OJOS
BLANCOS
En
invierno
todo el
canto está
en las
copas de los árboles
donde el
pájaro-viento
con sus
ojos blancos
presiona
y empuja
entre
las ramas.
Como
cualquiera de nosotros
quiere
dormir,
pero
está inquieto
tiene
una idea,
que de a
poco se desarrolla
por
debajo de sus alas batientes
mientras
esté despierto
Pero su
música grande y redonda, después de todo
es
demasiado jadeante para durar.
Así que
se terminó.
En la
punta del pino
arma su
nido,
hizo
todo lo que pudo.
sólo
imagino su pico brillante
mientras
las nubes—
que ha
convocado
desde el
norte—
que ha
impartido
a ser
leves y silenciosas—
se
espesan, y comienzan a caer
con el
mundo por debajo
como
estrellas, o plumas
de un
pájaro inimaginable
que nos
ama,
y ahora
está despierto, en silencio—
que se
ha convertido
en
nieve.
EL PESCADO
El primer pescado
que atrapé
no se quedaba tranquilo,
quieto en el balde.
Se movía y boqueaba
en el ardiente
asombro del aire
y murió
en una vertiente muy lenta
de arco iris diminutos. Después
abrí su cuerpo y aparté
la carne de los huesos
y lo comí. Ahora el mar
vive en mí: soy el pez, el pez
brilla en mí; nos
resucitamos, nos enredamos, seguros al caer
de espaldas al mar. Sin dolor
y dolor y más dolor
alimentamos esta trama febril, somos nutridos
por el misterio.
POEMA IMPRUDENTE
El primer pescado
que atrapé
no se quedaba tranquilo,
quieto en el balde.
Se movía y boqueaba
en el ardiente
asombro del aire
y murió
en una vertiente muy lenta
de arco iris diminutos. Después
abrí su cuerpo y aparté
la carne de los huesos
y lo comí. Ahora el mar
vive en mí: soy el pez, el pez
brilla en mí; nos
resucitamos, nos enredamos, seguros al caer
de espaldas al mar. Sin dolor
y dolor y más dolor
alimentamos esta trama febril, somos nutridos
por el misterio.
POEMA IMPRUDENTE
Hoy de nuevo soy apenas yo.
Sucede una y otra vez.
Esto es algo que me cayó del cielo.
Me atraviesa
como una ola azul.
Las hojas verdes –podés creerme o no-
emergen una o dos veces
desde la punta de mis dedos
en algún lugar
hondo en el bosque,
en el imprudente ataque de la primavera.
Aunque, claro, también conozco ese otro cantar
de la pasión dulce de la unidad.
Ayer precisamente miraba una hormiga atravesar un camino, entre
las agujas caídas de un pino hacía un gran esfuerzo.
Y pensé: ella no vivirá otra vida excepto ésta.
Y pensé: si ella vive esta vida con toda su fuerza
¿No es inteligente y extraordinaria?
Y seguí hacia la cúspide de la pirámide milagrosa de todo
hasta llegar a mí.
Y sin embargo, incluso en estos bosques del norte, sobre estas colinas de arena,
he volado desde otra ventana de mí
para convertirme en una garza blanca, una ballena azul,
un zorro colorado, un erizo.
Mi cuerpo ya se ha sentido como el cuerpo de una flor!
A veces mi corazón es un loro rojo posado
entre árboles extraños y oscuros, aleteando y chillando.
EL SOL
Has visto alguna vez
en tu vida
algo
más maravilloso
la forma en que el sol,
cada noche,
tranquilo y cómodo,
emerge hacia el horizonte
y cae en las nubes o las colinas,
o en el mar ondulado,
y se va-
y cómo se desliza nuevamente
fuera de la negrura,
cada mañana,
al otro lado del mundo,
como una flor roja
manando a lo alto en sus aceites
celestiales,
como decir, una mañana en el verano que recién comienza,
su distancia imperial perfecta-
y sentiste por algo
un amor tan salvaje-
creés que hay en algún lugar, en algún idioma,
una palabra lo suficientemente intensa
para el placer
que te colma,
como el sol
y te alcanza
en su tibieza
mientras estás ahí,
con las manos vacías-
o también vos
le diste la espalda al mundo-
o también vos
te enloqueciste
por poder,
¿por cosas?
