Poesia: Arthur Rimbaud - Poesia Completa - Parte 5 - Versos Escolares - Poemas en Latin - Poemas de Un Corazón bajo una sotana - Poema 138 y 239 - La Brisa - Links

B: POEMAS DE «UN CORAZÓN

BAJO UNA SOTANA»37

138

¡A nuestro lado,

Virgen María

Madre querida

del Jesús manso,

oh Santo Cristo,

ven madre santa,

Virgen preñada,

a redimirnos!

239

¿Acaso no imaginas por qué de amor me muero?

La flor me dice: ¡Hola! ¡Buenos días!, el ave.

Llegó la primavera, la dulzura del ángel.

¡No adivinas acaso por qué de embriaguez hiervo!

Dulce ángel de mi cuna, ángel de mi abuelita,

¿No adivinas acaso que me transformo en ave

que mi lira palpita y que mis alas baten

como una golondrina?

3

LA BRISA40

En su retiro de algodón,

con suave aliento, duerme el aura:

en su nido de seda y lana,

el aura de alegre mentón

Cuando el aura levanta su ala,

en su retiro de algodón

y corre do la flor lo llama

su aliento es un fruto en sazón.

¡Oh, el aura quintaesenciada!

¡Oh, quinta esencia del amor!

¡Por el rocío enjugada,

qué bien me huele en el albor!

Jesús, José, Jesús, María.

Es como el ala de un halcón

que invade, duerme y apacigua

al que se duerme en oración41.

36 Un sexto poema en latín, La Alocución de Sancho Panza a la muerte de su burro, se ha perdido.

Esta composición ganó, sin embargo, el Primer Premio de Versos Latinos, en el Concurso Académico de 1870.

37 La primera alusión a este texto en prosa aparece en una carta de Verlaine a su editor Vannier.

Texto de 1870, probablemente, no será publicado hasta 1924, por los surrealistas A. Breton y L. Aragon, después de muchas dudas sobre su paternidad. Hoy no existen dudas al respecto. Se trata de un texto cuya ingenuidad no consigue ocultar alguna de las grandes preocupaciones religiosas de Rimbaud durante su infancia y su primera adolescencia, a pesar del espíritu sarcástico que lo domina. Adopta la forma paródica del diario íntimo de un seminarista. El texto nos indica hasta é punto es profunda la formación religiosa de Rimbaud, muy en la línea los primeros poemas de Mallarmé ––y tras la huella de Lamartine, en este caso. El texto en prosa sirve de marco para tres poesías que escribe ––y comenta–– el seminarista. Poesías que son objeto de burla obscena por parte de su superior.

38 La frase que precede a este pequeño poema (simple oración) es la siguiente: «... Por ejemplo, ayer ya no aguantaba más: he oído, como el ángel Gabriel, las alas de mi corazón. ¡El soplo del espíritu sagrado ha recomido mi ser! He cogido mi lira y he cantado.»

39 Estos versos aparecen tras la indicación 12 de mayo... y están seguidos de esta frase: «He compuesto estos versos ayer, durante el recreo; he entrado en la capilla; me he encerrado en un confesionario, y allí, mi joven poesía ha podido agitar sus alas y emprender el vuelo, en el sueño y en el silencio, hacia las esferas del amor.»

40 Título que el poeta le da al poema en el texto que lo introduce: «Le doy gracias al Espíritu Santo por haberme inspirado estos versos encantadores: estos versos voy a engastarlos en mi corazón y cuando el cielo me permita volver a ver a Thimothina, se los daré a cambio de sus calcetines. Lo he titulado: La brisa.» Existe una interpretación procaz de estos versos: el aura no sería sino el pene adormecido del niño (i).

