Si può essere una fra tante / ©Sogni Di Ieri

Si può essere una fra tante

o tante in una...

In me convivono molte donne

che non si sono mai incontrate.

Alcune sognano altre desiderano

ognuna cerca una forma di esistere

che non chieda il permesso.

©Sogni Di Ieri

Unknown photographer

Quanti maschi si sentono uomini... / Silvia Nelli

"Quanti maschi si sentono uomini per aver spogliato mille donne e quante femmine si sentono donne per essere state svestite, desiderate e possedute in mille letti. 

Che tristezza vedere che non esistono quasi più uomini con quella voglia di spogliarti l'anima dalle paure, dalle insicurezze e farti sentire amata. 

Oppure donne che erano capaci di invadere la testa di un uomo di pensieri e fantasie anche senza spogliarsi. 

Oggi va di moda riempire scaffali di trofei e letti stra usati."

Silvia Nelli




"How many men feel like men for having stripped a thousand women, and how many women feel like women for having been stripped, desired, and possessed in a thousand beds.

How sad to see that there are almost no men left with that desire to strip your soul of fears and insecurities and make you feel loved.

Or women who were capable of invading a man's mind with thoughts and fantasies even without undressing.

Nowadays, it's fashionable to fill shelves with trophies and use extra beds."

Silvia Nelli

Photo by David Dubnitskiy

Te van a llamar “loca” porque lo estás, ... / Frida Kahlo

"Te van a llamar “loca” porque lo estás, porque naciste con el don de ver las cosas de otra manera y eso les asusta.

Te van a llamar “intensa” porque lo eres, porque naciste con el valor bien puesto para permitirte sentirlo todo plenamente y eso les intimida.

Te van a llamar “egoísta” porque así es, porque descubriste que tú eres lo más importante en tu vida y eso no les conviene.

Te van a llamar de muchas maneras, con muchos juicios, durante mucho tiempo, pero mantente firme en ti y en lo que quieres, y te prometo que un día te van a llamar para decirte: “gracias por existir”.

Frida Kahlo

"They will call you “crazy” because you are, because you were born with the gift of seeing things differently and that scares them.

They're going to call you “intense” because you are, because you were born with the value well placed to allow yourself to feel it all fully and that intimidates them.

They're going to call you “selfish” because that's right, because you found out that you're the most important thing in your life and that doesn't suit them.

You're going to be called in many ways, with many judgments, for a long time, but stay firm on yourself and what you want, and I promise you one day they're going to call you to say, “thank you for existing.”

Frida Kahlo

Self Portrait in a Velvet Dress, 1926
by Frida Kahlo

I do not want to be the leader. ... / Anaïs Nin

"I do not want to be the leader. I refuse to be the leader. I want to live darkly and richly in my femaleness. I want a man lying over me, always over me. His will, his pleasure, his desire, his life, his work, his sexuality the touchstone, the command, my pivot. I don’t mind working, holding my ground intellectually, artistically; but as a woman, oh, God, as a woman I want to be dominated. I don’t mind being told to stand on my own feet, not to cling, be all that I am capable of doing, but I am going to be pursued, fucked, possessed by the will of a male at his time, his bidding."

Anaïs Nin

"Non voglio essere il leader. Rifiuto di essere il leader. Voglio vivere oscuramente e riccamente nella mia femminilità. Voglio un uomo sopra di me, sempre sopra di me. La sua volontà, il suo piacere, il suo desiderio, la sua vita, il suo lavoro, la sua sessualità, il punto di riferimento, il comando, il mio perno. Non mi dispiace lavorare, tenere duro intellettualmente, artisticamente; ma come donna, oh, Dio, come donna voglio essere dominata. Non mi dispiace che mi dicano di stare in piedi da sola, di non aggrapparmi, di essere tutto ciò che sono capace di fare, ma voglio essere inseguita, scopata, posseduta dalla volontà di un maschio al suo tempo, al suo comando."

Anaïs Nin

In the home of Catherine and
Jacques Bergaud, Paris, 1994,
by Jeanloup Sieff

Primeras letras / Eduardo Galeano

Primeras letras

De los topos, aprendimos a hacer túneles.

De los castores, aprendimos a hacer diques.

De los pájaros, aprendimos a hacer casas.

De las arañas, aprendimos a tejer.

Del tronco que rodaba cuesta abajo, aprendimos la rueda.

Del tronco que flotaba a la deriva, aprendimos la nave.

Del viento, aprendimos la vela.

¿Quién nos habrá enseñado las malas mañas?

¿De quién aprendimos a atormentar al prójimo y a humillar al mundo?

Eduardo Galeano

First Lessons

From moles we learned to make tunnels.

From beavers we learned to make dams.

From birds we learned to build homes.

From spiders we learned to weave.

From tree trunks rolling downhill we learned about wheels.

From tree trunks floating and adrift we learned about boats.

From wind we learned about sails.

How did we learn our evil ways?
From whom did we learn to torment our neighbors and subdue the earth?

Eduardo Galeano ~ (Voices of Time: A Life in Stories)

Translated by Mark Fried

Photo by Holger Nitschke

Flores de cactus / Judith Teixeira

Flores de cactus

Flores de cactus resplandecentes,

Espelhantes, encarnadas!

Rubras gargalhadas

De cortesãs…

Embriagam-se de sol,

Pelas doiradas manhãs,

Viçosas e ardentes!

Bela flor imprudente!

Brilha melhor o sol rutilante

Nas suas pétalas vermelhas…

É sugestivo

O ar insolente

E petulante,

Como se deixam morder

Pelas doiradas abelhas!

