Datos personales

Mi foto
Ciudad de México, Mexico
roja como los sueños de los negros mirlos.

Algo me salió mal con Picasa y perdí todas las fotografías del blog. Ahora estoy recuperándolas, así que ténganme paciencia.


Entradas populares en los últimos 30 días

viernes, 28 de septiembre de 2007

de la ligüística general a la lengua de Babel


No voldria que plogués
t'ho juro
que plogués en aquesta ciutat
sense tu
i escoltar els sorolls de l'aigua
en baixar
i pensar que allà on estàs vivint
sense mi
plou sobre la mateixa ciutat
Potser tinguis el cabell mullat
el telèfon a mà
que no uses
per dirme
per dirme
aquesta nit t'estimo
m'inunden els records de tu
la literatura em va matar
però te li semblaves tant.



No quisiera que lloviera
te lo juro
que lloviera en esta ciudad
sin ti
y escuchar los ruidos del agua
al bajar
y pensar que allí donde estás viviendo
sin mí
llueve sobre la misma ciudad
Quizá tengas el cabello mojado
el teléfono a mano
que no usas
para llamarme
para decirme
esta noche te amo
me inundan los recuerdos de ti
la literatura me mató
pero te le parecías tanto.

"Diáspora" 1976


Si el llenguatge
aquest mode auster
de convocarte
enmig de freds gratacels
i ciutats europees
el mode
de fer l'amor entre sons
o el mode
de ficar-me entre el teu pèl


Si el lenguaje
este modo austero
de convocarte
en medio de fríos rascacielos
y ciudades europeas
el modo
de hacer el amor entre sonidos
o el modo
de meterme entre tu pelo



I ara s'inicia
la petita vida
del supervivent de la catàstrofe de l'amor:

Hola, gossos petits,
hola, rodamons,
hola, autobusos i vianants.

Sóc una nena de pit
acabo de néixer
del terrible part de l'amor.

Ja no estimo.

Ara puc exercir en el món
inscriure'm en ell
sóc una peça més de l'engranament.

Ja no estic boja.

"Novament eros"


Y ahora se inicia
la pequeña vida
del sobreviviente de la catástrofe del amor:

Hola, perros pequeños,
hola, vagabundos,
hola, autobuses y transeúntes.

Soy una niña de pecho
acabo de nacer
del terrible parto del amor.

Ya no amo.

Ahora puedo ejercer en el mundo
inscribirme en él
soy una pieza más del engranaje.

Ya no estoy loca.

"Otra vez eros" 1994


Les paraules són espectres
pedres abracadabras
que salten els segells

de la memòria antiga

I els poetes celebren la festa
del llenguatge

sota el pes de la invocació
Els poetes inflamen les fogueres
que illuminen els rostres eterns

dels vells ídols

Quan els segells
els catxets salten
l'home descobreix

l'empremta dels seus avantpassats

El futur és l'ombra del passat
als vermells calius d'un foc
vingut de lluny,

no es sap d'on.

"Babel bàrbara"

Las palabras son espectros

piedras abracadabras

que saltan los sellos

de la memoria antigua
Y los poetas celebran la fiesta

del lenguaje

bajo el peso de la invocación
Los poetas inflaman las hogueras
que iluminan los rostros eternos

de los viejos ídolos

Cuando los sellos saltan

el hombre descubre

la huella de sus antepasados

El futuro es la sombra del pasado

en los rojos rescoldos de un fuego
venido de lejos,
no se sabe de dónde.

"Babel bárbara" 1991

Andrea del Sarto, Retrato de Lucrezia, óleo sobre tabla,
73x56cm, [1513, aprox], Museo del Prado

En esta sección de écfrasis cereza, presento un poema de Robert Browning cuya inspiración es el desolado amor de Andrea del Sarto, aquél que siempre llevó el mismo nombre, Lucrezia del Fede, su esposa y modelo, mas nunca amante, ya que sólo la podía íntimamente tocar cuando la recreaba en el lienzo; con el chiaro-oscuro de su pasión insufló vida a una relación que un tercero hizo imposible en la realidad.

"Andrea del Sarto"