OCTUBRE
1
Ahí está
esa forma, negra como una cueva.
Un deseo
brota desde su garganta
como una
flor
cuando
respira lentamente.
¿Qué
significa el mundo
para vos
si no confiás
en su
continuo brillo cuando
no estés
ahí? Y ahí
hay un
árbol caído hace tiempo;
alguna
vez las abejas fueron a él, como una procesión
de
mensajeros, y lo llenaron
de miel.
2
Le dije
al pichoncito cantando su corazón
en el
pino verde:
pequeño
deslumbrante,
pequeña
canción,
pequeño
bocado.
3
La forma
se eleva del pasto curvado.
Gruñe en
frente nuestro. No existe medida
para la
confianza en el fondo de sus ojos-
no hay
cómo decir
la
flexibilidad de sus hombros cuando gira
y
bosteza.
Cerca
del árbol caído
algo –
una hoja se suelta bruscamente
de la
rama y aletea descendiendo – me llama
hasta
captar mi atención.
4
Me atrae
a su
trampa de atención.
Y cuando
giro de nuevo, el oso ya se ha ido.
5
Mirá,
¿mi cuerpo no se ha sentido
como el
cuerpo de una flor?
6
Mirá, yo
quiero amar este mundo
como si
fuera la última oportunidad
de estar
viva
y
conocerlo.
7
A veces,
cuando termina el verano, no toco nada, ni
las
flores, ni siquiera las moras
en los
matorrales; no bebo
del
estanque; no nombro pájaros ni árboles;
no
murmuro mi propio nombre.
Una
mañana
el zorro
bajó la colina, brillante y seguro,
y no me
vio - y pensé:
esto es
el mundo.
No estoy
en él.
Eso es
hermoso.
LA
TORTUGA
rompe la
azul y negra
piel del
agua, arrastrando su caparazón
con sus
escamas cubiertas de musgo
a través
de aguas apenas profundas, atravesando los juncos
y por
sobre las costas, hacia donde la tierra levita,
hacia la
arena amarilla
para
cavar con sus torpes patas
un nido
y acomodarse ahí, volcando
sus
blancos huevos por debajo
en la
oscuridad, y vos le creés
su
paciencia, su fortaleza,
su
determinación de completar
la cosa
para lo que nació-
y
entonces te das cuenta de algo todavía mayor-
ella no
considera
eso para
lo que nació.
Ella se
llena
con un
deseo viejo y ciego.
Ni
siquiera es suyo pero le llegó
bajo
lluvia o en el viento suave,
que es
una puerta por donde sigue caminando su vida.
No puede
verse
a sí
misma fuera del resto del mundo
o el
mundo aislado de lo que ella debe hacer
cada
primavera.
Subiendo
apenas la alta colina,
luminosa
bajo la arena con que se ha protegido la piel,
ella no
sueña
ella
sabe
ella es
una parte del lago donde vive,
los
árboles son sus hijos,
los
pájaros nadan encima suyo
atados a
ella por un hilo indestructible.
White-Eyes
In winter
all the singing is in
the tops of the trees
where the wind-bird
all the singing is in
the tops of the trees
where the wind-bird
with its white eyes
shoves and pushes
among the branches.
Like any of us
shoves and pushes
among the branches.
Like any of us
he wants to go to sleep,
but he’s restless—
he has an idea,
and slowly it unfolds
but he’s restless—
he has an idea,
and slowly it unfolds
from under his beating wings
as long as he stays awake
But his big, round music, after all,
is too breathy to last.
as long as he stays awake
But his big, round music, after all,
is too breathy to last.
So, it’s over.