Nascem para ser beijadas

E possuídas

Pelo sol abrasador…

Lascivas,

Predestinadas

Para os mistérios do amor!

Eu gosto desta flor pagã

E sensual,

Que num místico ritual

Se entrega toda aberta

Aos beijos fulvos do sol!

Oh! Flor do cactus enrubescida!

No teu vermelho, há sangue, há vida…

- E eu tenho uma enorme sede de viver!

Judith Teixeira

Cactus Flowers

Cactus flowers, your skin so blameless,

mirror-bright incarnations

Scarlet cachinnations

of concubines…

Rendered tipsy by the sun,

on golden mornings you shine,

luxuriant and shameless!

 

A fine bloom and so impudent!

The light of the sun more brilliant

in the vermillion of your petals…

Suggesting perhaps

an air of insolence,

even petulance,

as you grant a grudging bite

to each golden bee that settles!

Born to feel the sun’s every kiss

and even when possessed

by its searing torrid rays …

You’re wanton,

destined just for this ⸺

to enjoy love’s mysteries in every way!

 

I like a flower that’s pagan

and sensual,

that in some mystic ritual,

yields, unabashed, its charms so fully

to the sun’s amber embrace!

 

In your ruby blush, O cactus flower,

lies your life’s blood, your vitality and power…

And I, like you, have such a great thirst for life!

Judith Teixeira

Translated by Samantha Pious

White Sands. by Lucien Clergue

Mais Beijos / Judith Teixeira

Mais Beijos

Devagar...

outro beijo... ou ainda...

O teu olhar, misterioso e lento,

veio desgrenhar

a cálida tempestade

que me desvaira o pensamento!

Mais beijos!...

Deixa que eu, endoidecida,

incendeie a tua boca

e domine a tua vida!

Sim, amor..

deixa que se alongue mais

este momento breve!...

— que o meu desejo subindo

solte a rubra asa

e nos leve!

Judith Teixeira

More Kisses

slow

another kiss another still

your gaze, mysterious and mild,

came to blow

the tropical storm

that drives my thoughts so wild

another kiss

let me, maddened, set alight

your lips

and dominate your life

yes, love

let this brief moment

be prolonged

that my desire, as it rises,

may take red flight

and lead us on

May 1925.

Judith Teixeira

Translated by Samantha Pious

(“Mais Beijos,” in Nua: Poemas de Bizâncio, 1926.)

Photo by Holger Nitschke

The Pond / Mary Oliver

The Pond

August of another summer, and once again

I am drinking the sun

and the lilies again are spread across the water.

I know now what they want is to touch each other.

I have not been here for many years

during which time I kept living my life.

Like the heron, who can only croak, who wishes he

could sing,

I wish I could sing.

A little thanks from every throat would be appropriate.

This is how it has been, and this is how it is:

All my life I have been able to feel happiness,

except whatever was not happiness,

which I also remember.

Each of us wears a shadow.

But just now it is summer again

and I am watching the lilies bow to each other,

then slide on the wind and the tug of desire,

close, close to one another,

Soon now, I'll turn and start for home.

And who knows, maybe I'll be singing.

Mary Oliver - (Felicity)

Water Lilies, 1917–1919, by Claude Monet

Du Dunkelheit, aus der ich stamme, / Rainer Maria Rilke

Du Dunkelheit, aus der ich stamme,

Du Dunkelheit, aus der ich stamme,

ich liebe dich mehr als die Flamme,

welche die Welt begrenzt,

indem sie glänzt

für irgend einen Kreis,

aus dem heraus kein Wesen von ihr weiß.

Aber die Dunkelheit hält alles an sich:

Gestalten und Flammen, Tiere und mich,

wie sie's errafft,

Menschen und Mächte. --

Und es kann sein: eine große Kraft

rührt sich in meiner Nachbarschaft.

Ich glaube an Nächte.

Rainer Maria Rilke, 22.9.1899, Berlin-Schmargendorf

(Das Stunden-Buch / Das Buch vom mönchischen Leben)

You, darkness, of whom I am born —

I love you more than the flame

that limits the world

to the circle it illumines

and excludes all the rest.

But the darkness embraces everything:

shapes and shadows, creatures and me,

people, nations — just as they are.

It lets me imagine

a great presence stirring beside me.

I believe in the nigh.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Translated by Joanna Macy and Anita Barrows 

(From Rilke’s Book of Hours, Riverhead Books, 1996.)

Tú oscuridad, de la que yo procedo,

Tú oscuridad, de la que yo procedo,

te amo más que a la llama

que da frontera al mundo,

porque brilla tan solo

para dentro de un círculo,

tras el cual no hay un ser que sepa de ella.

Pero la oscuridad lo tiene todo:

rostros y llamas, animales, yo,

tal como lo arrebata:

personas y potencias…

Y puede ser así: una enorme fuerza

se mueve junto a mí.

Creo en las noches.

Rainer Maria Rilke

(El libro de las horas)

Da te provengo, oscurità: 

Da te provengo, oscurità: 

ti amo più della fiamma che dà

confine al mondo

mentre risplende

per non so quale circonferenza 

di cui, fuori, nessun essere ha coscienza.

Ma tiene l’oscurità ogni cosa in sé:

figure e fiamme, animali e me,

così ci afferra,

potenze, uomini tutti. 

E, sì, lo può: una gran forza

si agita nelle mie vicinanze.

Io credo nelle notti.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Traduzione di Raffaela Fazio

Rainer Maria Rilke

This Is What You Shall Do / Walt Whitman

"This is what you shall do; Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body."

Walt Whitman

"This Is What You Shall Do" from the Preface to 1855 edition of "Leaves of Grass".