Robert Browning

But do not let us quarrel any more,
No, my Lucrezia; bear with me for once:
Sit down and all shall happen as you wish.
You turn your face, but does it bring your heart?
I'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear,
Treat his own subject after his own way,
Fix his own time, accept too his own price,
And shut the money into this small hand
When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly?
Oh, I'll content him,--but to-morrow, Love!
I often am much wearier than you think,
This evening more than usual, and it seems
As if--forgive now--should you let me sit
Here by the window with your hand in mine
And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole,
Both of one mind, as married people use,
Quietly, quietly the evening through,
I might get up to-morrow to my work
Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try.
To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this!
Your soft hand is a woman of itself,
And mine the man's bared breast she curls inside.
Don't count the time lost, neither; you must serve
For each of the five pictures we require:
It saves a model. So! keep looking so--
My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds!
--How could you ever prick those perfect ears,
Even to put the pearl there! oh, so sweet--
My face, my moon, my everybody's moon,
Which everybody looks on and calls his,
And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn,
While she looks--no one's: very dear, no less.
You smile? why, there's my picture ready made,
There's what we painters call our harmony!
A common greyness silvers everything,--
All in a twilight, you and I alike
--You, at the point of your first pride in me
(That's gone you know),--but I, at every point;
My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down
To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole.
There's the bell clinking from the chapel-top;
That length of convent-wall across the way
Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside;
The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease,
And autumn grows, autumn in everything.
Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape
As if I saw alike my work and self
And all that I was born to be and do,
A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's hand.
How strange now, looks the life he makes us lead;
So free we seem, so fettered fast we are!
I feel he laid the fetter: let it lie!
This chamber for example--turn your head--
All that's behind us! You don't understand
Nor care to understand about my art,
But you can hear at least when people speak:
And that cartoon, the second from the door
--It is the thing, Love! so such things should be--
Behold Madonna!--I am bold to say.
I can do with my pencil what I know,
What I see, what at bottom of my heart
I wish for, if I ever wish so deep--
Do easily, too--when I say, perfectly,
I do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge,
Who listened to the Legate's talk last week,
And just as much they used to say in France.
At any rate 'tis easy, all of it!
No sketches first, no studies, that's long past:
I do what many dream of, all their lives,
--Dream? strive to do, and agonize to do,
And fail in doing. I could count twenty such
On twice your fingers, and not leave this town,
Who strive--you don't know how the others strive
To paint a little thing like that you smeared
Carelessly passing with your robes afloat,--
Yet do much less, so much less, Someone says,
(I know his name, no matter)--so much less!
Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged.
There burns a truer light of God in them,
In their vexed beating stuffed and stopped-up brain,
Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt
This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of mine.
Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know,
Reach many a time a heaven that's shut to me,
Enter and take their place there sure enough,
Though they come back and cannot tell the world.
My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here.
The sudden blood of these men! at a word--
Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too.
I, painting from myself and to myself,
Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame
Or their praise either. Somebody remarks
Morello's outline there is wrongly traced,
His hue mistaken; what of that? or else,
Rightly traced and well ordered; what of that?
Speak as they please, what does the mountain care?
Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what's a heaven for? All is silver-grey,
Placid and perfect with my art: the worse!
I know both what I want and what might gain,
And yet how profitless to know, to sigh
"Had I been two, another and myself,
"Our head would have o'erlooked the world!" No doubt.
Yonder's a work now, of that famous youth
The Urbinate who died five years ago.
('Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.)
Well, I can fancy how he did it all,
Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see,
Reaching, that heaven might so replenish him,
Above and through his art--for it gives way;
That arm is wrongly put--and there again--
A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines,
Its body, so to speak: its soul is right,
He means right--that, a child may understand.
Still, what an arm! and I could alter it:
But all the play, the insight and the stretch--
(Out of me, out of me! And wherefore out?
Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul,
We might have risen to Rafael, I and you!
Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think--
More than I merit, yes, by many times.
But had you--oh, with the same perfect brow,
And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth,
And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird
The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare --
Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind!
Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged
"God and the glory! never care for gain.
"The present by the future, what is that?
"Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo!
"Rafael is waiting: up to God, all three!"
I might have done it for you. So it seems:
Perhaps not. All is as God over-rules.
Beside, incentives come from the soul's self;
The rest avail not. Why do I need you?
What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo?
In this world, who can do a thing, will not;
And who would do it, cannot, I perceive:
Yet the will's somewhat--somewhat, too, the power--
And thus we half-men struggle. At the end,
God, I conclude, compensates, punishes.
'Tis safer for me, if the award be strict,
That I am something underrated here,
Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth.
I dared not, do you know, leave home all day,
For fear of chancing on the Paris lords.
The best is when they pass and look aside;
But they speak sometimes; I must bear it all.
Well may they speak! That Francis, that first time,
And that long festal year at Fontainebleau!
I surely then could sometimes leave the ground,
Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear,
In that humane great monarch's golden look,--
One finger in his beard or twisted curl
Over his mouth's good mark that made the smile,
One arm about my shoulder, round my neck,
The jingle of his gold chain in my ear,
I painting proudly with his breath on me,
All his court round him, seeing with his eyes,
Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls
Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts,--
And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond,
This in the background, waiting on my work,
To crown the issue with a last reward!
A good time, was it not, my kingly days?
And had you not grown restless... but I know--
'Tis done and past: 'twas right, my instinct said:
Too live the life grew, golden and not grey,
And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt
Out of the grange whose four walls make his world.
How could it end in any other way?
You called me, and I came home to your heart.
The triumph was--to reach and stay there; since
I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost?
Let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold,
You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine!
"Rafael did this, Andrea painted that;
"The Roman's is the better when you pray,
"But still the other's Virgin was his wife--"
Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge
Both pictures in your presence; clearer grows
My better fortune, I resolve to think.
For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives,
Said one day Agnolo, his very self,
To Rafael... I have known it all these years...
(When the young man was flaming out his thoughts
Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see,
Too lifted up in heart because of it)
"Friend, there's a certain sorry little scrub
"Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how,
"Who, were he set to plan and execute
"As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings,
"Would bring the sweat into that brow of yours!"
To Rafael's!--And indeed the arm is wrong.
I hardly dare... yet, only you to see,
Give the chalk here--quick, thus, the line should go!
Ay, but the soul! he's Rafael! rub it out!
Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth,
(What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo?
Do you forget already words like those?)
If really there was such a chance, so lost,--
Is, whether you're--not grateful--but more pleased.
Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed!
This hour has been an hour! Another smile?
If you would sit thus by me every night
I should work better, do you comprehend?
I mean that I should earn more, give you more.
See, it is settled dusk now; there's a star;
Morello's gone, the watch-lights show the wall,
The cue-owls speak the name we call them by.
Come from the window, love,--come in, at last,
Inside the melancholy little house
We built to be so gay with. God is just.
King Francis may forgive me: oft at nights
When I look up from painting, eyes tired out,
The walls become illumined, brick from brick
Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold,
That gold of his I did cement them with!
Let us but love each other. Must you go?
That Cousin here again? he waits outside?
Must see you--you, and not with me? Those loans?
More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that?
Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend?
While hand and eye and something of a heart
Are left me, work's my ware, and what's it worth?
I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit
The grey remainder of the evening out,
Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly
How I could paint, were I but back in France,
One picture, just one more--the Virgin's face,
Not yours this time! I want you at my side
To hear them--that is, Michel Agnolo--
Judge all I do and tell you of its worth.
Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your friend.
I take the subjects for his corridor,
Finish the portrait out of hand--there, there,
And throw him in another thing or two
If he demurs; the whole should prove enough
To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Beside,
What's better and what's all I care about,
Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff!
Love, does that please you? Ah, but what does he,
The Cousin! what does he to please you more?