In the pine-crown
he makes his nest,
he’s done all he can.
In the pine-crown
he makes his nest,
he’s done all he can.
I don’t know the name of this
bird,
I only imagine his glittering beak
while the clouds—
I only imagine his glittering beak
while the clouds—
which he has summonedfrom the north—
which he has taught
to be mild, and silent—
thicken, and begin to fall
into the world below
like stars, or the feathers
of some unimaginable bird
into the world below
like stars, or the feathers
of some unimaginable bird
that loves us,
that is asleep now, and silent—
that has turned itself
into snow.
that is asleep now, and silent—
that has turned itself
into snow.
The Fish
The first fish
I ever caught
would not lie down
quiet in the pail
but flailed and sucked
at the burning
amazement of the air
and died
in the slow pouring off
of rainbows. Later
I opened his body and separated
the flesh from the bones
and ate him. Now the sea
is in me: I am the fish, the fish
glitters in me; we are
risen, tangled together, certain to fall
back to the sea. Out of pain,
and pain, and more pain
we feed this feverish plot, we are nourished
by the mystery.
The first fish
I ever caught
would not lie down
quiet in the pail
but flailed and sucked
at the burning
amazement of the air
and died
in the slow pouring off
of rainbows. Later
I opened his body and separated
the flesh from the bones
and ate him. Now the sea
is in me: I am the fish, the fish
glitters in me; we are
risen, tangled together, certain to fall
back to the sea. Out of pain,
and pain, and more pain
we feed this feverish plot, we are nourished
by the mystery.
Reckless Poem
Today again I am hardly myself.
Today again I am hardly myself.
It happens over and over.
It is heaven-sent.
It is heaven-sent.
It flows through me
like the blue wave.
Green leaves — you may believe this or not —
have once or twice
emerged from the tips of my fingers
like the blue wave.
Green leaves — you may believe this or not —
have once or twice
emerged from the tips of my fingers
somewhere
deep in the woods,
in the reckless seizure of spring.
deep in the woods,
in the reckless seizure of spring.
Though, of course, I also know
that other song,
the sweet passion of one-ness.
the sweet passion of one-ness.
Just yesterday I watched an ant
crossing a path, through the
tumbled pine needles she toiled.
And I thought: she will never live another life but this one.
And I thought: if she lives her life with all her strength
is she not wonderful and wise?
And I continued this up the miraculous pyramid of everything
until I came to myself.
tumbled pine needles she toiled.
And I thought: she will never live another life but this one.
And I thought: if she lives her life with all her strength
is she not wonderful and wise?
And I continued this up the miraculous pyramid of everything
until I came to myself.
And still, even in these
northern woods, on these hills of sand,
I have flown from the other window of myself
to become white heron, blue whale,
red fox, hedgehog.
Oh, sometimes already my body has felt like the body of a flower!
Sometimes already my heart is a red parrot, perched
among strange, dark trees, flapping and screaming.
I have flown from the other window of myself
to become white heron, blue whale,
red fox, hedgehog.
Oh, sometimes already my body has felt like the body of a flower!
Sometimes already my heart is a red parrot, perched
among strange, dark trees, flapping and screaming.
The Sun
Have you
ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful
anything
in your life
more wonderful
than the
way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon
and into
the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone--
and how it slides again
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone--
and how it slides again
out of
the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower
streaming
upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance--
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love--
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance--
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love--
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure
that
fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you
as you
stand there,
empty-handed--
or have you too
turned from this world--
empty-handed--
or have you too
turned from this world--
or have
you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?
gone crazy
for power,
for things?
October
1
There’s this shape, black as the entrance to a cave.
A longing wells up in its throat
like a blossom
as it breathes slowly.
What does the world
mean to you if you can’t trust it
to go on shining when you’re
not there? and there’s
a tree, long-fallen; once
the bees flew to it, like a procession
of messengers, and filled it
with honey.
2
I said to the chickadee, singing his heart out in the
green pine tree:
little dazzler
little song,
little mouthful.