Walt Whitman, New York, 1887,
by George C. Cox

Bienvenida / Mario Benedetti

Bienvenida

Se me ocurre que vas a llegar distinta

no exactamente más linda

ni más fuerte

ni más dócil

ni más cauta

tan solo que vas a llegar distinta

como si esta temporada de no verme

te hubiera sorprendido a vos también

quizá porque sabes

cómo te pienso y te enumero

después de todo la nostalgia existe

aunque no lloremos en los andenes fantasmales

ni sobre las almohadas de candor

ni bajo el cielo opaco

yo nostalgio

tu nostalgias

y cómo me revienta que él nostalgie

tu rostro es la vanguardia

tal vez llega primero

porque lo pinto en las paredes

con trazos invisibles y seguros

no olvides que tu rostro

me mira como pueblo

sonríe y rabia y canta

como pueblo

y eso te da una lumbre

inapagable

ahora no tengo dudas

vas a llegar distinta y con señales

con nuevas

con hondura

con franqueza

sé que voy a quererte sin preguntas

sé que vas a quererme sin respuestas.

Mario Benedetti

«Poemas de otros» (1973-1974) De otros diluvios.

La nudité des fleurs... / Guillaume Apollinaire

La nudité des fleurs...

La nudité des fleurs c’est leur odeur charnelle

Qui palpite et s’émeut comme un sexe femelle

Et les fleurs sans parfum sont vêtues par pudeur

Elles prévoient qu’on veut violer leur odeur

La nudité du ciel est voilée par des ailes

D’oiseaux planant d’attente émue d’amour et d’heur

La nudité des lacs frissonne aux demoiselles

Baisant d’élytres bleus leur écumeuse ardeur

La nudité des mers je l’attife de voiles

Qu’elles déchireront en gestes de rafale

Pour dévoiler au stupre aimé d’elles leurs corps

Au stupre des noyés raidis d’amour encore

Pour violer la mer vierge douce et surprise

De la rumeur des flots et des lèvres éprises.

Guillaume Apollinaire

La nudità dei fiori

La nudità dei fiori è il loro odore carnale

Che palpita e si eccita come un sesso femminile

E i fiori senza profumo sono vestiti di pudore

Essi prevedono che si vuol violare il loro odore

La nudità del cielo è velata di ali

Di uccelli che planano d’attesa inquieta d’amore e di fortuna

La nudità dei laghi freme per le libellule

Che baciano con azzurre elitre il loro ardore di spume

La nudità dei mari io la adorno di vele

Che esse strazieranno con gesti di raffica

Per svelare il loro corpo allo stupro innamorato di esse

Allo stupro degli annegati ancora irrigiditi d’amore

Per violare il mare vergine dolce e sorpresa

Del rumore dei flutti e delle labbra appassionate

Guillaume Apollinaire

La desnudez de las flores

La desnudez de las flores es su olor carnal.

Que palpita y se excita como un sexo femenino

Y las flores sin perfume están vestidas con modestia.

Ellos predicen que quieres romper su olor 

La desnudez del cielo está velada con alas.

De pájaros que se deslizan esperando ansiosamente con amor y suerte

La desnudez de los lagos tiembla con libélulas

Besan su ardor de espuma con salitre azul

La desnudez de los mares lo adorné con velas

Que se inquieten con gestos racheados

Para revelar su cuerpo a la desfloración enamorada de ellos.

Al abuso del ahogado todavía rígido de amor

Violar el dulce y sorprendido mar virgen

Del sonido de olas y labios apasionados.

Guillaume Apollinaire

Flowers desfullades, 1894, by Ramon Casas

Love Song / A. R. Ammons

Love Song

Like the hills under dusk you 

fall away from the light: 

you deepen: the green 

light darkens 

and you are nearly lost: 

only so much light as 

stars keep 

manifests your face: 

the total night in 

myself raves 

for the light along your lips.

A. R. Ammons (Archie Randolph Ammons)

From Selected Poems Cornell, 1968.

Photo by Inox Lord

Yo, la que te quiere / Gioconda Belli

Yo, la que te quiere

Yo soy tu indómita gacela

el trueno que rompe la luz sobre tu pecho.

Yo soy el viento desatado en la montaña

y el fulgor concentrado del fuego del ocote.

Yo caliento tus noches

encendiendo volcanes en mis manos,

mojándote los ojos con el humo de mis cráteres.

Yo he llegado hasta vos vestida de lluvia y de recuerdo,

riendo la risa inmutable de los años.

Yo soy el inexplorado camino,

la claridad que rompe la tiniebla.

Yo pongo estrellas entre tu piel y la mía

y te recorro entero,

sendero tras sendero,

descalzando mi amor,

desnudando mi miedo.

Yo soy un nombre que canta y te enamora

desde el otro lado de la luna,

soy la prolongación de tu sonrisa y tu cuerpo.

Yo soy algo que crece,

algo que ríe y llora.

Yo,

la que te quiere.

Gioconda Belli

I, the one who loves you

I am your untamed gazelle

the thunder shattering the light on your chest.

I am the wind unchained in the mountain

and the concentrated radiance of the ocote’s fire.

I heat your nights

lighting volcanoes in my hands,

moistening your eyes with  my crater’s smoke.

I came towards you wrapped in rain and memories,

laughing the immutable laughter of the years.

I am the unexplored road,

the light that shatters the dark.

I put stars between your skin and mine

and overrun you thoroughly,

trail after trail,

unlacing my love,

undressing my fear.

I am a name that sings and seduces you

from the other side of the moon,

I am the extension of your smile and your body.

I am something that grows,

something that laughs and cries.

I,

the one who loves you.

