rovira Armengol, Losada, 1959, pág. 19).
**   yo me escondo, búscame: El juego infantil del escondite.
¹º   Sangre-girador: bloodswirling da idea exactamente de remolinador de la sangre,
        sustituído por la palabra compuesta anterior con el propósito de mantener en el verso
        castellano la construcción original inglesa.
¹¹   Íncúbalo:  Sitonit, siéntate en él, textualmente.
¹²   pan Bimbo: Cubes of Hovis, en el original Hovis, marca de pan de molde conocida.
        Hovis y Beaune, pan y vino, las dos formas del cuerpo eucarístico.
¹³   Leider:  desgraciadamente. En alemán en el original.
¹   Fallor, ergo sum: me engaño, luego existo. Parodia del cogito, ergo sum cartesiano.
¹   frôleur: que roza ligeramente. En francés en el original.
¹*   En oll- 'o y legg-ó:  En el original tolle-d and legge-d, gramaticalización inglesa de los
        imperativos latinos como pretéritos. Tolle, lege, las palabras que escuchó San Agustín
        en el matorral antes de su conversión.
¹   Raab: meretriz de Jericó.
¹   peldaños amargos:  reminiscencia dantesca. DellaScala -Purgat. c. XVIII, v. 121- y
       Du Perron, título de Descartes y escalinata en francés.

NOTAS DEL AUTOR:

A René Descartes, Señor de Perron, le gustaba su tortilla hecha con huevos incubados
de ocho a diez días; el resultado, esté más o menos tiempo bajo la gallina, dice él, es desagradable.
Mantenía oculta su fecha de nacimiento, por lo que ningún astrólogo pudo hacer su horóscopo.
El ir y venir del huevo madurándose le servía de entretenimiento.
v.3.                 -En 1640 los hermanos Boot refutaron a Aristóteles en Dublín.
v.4.                 -Descartes pasaba a su criado Gillot los problemas más fáciles de geometría
                          analítica.
v.v. 5-10.    -Se refiere a su desprecio hacia Galileo hijo (a quien confunde con el más
                           musical Galileo padre) y a su sofístico escrito acerca del movimiento de la
                           tierra.
v. 17.              -Resolvió problemas planteados por estos tres matemáticos.
v.v. 21-26.   -El intento de estafa por parte de su hermano mayor Pierre de la Bretaillière.
                         - El dinero que ganó como soldado.
v. 27.             -FranzHals.
v.v. 29-30.  -De niño jugaba con una muchachita bizca.
v.v. 31-35.   -Su hija murió de escarlatina a los seis años.
v.v. 37-40.  -Alabó a Harvey por su descubrimiento de la circulación de la sangre, pero
                           no admitía que hubiera explicado el movimiento del corazón.
v. 41.              -El corazón de Enrique IV fue recibido en el colegio jesuíta de La Flèche
                           mientras Descartes aún estudiaba en él.
vv. 45-53.    -Sus visiones y peregrinación a Loreto.
vv. 56-65.    -Sus argumentos eucarísticos, en respuesta al jansenista Antonio Arnauld
                          que le había desafiado a reconciliar la doctrina de la materia con la doctrina
                          de la transubstanciación.
v. 68.              -Schurmann, la holandesa medias-azules, una piadosa discípula de Voet, el
                           adversario de Descartes.
vv. 73-76.    -San Agustín tuvo una revelación en un matorral y leyó a San Pablo.
vv. 77-83.    -Probó la existencia de Dios por exhaustividad.
vv. 91-93.     -Cristina, reina de Suecia. En Estocolmo, en noviembre llamó a Descartes, que
                            durante toda su vida había permanecido en cama hasta mediodía, para que le
                            hiciera compañía las cinco de la madrugada.
v. 94.              -Weulles, médico peripatético holandés en la corte sueca, y enemigo
                           de Descartes.


 






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