Todo lo que de algún modo es pensable, dijiste, puede ser objeto de meditación. Cuando pregunté si te referías a la guerra nuclear, la ingeniería genética o al matrimonio, te apresuraste a cerrar la ventana. Yo te había visto, en el parque, sacar una cascara de banana de la sandalia de la estatua de Constance Witherby y recitar con gestos ampulosos: ¿un poema? ¿una oración fúnebre? Mi formación musical no me permitía leer esa partitura, no con el viento soplando en tu pelo contra la llegada del invierno, aunque si las golondrinas hubieran dejado de sobrevolar en círculos en el sólido azul, me habría faltado el aliento. Punzante olor de mar, de peces acunándose en oleajes. Y nubes ya. Tú dijiste que sería distinto si fuésemos capaces de habitar afuera de la lógica. Supe que querías decir: descalzos.
Rosmarie Waldrop
Everything that can be thought at all, you said, can be thought over. When I asked if you were referring to nuclear war, gene-tic engineering, or marriage, you hastily closed the window. I had seen you, in the park, push a banana peel offthe sandal of Constance Witherby's statue and recite with large gestures: a poem? a funeral oration? I was not musician enough to read this score, not with the wind blowing your hair against the approach of winter, though if the swallows had stopped circling high in the solid blue, my breath would already have failed me. Sharp smell of the sea, of fish rocking in the surf. And already clouds. You said it might be different if we were able to stand outside logic. I knew by this you meant: barefoot.
(de The Reproduction of Profiles, 1987)
Rosmarie Waldrop
(Traducción de María Negroni)
Everything that can be thought at all, you said, can be thought over. When I asked if you were referring to nuclear war, gene-tic engineering, or marriage, you hastily closed the window. I had seen you, in the park, push a banana peel offthe sandal of Constance Witherby's statue and recite with large gestures: a poem? a funeral oration? I was not musician enough to read this score, not with the wind blowing your hair against the approach of winter, though if the swallows had stopped circling high in the solid blue, my breath would already have failed me. Sharp smell of the sea, of fish rocking in the surf. And already clouds. You said it might be different if we were able to stand outside logic. I knew by this you meant: barefoot.
Rosmarie Waldrop. Poeta y crítica norteamericana. Nació en Alemania en 1935. Vive en E.E.U.U. desde 1958. Es autora de 17 libros de poesía, dos novelas y tres libros de crítica. Es editora y traductora. Y además es intérprete de música; estudio piano y flauta e integró una orquesta sinfónica.
Me encantaron tus últimas elecciones. Gracias.
ResponderEliminarSusana.