Gioconda Belli

Painting by Nikolina Petolas

L'arbre / Pierre Louÿs

L'arbre

Je me suis dévêtue pour monter à un arbre ; mes cuisses nues embrassaient l'écorce lisse et humide ; mes sandales marchaient sur les branches.

Tout en haut, mais encore sous les feuilles et à l'ombre de la chaleur, je me suis mise à cheval sur une fourche écartée en balançant mes pieds dans le vide.

Il avait plu. Des gouttes d'eau tombaient et coulaient sur ma peau. Mes mains étaient tachées de mousse, et mes orteils étaient rouges, à cause des fleurs écrasées.

Je sentais le bel arbre vivre quand le vent passait au travers ; alors je serrais mes jambes davantage et j'appliquais mes lèvres ouvertes sur la nuque chevelue d'un rameau.

Pierre Louÿs ~ (Les Chansons de Bilitis / 1894-1897)

The Tree

I undressed to climb a tree; my naked thighs embraced the smooth and humid bark; my sandals climbed upon the branches. 

High up, but still beneath the leaves and shaded from the heat, I straddled a wide-spread fork and swung my feet into the void. 

It had rained. Drops of water fell and flowed upon my skin. My hands were soiled with the moss and my heels were reddened by the crushed blossoms. 

I felt the lovely tree living when the wind passed through it; so I locked my legs tighter, and crushed my open lips to the hairy nape of a bough.

Pierre Louÿs ~ (The Songs of Bilitis / 1894-1897)

El Árbol

Me quité las ropas para trepar a un árbol; mis muslos desnudos abrazaban la corteza tersa y húmeda; mis sandalias caminaban sobre las ramas.

En la copa, pero aún bajo las hojas ya cubierto del calor, cabalgué sobre una rama horquillada balanceando mis pies en el vacío.

Había llovido. Caían gotas de agua y escurrían por mi piel. Tenía las manos manchadas de musgo y los dedos de los pies enrojecidos por las flores pisoteadas.

Sentía vibrar al hermoso árbol cuando le atravesaba el viento; entonces apretaba las piernas y posaba mis labios abiertos sobre la peluda nuca de un ramo.

Pierre Louÿs ~ (Las Canciones de Bilitis / 1894-1897)

Photo by Philip Antonov

The Winds of May / Ursula K. Le Guin

THE WINDS OF MAY

are soft and restless 

in their leafy garments 

that rustle and sway 

making every moment movement.

Ursula K. Le Guin

Photo by Anna Hilja

Winds of May / James Joyce

Winds of May

Winds of May, that dance on the sea,

Dancing a ring-around in glee

From furrow to furrow, while overhead

The foam flies up to be garlanded,

In silvery arches spanning the air,

Saw you my true love anywhere?

Welladay! Welladay!

For the winds of May!

Love is unhappy when love is away!

James Joyce

Photo by Piotr Hubert

Efecto mariposa / ©Margarita González

EFECTO MARIPOSA

Bella, vestida de alas en negro terciopelo, guantes de raso  blanco brillantes, sombrero con dos plumas en negro color y cada una puestas al costado de tus diminutos oídos.

El aire te arrastra por el azul del cielo

Descansas entre las flores del árbol frutal de durazno.

Te desplazas presurosa sobre la mesa de mantel blanco y quedan tus ojos fijos en mí, tras tus pasos dos pequeños saltan y revolotean sus frágiles alas.

Y yo mirando en mi espejo de mano desplazando mi rojo lipstick sobre mis labios.

Escrito por: ©Margarita González

Photo by Wally68 (Italian photographer)

trzymam w ustach pasmo slonca ... / Halina Poświatowska

trzymam w ustach pasmo slonca

jak pasmo wlosow

gryze

czasem przyfruwa pszczola

ubrana w krotkie futro

rozmawiam z nia

gwiazdy pociagniete woskiem modlitw gasna

wiatr nie przegarnia wlosow

slonce nie dotyka ust

tylko pszczola

przynosi wiesci o swietle

mowi: elementy czerwieni i zlota

zwiazane doskonale

dojrzewaja

pod lagodnym skrzydlem jesieni

potracam galaz

wolno

brunatniejac

opadaja liscie

elementy czerwieni i zlota

rozsypane

Halina Poświatowska

in my mouth i hold a strand of sun

and as with a strand of hair

i bite on it

sometimes a bee flies up to me

dressed in a short fur

i talk with it

the stars coated with the wax of prayers dim

the wind does not sift through my hair

the sun does not touch my lips

only the bee

brings me the news of light

it says: elements of red and gold

perfectly combined

ripen

under the gentle wing of autumn

i move a branch

slowly

turning deep brown

leaves fall

elements of red and gold

scattered all

Halina Poświatowska

Translated from Polish by Marek Lugowski

Photo by Federica Erra

Sólo quisiera ser uno de los motivos de tu sonrisa, ... / Gabriela Mistral

“Sólo quisiera ser uno de los motivos de tu sonrisa, quizá un pequeño pensamiento de tu mente durante la mañana, o quizá un lindo recuerdo antes de dormir. Sólo quisiera ser una fugaz imagen frente a tus ojos, quizá una voz susurrante en tu oído, o quizá un leve roce en tus labios. Sólo quisiera ser alguien que quisieras tener a tu lado, quizá no durante todo el día, pero de una u otra forma, vivir en ti.”

Gabriela Mistral




“I would only like to be one of the reasons for your smile, maybe a small thought on your mind in the morning, or perhaps a lovely memory on your mind before sleeping. I would only like to be a fleeting image before your eyes, perhaps a voice whispering in your ear, or a light brush against your lips.I would only like to be a person you want to have beside you, not during the entire day, but in one form or other, to live in you.”

