solitary dog sculptor: 03/27/15

viernes, 27 de marzo de 2015

A los enmudecidos

Ah, la locura de la gran ciudad cuando al anochecer,
junto a los negros muros, se levantan los árboles deformes
y a través de la máscara de plata se asoma el genio del mal;
la luz con látigos que atraen ahuyenta pétrea noche.
Oh, el hundido repique de las campanas del crepúsculo.

Ramera que entre escalofríos alumbra una criatura
muerta. La ira de Dios con rabia azota la frente de los poseídos,
epidemia purpúrea, hambre que rompe verdes ojos.
Ah, la odiosa carcajada del oro.

Pero una humanidad más silenciosa sangra en oscura cueva
forjando con metales duros el rostro redentor.

Versión de Helmut Pfeiffer

A un muerto prematuro

Oh, él ángel negro, que furtivo salió
del interior del árbol,
cuando éramos dulces compañeros de juego en la tarde,
al borde de la fuente azulada.
Nuestro paso era sereno, los ojos redondos
en la frescura parda del otoño.
Oh, la dulzura púrpura de las estrellas.

Pero aquel bajó los pétreos escalones de Mönschberg
con una sonrisa azul, y en la extraña crisálida
de su más tranquila infancia murió.
En el jardín quedó el rostro plateado del amigo
atento en el follaje o en las antiguas rocas.

El alma cantó la muerte, la verde corrupción de la carne,
e imperó el murmullo del bosque,
la queja febril del animal.
Siempre tañían desde torres
las azules campanas de la tarde.

Llegó la hora en que aquel vio sombras en el sol púrpura,
veladuras de podredumbre en el ramaje desnudo;
en la tarde, cuando en el muro crepuscular
cantó el mirlo,
y el espíritu del muerto prematuramente
apareció silencioso en la alcoba.

Oh, la sangre que fluye de la garganta del dios,
flor azul; oh, las lágrimas ardientes
lloradas en la noche.
Nube dorada y tiempo. En solitario recinto
hospedas con frecuencia al muerto.
Y caminas en diálogo íntimo bajo los olmos
bordeando el verde río.

Versión de Helmut Pfeiffer

Al niño Elis

Elis, cuando el mirlo llame en el oscuro bosque
será tu ocaso.
Tus labios beben frescura en la pedregosa fuente azul.

Cuando tu frente sangre suavemente
olvida las antiguas leyendas
y el oscuro augurio del vuelo de los pájaros.

Pues tus leves pasos se adentran en la noche
cargada con los púrpuras racimos de la vid;
mientras el azul hace más bello
el movimiento de tus brazos.

Se escucha un espino,
allá donde vuelan tus dos ojos de luna.
Ah, hace cuánto tiempo que eres de la muerte.

Tu cuerpo es un jacinto
donde un monje sumerge sus dedos de cera.
Y una cueva sombría es nuestro silencio
de la que a veces surge un apacible animal.
Deja caer lento los pesados párpados.

Sobre tus sienes gotea un oscuro rocío,
el último oro de las estrellas extinguidas.

Versión de Helmut Pfeiffer

Links

Poetry: Georg Trakl - De Profundis - Klage - Bio data - Links

Poesia: Georg Trakl - A los enmudecidos - A un muerto prematuro - Al niño Elis - Links a mas GT

Ricardo M Marcenaro - Facebook

Current blogs of The Solitary Dog:

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

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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 :)

The Man With The Pale Eyes

Monsieur Pierre Agénor De Vargnes, the Examining Magistrate, was the exact opposite of a practical joker. He was dignity, staidness, correctness personified. As a sedate man, he was quite incapable of being guilty, even in his dreams, of anything resembling a practical joke, however remotely. I know nobody to whom he could be compared, unless it be the present president of the French Republic. I think it is useless to carry the analogy any further, and having said thus much, it will be easily understood that a cold shiver passed through me when Monsieur Pierre Agénor de Vargnes did me the honor of sending a lady to await on me.
     At about eight o'clock, one morning last winter, as he was leaving the house to go to the Palais de Justice, his footman handed him a card, on which was printed:

    DOCTOR JAMES FERDINAND,
    Member of the Academy of Medicine,
    Port-au-Prince,
    Chevalier of the Legion of Honor.