Poesia: Arthur Rimbaud - Poesia Completa - Parte 5 - Versos Escolares - Poemas en Latin - Poemas de Un Corazón bajo una sotana - Poema 138 y 239 - La Brisa - Links

 Links:

Poesia: Arthur Rimbaud - Poesia Completa - Parte 1 - Versos Escolares - Poemas en Latin - El sueño del escolar

Poesia: Arthur Rimbaud - Poesia Completa - Parte 2 - Versos Escolares - Poemas en Latin - El angel y el niño - Combate de Hercules y del rio Aquelo - Link

Poesia: Arthur Rimbaud - Poesia Completa - Parte 3 - Versos Escolares - Poemas en Latin - Yugurta - Links

Ricardo M Marcenaro - Facebook

Operative 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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Diario La Nación
Argentina
Cuenta Comentarista en el Foro:
Capiscum

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 :)

 

Poetry: William Wordsworth - The Thorn - Links

THE THORN

I.
There is a thorn; it looks so old,
In truth you'd find it hard to say,
How it could ever have been young,
It looks so old and grey.
Not higher than a two years' child
It stands erect this aged thorn;
No leaves it has, no thorny points;
It is a mass of knotted joints,
A wretched thing forlorn.
It stands erect, and like a stone
With lichens it is overgrown.

II.
Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown
With lichens to the very top,
And hung with heavy tufts of moss,
A melancholy crop:
Up from the earth these mosses creep,
And this poor thorn! they clasp it round
So close, you'd say that they were bent
With plain and manifest intent,
To drag it to the ground;
And all had join'd in one endeavour
To bury this poor thorn for ever.

III.
High on a mountain's highest ridge,
Where oft the stormy winter gale
Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds
It sweeps from vale to vale;
Not five yards from the mountain−path,
This thorn you on your left espy;
And to the left, three yards beyond,
You see a little muddy pond
Of water, never dry;
I've measured it from side to side:
'Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.

IV.
And close beside this aged thorn,
There is a fresh and lovely sight,
A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,
Just half a foot in height.
All lovely colours there you see,
All colours that were ever seen,
And mossy network too is there,
As if by hand of lady fair
The work had woven been,
And cups, the darlings of the eye,
So deep is their vermillion dye.

V.
Ah me! what lovely tints are there!
Of olive green and scarlet bright,
In spikes, in branches, and in stars,
Green, red, and pearly white.
This heap of earth o'ergrown with moss,
Which close beside the thorn you see,
So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,
Is like an infant's grave in size
As like as like can be:
But never, never any where,
An infant's grave was half so fair.

VI.
Now would you see this aged thorn,
This pond and beauteous hill of moss,
You must take care and chuse your time
The mountain when to cross.
For oft there sits, between the heap
That's like an infant's grave in size
And that same pond of which I spoke,
A woman in a scarlet cloak,
And to herself she cries,
“Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery!”

VII.
At all times of the day and night
This wretched woman thither goes,
And she is known to every star,
And every wind that blows;
And there beside the thorn she sits
When the blue day−light's in the skies,
And when the whirlwind's on the hill,
Or frosty air is keen and still,
And to herself she cries,
“Oh misery! oh misery!
Oh woe is me! oh misery;”

VIII.
“Now wherefore thus, by day and night,
In rain, in tempest, and in snow
Thus to the dreary mountain−top
Does this poor woman go?
And why sits she beside the thorn
When the blue day−light's in the sky,
Or when the whirlwind's on the hill,
Or frosty air is keen and still,
And wherefore does she cry?—
Oh wherefore? wherefore? tell me why
Does she repeat that doleful cry?”

IX.
I cannot tell; I wish I could;
For the true reason no one knows,
But if you'd gladly view the spot,
The spot to which she goes;
The heap that's like an infant's grave,
The pond—and thorn, so old and grey.
Pass by her door—tis seldom shut—
And if you see her in her hut,
Then to the spot away!—
I never heard of such as dare
Approach the spot when she is there.

X.
“But wherefore to the mountain−top,
Can this unhappy woman go,
Whatever star is in the skies,
Whatever wind may blow?”
Nay rack your brain—'tis all in vain,
I'll tell you every thing I know;
But to the thorn and to the pond
Which is a little step beyond,
I wish that you would go:
Perhaps when you are at the place
You something of her tale may trace.

XI.
I'll give you the best help I can:
Before you up the mountain go,
Up to the dreary mountain−top,
I'll tell you all I know.
'Tis now some two and twenty years,
Since she (her name is Martha Ray)
Gave with a maiden's true good will
Her company to Stephen Hill;
And she was blithe and gay,
And she was happy, happy still
Whene'er she thought of Stephen Hill.

XII.
And they had fix'd the wedding−day,
The morning that must wed them both;
But Stephen to another maid
Had sworn another oath;
And with this other maid to church
Unthinking Stephen went—
Poor Martha! on that woful day
A cruel, cruel fire, they say,
Into her bones was sent:
It dried her body like a cinder,
And almost turn'd her brain to tinder.