Gabriela Mistral

Photo by Federica Erra

Zyj -- mowiles -- ... / Halina Poświatowska

Zyj -- mowiles -- jestes promieniem slonca schwytanym

w barwe kwiatu. Jestes miekkim dotykiem skrzydel pszczoly

jestes waskim zdzblem trawy brzekiem chrabaszcza -- mo-

wiles -- zyj.

Barwa kwiatu gasnie i przeradza sie w owoc mniej piekny

ale potrzebny twoim palcom ktore lekko dotykaja cieplej

nagrzanej skory. Barwa kwiatu umiera... Skrzydla pszczoly

sprzymierzone z wiatrem przynosza w czworokatny cien

ula miod ktorym karmisz usta. Zdzblo trawy cierpkim po-

smakiem przywiera do twoich warg. Usprawiedliwiasz wszy-

stko i cien i ptaka bo wszystko potrzebne tobie. Po co mo-

wisz: zyj jak ptak jak pszczola jak lisc gdy to wszystko jest

toba i toba. Tak powiedz -- zyj dla mnie zyj abym mogl

calowac twoje palce pachnace rumiankiem i szyje podobna

do kwiatu. I brwi jak liscie. I usta.

Wtedy wlosy rozczesze zoltym grzebieniem poloze na po-

duszce rece uspokoje. I bede zyla! Dla ciebie.

Halina Poświatowska

Do live -- you said -- you are a sun's ray caught as the hue of a flower.

You are the soft touch of a bee's wings you are the narrow blade of grass

the buzz of a beetle -- you said -- live.

The hue of a flower goes out and turns into a fruit less beautiful but

needed by your fingers which lightly touch the warm, heated skin. The

hue of a flower dies... The bee's wings allied with the wind bring into

the fourcornered shadow of a hive honey with which you feed your mouth.

The blade of grass with its tart aftertaste sticks to your lips. You

make excuses for everything and the shadow and the bird because you need

everything. Why do you say: live like a bird like a bee like a leaf when

it is all you and you. Say it like so -- live for me live so that I could

kiss your fingers smelling of camomile and your neck so like a flower. And

eyebrows like leaves. And mouth.

Then I will brush my hair with a yellow comb I will rest it on a pillow I

will calm my hands. And I will live! For you.

Halina Poświatowska

Translated by Marek Lugowski

Photo by Federica Erra

kto pomalował twoje policzki ... / Halina Poświatowska

kto pomalował twoje policzki

że płoną

to świt ubarwił moje policzki

czerwono

a kto pociemnił twoje źrenice

że gasną

to zmierzch pociemnił moje źrenice

jasne

a kto ci oddech zatrzymał w krtani

o miły

twoje to usta i twoje ręce

sprawiły

Halina Poświatowska

kim boyadı ki yanaklarını

yanıyorlar.

şafak boyadı yanaklarımı

kırmızıya.

ya kim kararttı ki gözbebeklerini

sönüyorlar.

alacakaranlık kararttı göz bebeklerimi

aydınlık göz bebeklerimi

ya kim tuttu boğazında soluğunu

ah sevdiğim,

senin dudakların ve ellerin

yaptı bunu.

Halina Poświatowska

Çeviri: Seda Köycü Arslantekin

Photo by Federica Erra

May / Mary Oliver

May 

May, and among the miles of leafing

blossoms storm out of the darkness -

earth. windflowers and moccasin flowers. The bees

dive into them and I too, to gather

their spiritual honey. Mute and meek, yet theirs

is the deepest certainty that this existence too -

this sense of well-being, the flourishing

of the physical body - rides

near the hub of the miracle that everything

is a part of, is as good

as a poem or a prayer, can also make

luminous any dark place on earth.

Mary Oliver

A Lane Near Arles. May 1888,
by Vincent van Gogh

Another Roadside Attraction / Tom Robbins

"When a man confines an animal in a cage, he assumes ownership of that animal, but an animal is an individual; it cannot be owned. When a man tries to own an individual, whether that individual be another man, an animal, or even a tree, he suffers the consequences of an unnatural act.

Have you ever watched visitors at a managerie or zoo – the fools they make of themselves - the way they leer and snigger and vex and demand entertainment and taunt? A caged beast, like an excess of alcohol, reduces man to his most banal dimensions. And he is only slightly better behaved when observing human inmates of prisons and institutions.

A creature, human or otherwise, that has had its freedom compromised, has been degraded. In a subconscious reaction that combines guilt, fear, and contempt, the keepers of the cage – even the observers of the caged – are degraded themselves. The cage is a double degrader. Any bar, whether concrete or intangible, that stands between a living thing and its liberty is a communicable perversity, dangerous to the sanity of everyone concerned."

Tom Robbins ~ (Another Roadside Attraction)

"Bir insan bir hayvanı kafese tıktığında, o hayvanın sahipliğini üstlenmiş olur. Ama hayvan bir bireydir, ona sahip olunamaz. Bir insan bir bireye sahip olmaya çalıştığında, bu birey ister başka bir insan, hayvan, hatta ağaç olsun, doğal olmayan bu hareketinin ruhsal sonuçlarına katlanmak zorunda kalır.

Vahşi hayvanların sergilendiği bir mekanı ya da bir hayvanat bahçesini ziyaret edenleri -geri zekalıca davranmalarını, nasıl sırıttıklarını, gülmekten kırılmalarını, nasıl tacizde bulunduklarını, eğlendirilmeyi talep etmelerini, hayvanlara sataşmalarını seyrettin mi hiç? Kafese kapatılmış hayvan, tıpkı aşırı alkol gibi, insanı en müptezel boyutlarına indirger. Ve hapishane ya da hastane sakinlerini incelerken sadece bir parça daha edepli davranır insan.