     At the bottom of the card there was written in pencil:

    From Lady Frogère.

     Monsieur de Vargnes knew the lady very well, who was a very agreeable Creole from Hayti, and whom he had met in many drawing-rooms, and, on the other hand, though the doctor's name did not awaken any recollections in him, his quality and titles alone required that he should grant him an interview, however short it might be. Therefore, although he was in a hurry to get out, Monsieur de Vargnes told the footman to show in his early visitor, but to tell him beforehand that his master was much pressed for time, as he had to go to the Law Courts.

     When the doctor came in, in spite of his usual imperturbability, he could not restrain a movement of surprise, for the doctor presented that strange anomaly of being a negro of the purest, blackest type, with the eyes of a white man, of a man from the North, pale, cold, clear, blue eyes, and his surprise increased, when, after a few words of excuse for his untimely visit, he added, with an enigmatical smile:

     "My eyes surprise you, do they not? I was sure that they would, and, to tell you the truth, I came here in order that you might look at them well, and never forget them."

     His smile, and his words, even more than his smile, seemed to be those of a madman. He spoke very softly, with that childish, lisping voice, which is peculiar to negroes, and his mysterious, almost menacing words, consequently, sounded all the more as if they were uttered at random by a man bereft of his reason. But his looks, the looks of those pale, cold, clear, blue eyes, were certainly not those of a madman. They clearly expressed menace, yes, menace, as well as irony, and, above all, implacable ferocity, and their glance was like a flash of lightning, which one could never forget.

     "I have seen," Monsieur de Vargnes used to say, when speaking about it, "the looks of many murderers, but in none of them have I ever observed such a depth of crime, and of impudent security in crime."

     And this impression was so strong, that Monsieur de Vargnes thought that he was the sport of some hallucination, especially as when he spoke about his eyes, the doctor continued with a smile, and in his most childish accents: "Of course, Monsieur, you cannot understand what I am saying to you, and I must beg your pardon for it. To-morrow you will receive a letter which will explain it all to you, but, first of all, it was necessary that I should let you have a good, a careful look at my eyes, my eyes, which are myself, my only and true self, as you will see."

     With these words, and with a polite bow, the doctor went out, leaving Monsieur de Vargnes extremely surprised, and a prey to this doubt, as he said to himself:

     "Is he merely a madman? The fierce expression, and the criminal depths of his looks are perhaps caused merely by the extraordinary contrast between his fierce looks and his pale eyes."

     And absorbed in these thoughts, Monsieur de Vargnes unfortunately allowed several minutes to elapse, and then he thought to himself suddenly:

     "No, I am not the sport of any hallucination, and this is no case of an optical phenomenon. This man is evidently some terrible criminal, and I have altogether failed in my duty in not arresting him myself at once, illegally, even at the risk of my life."

     The judge ran downstairs in pursuit of the doctor, but it was too late; he had disappeared. In the afternoon, he called on Madame Frogère, to ask her whether she could tell him anything about the matter. She, however, did not know the negro doctor in the least, and was even able to assure him that he was a fictitious personage, for, as she was well acquainted with the upper classes in Hayti, she knew that the Academy of Medicine at Port-au-Prince had no doctor of that name among its members. As Monsieur de Vargnes persisted, and gave descriptions of the doctor, especially mentioning his extraordinary eyes, Madame Frogère began to laugh, and said:

     "You have certainly had to do with a hoaxer, my dear monsieur. The eyes which you have described are certainly those of a white man, and the individual must have been painted."