XII.
They say, full six months after this,
While yet the summer leaves were green,
She to the mountain−top would go,
And there was often seen.
'Tis said, a child was in her womb,
As now to any eye was plain;
She was with child, and she was mad,
Yet often she was sober sad
From her exceeding pain.
Oh me! ten thousand times I'd rather,
That he had died, that cruel father!

XIV.
Sad case for such a brain to hold
Communion with a stirring child!
Sad case, as you may think, for one
Who had a brain so wild!
Last Christmas when we talked of this,
Old Farmer Simpson did maintain,
That in her womb the infant wrought
About its mother's heart, and brought
Her senses back again:
And when at last her time drew near,
Her looks were calm, her senses clear.

XV.
No more I know, I wish I did,
And I would tell it all to you;
For what became of this poor child
There's none that ever knew:
And if a child was born or no,
There's no one that could ever tell
And if 'twas born alive or dead,
There's no one knows, as I have said,
But some remember well,
That Martha Ray about this time
Would up the mountain often climb.

XVI.
And all that winter, when at night
The wind blew from the mountain−peak,
'Twas worth your while, though in the dark,
The church−yard path to seek:
For many a time and oft were heard
Cries coming from the mountain−head,
Some plainly living voices were,
And others, I've heard many swear,
Were voices of the dead:
I cannot think, whate'er they say,
They had to do with Martha Ray.

XVII.
But that she goes to this old thorn,
The thorn which I've described to you,
And there sits in a scarlet cloak,
I will be sworn is true.
For one day with my telescope,
To view the ocean wide and bright,
When to this country first I came,
Ere I had heard of Martha's name,
I climbed the mountain's height:
A storm came on, and I could see
No object higher than my knee.

XVIII.
'Twas mist and rain, and storm and rain,
No screen, no fence could I discover,
And then the wind! in faith, it was
A wind full ten times over.
Hooked around, I thought I saw
A jutting crag, and off I ran,
Head−foremost, through the driving rain,
The shelter of the crag to gain,
And, as I am a man,
Instead of jutting crag, I found
A woman seated on the ground.

XIX.
I did not speak—I saw her face,
In truth it was enough for me;
I turned about and heard her cry,
“O misery! O misery!”
And there she sits, until the moon
Through half the clear blue sky will go,
And when the little breezes make
The waters of the pond to shake,
As all the country know
She shudders, and you hear her cry,
“Oh misery! oh misery!”

XX.
“But what's the thorn? and what's the pond?
And what's the hill of moss to her?
And what's the creeping breeze that comes
The little pond to stir?”
I cannot tell; but some will say
She hanged her baby on the tree,
Some say she drowned it in the pond,
Which is a little step beyond,
But all and each agree,
The little babe was buried there,
Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

XXI.
I've heard, the moss is spotted red
With drops of that poor infant's blood;
But kill a new−born infant thus!
I do not think she could.
Some say, if to the pond you go,
And fix on it a steady view,
The shadow of a babe you trace,
A baby and a baby's face,
And that it looks at you;
Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain
The baby looks at you again.

XXII.
And some had sworn an oath that she
Should be to public justice brought;
And for the little infant's bones
With spades they would have sought.
But then the beauteous bill of moss
Before their eyes began to stir;
And for full fifty yards around,
The grass it shook upon the ground;
But all do still aver
The little babe is buried there.
Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

XXIII.
I cannot tell how this may be,
But plain it is, the thorn is bound
With heavy tufts of moss, that strive
To drag it to the ground.
And this I know, full many a time,
When she was on the mountain high,
By day, and in the silent night;
When all the stars shone clear and bright,
That I have heard her cry,
“Oh misery! oh misery!
O woe is me! oh misery!”

Poetry: William Wordsworth - The Thorn - Links

Ricardo M Marcenaro - Facebook

Operative blogs of The Solitary Dog:

solitary dog sculptor:
http://byricardomarcenaro.blogspot.com

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

Para:
comunicarse conmigo,
enviar materiales para publicar,
propuestas:
marcenaroescultor@gmail.com

For:
contact me,
submit materials for publication,
proposals:
marcenaroescultor@gmail.com

Diario La Nación
Argentina
Cuenta Comentarista en el Foro:
Capiscum

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 :)