İnsan ya da başka bir şey olsun, özgürlüğü kısıtlanmış bir yaratık aşağılanmıştır. Kafese koyulanların bekçileri de -hatta kafestekileri seyredenler de- aşağılanmıştır; bunlar bilinçaltında suçluluk, korku ve nefret karışımı bir duygu beslerler. Kafes iki yönlü bir aşağılamadır. Yaşayan bir varlıkla özgürlüğü arasında duran somut ya da soyut herhangi bir engel, muhatabı olan herkesin akıl sağlığını tehdit eden bulaşıcı bir sapkınlıktır."

Tom Robbins ~ (Dur Bir Mola Ver)

Rabbits are not cage animals!

Another Roadside Attraction / Tom Robbins

"The clown is a creature of chaos. His appearance is an affront to our sense of dignity, his actions a mockery of our sense of order. The clown (freedom) is always being chased by the policeman (authority). Clowns are funny precisely because their shy hopes lead invariably to brief flings of (exhilarating?) disorder followed by crushing retaliation from the status quo. It delights us to watch a careless clown break taboos; it thrills us vicariously to watch him run wild and free; it reassures us to see him slapped down and order restored. After all, we can condone liberty only up to a point."

Tom Robbins ~ (Another Roadside Attraction)

"Soytarı bir kaos yaratığıdır. Görünümü saygınlık anlayışımıza bir sataşma, hareketleriyse düzen anlayışımızın alaya alınmasıdır. Soytarı (özgürlük) daima polisler (otorite) tarafından kovalanır. Soytarıların çekingen umutları, hiç şaşmadan kısa süreli (hayata renk katan?) düzensizlik sıçrayışlarına sebebiyet verir, ki bu sıçrayışları da statükodan gelen ezici bir misilleme takip eder. İşte tam da bu nedenle komiktir soytarılar. Sakar bir soytarının tabuları yıkışını seyretmek çok hoşumuza gider; delice ve özgür koşuşturmasını seyrederken adeta koşuşturan bizmişiz gibi heyecanlanırız; şamarı yiyip oturduğunu, düzenin sağlandığını görmek bizi rahatlatır. Ne de olsa hürriyete ancak bir noktaya dek göz yumabiliriz."

Tom Robbins ~ (Dur Bir Mola Ver)

The Dwarf, Palisades, New Jersey,
USA, 1958, by Bruce Davidson

Alicante / Jacques Prévert

Alicante

Une orange sur la table

Ta robe sur le tapis

Et toi dans mon lit

Doux présent de la présent

Fraîcheur de la nuit

Chaleur de ma vie

Jacques Prévert

Alicante

An orange on the table

Your dress on the rug

And you in my bed

Sweet present of the present

Freshness of the night

Warmth of my life

Jacques Prévert

Alicante

Una naranja sobre la mesa

Tu vestido sobre la alfombra

Y tú en mi cama

Dulce presente del presente

Frescura de la noche

Calor de la vida

Jacques Prévert

Alicante

Un’arancia sulla tavola

Il tuo vestito sul tappeto

E nel mio letto tu

Dolce presente del presente

Freschezza della notte

Calore della mia vita

Jacques Prévert

Model Nina, 2000, by Bruno Bisang

Le front aux vitres / Paul Éluard

Le front aux vitres comme font les veilleurs de chagrin

Ciel dont j’ai dépassé la nuit

Plaines toutes petites dans mes mains ouvertes

Dans leur double horizon inerte indifférent

Le front aux vitres comme font les veilleurs de chagrin

Je te cherche par delà l’attente

Par delà moi même

Et je ne sais plus tant je t’aime

Lequel de nous deux est absent.

Paul Éluard ~ "L'Amour la poésie"

 

The forehead to the windows

Like the watchmen of sorrow

Sky of which I have passed the night

Tiny plains in my open hands

In their double horizon, inert, indifferent.

The forehead to the windows

Like the watchmen of sorrow

I'm looking for you beyond expectation,

beyond myself

And I don't know anymore, I love you so much

Which of us two is missing.

Paul Éluard

Translation by Nikan Ingabire Kanate

Photo by Dorota Górecka

Cúbreme, amor, el cielo de la boca / Rafael Alberti

Cúbreme, amor, el cielo de la boca

con esa arrebatada espuma extrema,

que es jazmín del que sabe y del que quema,

brotado en punta de coral de roca.

 

Alóquemelo, amor, su sal, aloca

Tu lancinante aguda flor suprema,

Doblando su furor en la diadema

del mordiente clavel que la desboca.

 

¡Oh ceñido fluir, amor, oh bello

borbotar temperado de la nieve

por tan estrecha gruta en carne viva,

 

para mirar cómo tu fino cuello

se te resbala, amor, y se te llueve

de jazmines y estrellas de saliva!

Rafael Alberti

Cover me, love, the sky of the mouth

with that rapt extreme foam,

which is the jasmine of the one who knows and the one who burns,

sprouted on the tip of rock coral.

Crazy me, love, your salt, crazy

Your piercing sharp supreme flower,

Folding his fury into the diadem

of the carnation bite that runs wild.

Oh tight flow, love, oh beautiful

bubbling out of snow

for such a narrow grotto in raw flesh,

to see how your thin neck

it slips, love, and it rains

of jasmine and saliva stars!