3
The shape climbs up out of the curled grass. It
grunts into view. There is no measure
for the confidence at the bottom of its eyes—
there is no telling
the suppleness of its shoulders as it turns
and yawns.
Near the fallen tree
something—a leaf snapped loose
from the branch and fluttering down—tries to pull me
into its trap of attention.
4
It pulls me
into its trap of attention.
And when I turn again, the bear is gone.
5
Look, hasn’t my body already felt
like the body of a flower?
6
Look, I want to love this world
as thought it’s the last chance I’m ever going to get
to be alive
and know it.
7
Sometimes in late summer I won’t touch anything, not
the flowers, not the blackberries
brimming in the thickets; I won’t drink
from the pond; I won’t name the birds or the trees;
I won’t whisper my own name.
One morning
the fox came down the hill, glittering and confident,
and didn’t see me—and I thought:
so this is the world.
I’m not in it.
It is beautiful.
There’s this shape, black as the entrance to a cave.
A longing wells up in its throat
like a blossom
as it breathes slowly.
What does the world
mean to you if you can’t trust it
to go on shining when you’re
not there? and there’s
a tree, long-fallen; once
the bees flew to it, like a procession
of messengers, and filled it
with honey.
2
I said to the chickadee, singing his heart out in the
green pine tree:
little dazzler
little song,
little mouthful.
3
The shape climbs up out of the curled grass. It
grunts into view. There is no measure
for the confidence at the bottom of its eyes—
there is no telling
the suppleness of its shoulders as it turns
and yawns.
Near the fallen tree
something—a leaf snapped loose
from the branch and fluttering down—tries to pull me
into its trap of attention.
4
It pulls me
into its trap of attention.
And when I turn again, the bear is gone.
5
Look, hasn’t my body already felt
like the body of a flower?
6
Look, I want to love this world
as thought it’s the last chance I’m ever going to get
to be alive
and know it.
7
Sometimes in late summer I won’t touch anything, not
the flowers, not the blackberries
brimming in the thickets; I won’t drink
from the pond; I won’t name the birds or the trees;
I won’t whisper my own name.
One morning
the fox came down the hill, glittering and confident,
and didn’t see me—and I thought:
so this is the world.
I’m not in it.
It is beautiful.
breaks from the blue-black
skin of the water, dragging her shell
with its mossy scutes
across the shallows and through the rushes
and over the mudflats, to the uprise,
to the yellow sand,
to dig with her ungainly feet
a nest, and hunker there spewing
her white eggs down
into the darkness, and you think
skin of the water, dragging her shell
with its mossy scutes
across the shallows and through the rushes
and over the mudflats, to the uprise,
to the yellow sand,
to dig with her ungainly feet
a nest, and hunker there spewing
her white eggs down
into the darkness, and you think
of her patience, her fortitude,
her determination to complete
what she was born to do----
and then you realize a greater thing----
she doesn’t consider
what she was born to do.
She’s only filled
with an old blind wish.
It isn’t even hers but came to her
in the rain or the soft wind
which is a gate through which her life keeps walking.
her determination to complete
what she was born to do----
and then you realize a greater thing----
she doesn’t consider
what she was born to do.
She’s only filled
with an old blind wish.
It isn’t even hers but came to her
in the rain or the soft wind
which is a gate through which her life keeps walking.
She can’t see
herself apart from the rest of the world
or the world from what she must do
every spring.
Crawling up the high hill,
luminous under the sand that has packed against her skin,
she doesn’t dream
she knows
she is a part of the pond she lives in,
the tall trees are her children,
the birds that swim above her
are tied to her by an unbreakable string.
herself apart from the rest of the world
or the world from what she must do
every spring.
Crawling up the high hill,
luminous under the sand that has packed against her skin,
she doesn’t dream
she knows
she is a part of the pond she lives in,
the tall trees are her children,
the birds that swim above her
are tied to her by an unbreakable string.
(Versiones al
castellano por Noelia Palma)