I am grown peaceful as old age to-night.
I regret little, I would change still less.
Since there my past life lies, why alter it?
The very wrong to Francis!--it is true
I took his coin, was tempted and complied,
And built this house and sinned, and all is said.
My father and my mother died of want.
Well, had I riches of my own? you see
How one gets rich! Let each one bear his lot.
They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died:
And I have laboured somewhat in my time
And not been paid profusely. Some good son
Paint my two hundred pictures--let him try!
No doubt, there's something strikes a balance. Yes,
You loved me quite enough. it seems to-night.
This must suffice me here. What would one have?
In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance--
Four great walls in the New Jerusalem,
Meted on each side by the angel's reed,
For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me
To cover--the three first without a wife,
While I have mine! So--still they overcome
Because there's still Lucrezia,--as I choose.

Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love

E questo è quanto mi sento è come la tristezza da un cane

Fotograma de La noche
Si alguien me quiere ver llorar a cantaros como los cielos de México en Agosto, tendrá que invitarme a ver la noche. Antonioni, un maestro de maestros experimenta con su obra la androginia mental de la que hablaba Coleridge, como verdadero proceso creativo. Es una obra sobre el hombre y la mujer y sobre las vueltas de la vida ¡Maravigliosa, squisita! ¡Ma chè opera di arte! Mi caro Marcello, La Moreau y la Vitti  (dos mujeronas, hay que admitirlo); haciendo un gran papel. Sin lugar a dudas una de mis pelis favoritas. Hay que ver como la seducción y la desilusión se mantienen siempre juntas, cada una en un extremo del deseo de dejar huella en el otro. Soltanto il solievo di ascoltare quello chi è lontano di me.

«La notte». Dirección: Michelangelo Antonioni. Guión: Michelangelo Antonioni, Ennio Flaiano y Tonino Guerra. Fotografía: Gianni Di Venanzo. Música: Giorgio Gaslini. Dirección artística: Dean Tavoularis. Producción: Emanuele Cassuto. Montaje: Eraldo Da Roma. Intérpretes: Marcello Mastroianni (Giovanni Pontano), Jeanne Moreau (Lidia), Monica Vitti (Valentina Gherardini), Bernhard Wicki (Tommaso Garani), Rosy Mazzacurati (Rosy), Maria Pia Luzi (Patient), Guido A. Marsan (Fanti), Vincenzo Corbella (Sr. Gherardini), Ugo Fortunati (Cesarino), Gitt Magrini (Sra. Gherardini). Duración: 122 min. Italia / Francia, 1961

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