Rafael Alberti

Self-portrait, 2000, by Naomi Toki

Le Petit Prince / Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

“C’est une folie de haïr toutes les roses parce que une épine vous a piqué, d’abandonner tous les rêves parce que l’un d’entre eux ne s’est pas réalisé, de renoncer à toutes les tentatives parce qu’on a échoué… C‘est une folie de condamner toutes les amitiés parce qu’une d’elles vous a trahi, de ne croire plus en l’amour juste parce qu’un d’entre eux a été infidèle, de jeter toutes les chances d’être heureux juste parce que quelque chose n’est pas allé dans la bonne direction. Il y aura toujours une autre occasion, un autre ami, un autre amour, une force nouvelle. Pour chaque fin il y a toujours un nouveau départ.”

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry ~ (Le Petit Prince)

“It is madness to hate all roses because you got scratched with one thorn. To give up on your dreams because one didn’t come true. To lose faith in prayers because one was not answered, to give up on our efforts because one of them failed. To condemn all your friends because one betrayed you, not to believe in love because someone was unfaithful or didn’t love you back. To throw away all your chances to be happy because you didn’t succeed on the first attempt. I hope that as you go on your way, you don’t give in nor give up!”

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry ~ (The Little Prince)

“È una follia odiare tutte le rose perché una spina ti ha punto, abbandonare tutti i sogni perché uno di loro non si è realizzato, rinunciare a tutti i tentativi perché uno è fallito. È una follia condannare tutte le amicizie perché una ti ha tradito, non credere in nessun amore solo perché uno di loro è stato infedele, buttate via tutte le possibilità di essere felici solo perché qualcosa non è andato per il verso giusto. Ci sarà sempre un’altra opportunità, un’altra amicizia, un altro amore, una nuova forza. Per ogni fine c’è un nuovo inizio”.

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry ~ (Il Piccolo Principe)

Photo by Anna Hilja

Nic dwa razy / Wislawa Szymborska

Nic dwa razy

Nic dwa razy się nie zda­rza

i nie zda­rzy. Z tej przy­czy­ny

zro­dzi­li­śmy się bez wpra­wy

i po­mrze­my bez ru­ty­ny.

Choć­by­śmy ucznia­mi byli

naj­tęp­szy­mi w szko­le świa­ta,

nie bę­dzie­my re­pe­to­wać

żad­nej zimy ani lata.

Żaden dzień się nie po­wtó­rzy,

nie ma dwóch po­dob­nych nocy,

dwóch tych sa­mych po­ca­łun­ków,

dwóch jed­na­kich spoj­rzeń w oczy.

Wczo­raj, kie­dy two­je imię

ktoś wy­mó­wił przy mnie gło­śno,

tak mi było, jak­by róża

przez otwar­te wpa­dła okno.

Dziś, kie­dy je­ste­śmy ra­zem,

od­wró­ci­łam twarz ku ścia­nie.

Róża? Jak wy­glą­da róża?

Czy to kwiat? A może ka­mień?

Cze­mu ty się, zła go­dzi­no,

z nie­po­trzeb­nym mie­szasz lę­kiem?

Je­steś – a więc mu­sisz mi­nąć.

Mi­niesz – a więc to jest pięk­ne.

Uśmiech­nię­ci, współ­o­bję­ci

spró­bu­je­my szu­kać zgo­dy,

choć róż­ni­my się od sie­bie

jak dwie kro­ple czy­stej wody.

Wislawa Szymborska ~ Wołanie do Yeti, 1957.

Nothing Twice

Nothing can ever happen twice.

In consequence, the sorry fact is

that we arrive here improvised

and leave without the chance to practice.

Even if there is no one dumber,

if you’re the planet’s biggest dunce,

you can’t repeat the class in summer:

this course is only offered once.

No day copies yesterday,

no two nights will teach what bliss is

in precisely the same way,

with precisely the same kisses.

One day, perhaps some idle tongue

mentions your name by accident:

I feel as if a rose were flung

into the room, all hue and scent.

The next day, though you’re here with me,

I can’t help looking at the clock:

A rose? A rose? What could that be?

Is it a flower or a rock?

Why do we treat the fleeting day

with so much needless fear and sorrow?

It's in its nature not to stay:

Today is always gone tomorrow.

With smiles and kisses, we prefer

to seek accord beneath our star,

although we’re different (we concur)

just as two drops of water are.

Wisława Szymborska

Nada dos veces

Nada sucede dos veces

ni va a suceder, por eso

sin experiencia nacemos,

sin rutina moriremos.

En esta escuela del mundo

ni siendo malos alumnos

repetiremos un año,

un invierno, un verano.

No es el mismo ningún día,

no hay dos noches parecidas,

igual mirada en los ojos,

dos besos que se repitan.

Ayer mientras que tu nombre

en voz alta pronunciaban

sentí como si una rosa

cayera por la ventana.

Ahora que estamos juntos,

vuelvo la cara hacia el muro.

¿Rosa? ¿Cómo es la rosa?

¿Como una flor o una piedra?

Dime por qué, mala hora,

con miedo inútil te mezclas.

Eres y por eso pasas.

Pasas, por eso eres bella.

Medio abrazados, sonrientes,

buscaremos la cordura,

aun siendo tan diferentes

cual dos gotas de agua pura.

Wislawa Szymborska

De: Llamando al Yeti, 1957

Recogido en la antología: «Saltaré sobre el fuego»

Traducción de Abel Murcia y Gerardo Beltrán

Nada dos veces

Nada ocurre dos veces

y nunca ocurrirá.

Nacimos sin experiencia,

moriremos sin rutina.

Aunque fuéramos los alumnos

más torpes en la escuela del mundo,

nunca más repasaremos

ningún verano o invierno.

Ningún día se repite,

no hay dos noches iguales,

dos besos que dieran lo mismo,

dos miradas en los mismos ojos.