     On thinking it over, Monsieur de Vargnes remembered that the doctor had nothing of the negro about him, but his black skin, his woolly hair and beard, and his way of speaking, which was easily imitated, but nothing of the negro, not even the characteristic, undulating walk. Perhaps, after all, he was only a practical joker, and during the whole day, Monsieur de Vargnes took refuge in that view, which rather wounded his dignity as a man of consequence, but which appeased his scruples as a magistrate.

     The next day, he received the promised letter, which was written, as well as addressed, in letters cut out of the newspapers. It was as follows:

     "MONSIEUR: Doctor James Ferdinand does not exist, but the man whose eyes you saw does, and you will certainly recognize his eyes. This man has committed two crimes, for which he does not feel any remorse, but, as he is a psychologist, he is afraid of some day yielding to the irresistible temptation of confessing his crimes. You know better than anyone (and that is your most powerful aid), with what imperious force criminals, especially intellectual ones, feel this temptation. That great Poet, Edgar Poe, has written masterpieces on this subject, which express the truth exactly, but he has omitted to mention the last phenomenon, which I will tell you. Yes, I, a criminal, feel a terrible wish for somebody to know of my crimes, and when this requirement is satisfied, my secret has been revealed to a confidant, I shall be tranquil for the future, and be freed from this demon of perversity, which only tempts us once. Well! Now that is accomplished. You shall have my secret; from the day that you recognize me by my eyes, you will try and find out what I am guilty of, and how I was guilty, and you will discover it, being a master of your profession, which, by the by, has procured you the honor of having been chosen by me to bear the weight of this secret, which now is shared by us, and by us two alone. I say, advisedly, by us two alone. You could not, as a matter of fact, prove the reality of this secret to anyone, unless I were to confess it, and I defy you to obtain my public confession, as I have confessed it to you, and without danger to myself."

     Three months later, Monsieur de Vargnes met Monsieur X — — at an evening party, and at first sight, and without the slightest hesitation, he recognized in him those very pale, very cold, and very clear blue eyes, eyes which it was impossible to forget.

     The man himself remained perfectly impassive, so that Monsieur de Vargnes was forced to say to himself:

     "Probably I am the sport of an hallucination at this moment, or else there are two pairs of eyes that are perfectly similar in the world. And what eyes! Can it be possible?"

     The magistrate instituted inquiries into his life, and he discovered this, which removed all his doubts.

     Five years previously, Monsieur X — — had been a very poor, but very brilliant medical student, who, although he never took his doctor's degree, had already made himself remarkable by his microbiological researches.

     A young and very rich widow had fallen in love with him and married him. She had one child by her first marriage, and in the space of six months, first the child and then the mother died of typhoid fever, and thus Monsieur X — — had inherited a large fortune, in due form, and without any possible dispute. Everybody said that he had attended to the two patients with the utmost devotion. Now, were these two deaths the two crimes mentioned in his letter?

     But then, Monsieur X — — must have poisoned his two victims with the microbes of typhoid fever, which he had skillfully cultivated in them, so as to make the disease incurable, even by the most devoted care and attention. Why not?

     "Do you believe it?" I asked Monsieur de Vargnes.

     "Absolutely," he replied. "And the most terrible thing about it is, that the villain is right when he defies me to force him to confess his crime publicly, for I see no means of obtaining a confession, none whatever. For a moment, I thought of magnetism, but who could magnetize that man with those pale, cold, bright eyes? With such eyes, he would force the magnetizer to denounce himself as the culprit."

     And then he said, with a deep sigh:

     "Ah! Formerly there was something good about justice!"

     And when he saw my inquiring looks, he added in a firm and perfectly convinced voice:

     "Formerly, justice had torture at its command."

     "Upon my word," I replied, with all an author's unconscious and simple egotism, "it is quite certain that without the torture, this strange tale will have no conclusion, and that is very unfortunate, as far as regards the story I intended to make out of it."