Ayer alguien pronunciaba

tu nombre en mi presencia,

como si de repente cayera

una rosa por la ventana abierta.

Hoy, cuando estamos juntos,

vuelvo la cara hacia el muro.

¿Rosa? ¿Cómo es la rosa?

¿Es flor? ¿O tal vez piedra?

¿Y por qué tú, mala hora,

te enredas en un miedo inútil?

Eres, pues estás pasando,

pasarás —es bello esto.

Sonrientes, abrazados,

intentemos encontrarnos,

aunque seamos distintos

como dos gotas de agua.

Wislawa Szymborska

Nulla due volte

Nulla due volte accade

né accadrà. Per tal ragione

si nasce senza esperienza,

si muore senza assuefazione.

Anche agli alunni più ottusi

della scuola del pianeta

di ripeter non è dato

le stagioni del passato.

Non c’è giorno che ritorni,

non due notti uguali uguali,

né due baci somiglianti,

né due sguardi tali e quali.

Ieri, quando il tuo nome

qualcuno ha pronunciato,

mi è parso che una rosa

sbocciasse sul selciato.

Oggi, che stiamo insieme,

ho rivolto gli occhi altrove.

Una rosa? Ma che cos’è?

Forse pietra, o forse fiore?

Perché tu, malvagia ora,

dài paura e incertezza?

Ci sei – perciò devi passare.

Passerai – e qui sta la bellezza.

Cercheremo un’armonia,

sorridenti, fra le braccia,

anche se siamo diversi

come due gocce d’acqua.

Wislawa Szymborska

(La gioia di scrivere - Ed. Adelphi)

Traduzione: Pietro Marchesani

Ile Saint-Louis, Paris, 1975, by Edouard Boubat

Amparo / Federico García Lorca

Amparo

Amparo

¡qué sola estás en tu casa

vestida de blanco!

(Ecuador entre el jazmín

y el nardo).

Oyes los maravillosos

surtidores de tu patio,

y el débil trino amarillo

del canario.

Por la tarde ves temblar

los cipreses con los pájaros,

mientras bordas lentamente

letras sobre el cañamazo.

Amparo,

¡qué sola estás en tu casa,

vestida de blanco!

Amparo,

¡y qué difícil decirte:

yo te amo!

Federico García Lorca - Poema del cante jondo (1921-1922)

Amparo

Amparo,

how lonely you are in your house, 

dressed in white!

(Half-way between jasmine

and spikenard.)

You hear the marvellous 

fountains in your courtyard,

and the frail yellow trilling

of the canary.

In the evening you see

the cypresses shake with birds,

as you slowly embroider 

letters into the canvas.

 

Amparo,

how lonely you are in your house, 

dressed in white!

And Amparo, 

how hard to say:

I love you!

Federico García Lorca - Poem of the deep song (1921-1922)

Amparo

Nasıl da yalnızsın evinde 

Amparo,

aklara bürünmüşsün!

(Ekvator,

yaseminle sümbül arasında.)

Avlunun o eşsiz 

fıskiyelerini dinliyorsun 

ve kanaryanın sarı

inceden ötüşünü.

Akşama doğru selvilerin 

titrediğini görüyorsun kuşlarla, 

harfler işliyorsun usul usul 

kanaviçene.

Nasıl da yalnızsın evinde 

Amparo,

aklara bürünmüşsün!

Nasıl da güç 

Amparo

seni seviyorum! demek sana.

Federico García Lorca

Çeviri: Sait Maden

Photo by David Dubnitskiy

Nostos / Louise Glück

Nostos

There was an apple tree in the yard —

this would have been

forty years ago — behind,

only meadows. Drifts

of crocus in the damp grass.

I stood at that window:

late April. Spring

flowers in the neighbor’s yard.

How many times, really, did the tree

flower on my birthday,

the exact day, not

before, not after? Substitution

of the immutable

for the shifting, the evolving.

Substitution of the image

for relentless earth. What

do I know of this place,

the role of the tree for decades

taken by a bonsai, voices

rising from the tennis courts —

Fields. Smell of the tall grass, new cut.

As one expects of a lyric poet.

We look at the world once, in childhood.

The rest is memory.

Louise Glück

Nostos

Había un manzano en el patio—

esto debió haber sido

hace cuarenta años—atrás,

solo prados. Bancos

de crocus en la hierba húmeda.

Me paré en esa ventana:

finales de abril. Primavera

flores en el jardín del vecino.

¿Cuántas veces, realmente, floreció el árbol

en mi cumpleaños,

el día exacto, no

antes, no después? Sustitución

de lo inmutable

por lo cambiante, lo evolutivo.

Sustitución de la imagen

por la tierra incansable. ¿Qué

sé yo de este lugar?

El rol del árbol durante décadas

sustituido por un bonsái, voces

que se elevan desde las canchas de tenis —

Campos. Olor de la hierba alta, recién cortada.

Como se espera de un poeta lírico.

Miramos el mundo una vez, en la infancia.

El resto es memoria.

Louise Glück

Traducción: Marisol Bohórquez Godoy

Nostos

Había un manzano en el patio --

esto habrá sido

hace cuarenta años -- y detrás,

solo praderas. Montones

de crocus en el pasto mojado.

Yo me paraba junto a esa ventana:

fines de abril. Flores

de primavera en el patio vecino.

¿Cuántas veces el árbol floreció,

de verdad, para mi cumpleaños,

el día exacto, no antes,

ni después? La sustitución

de lo inmutable

por lo que cambia, por lo que evoluciona.

La sustitución de la imagen

por la tierra implacable. ¿Qué

es lo que sé de este lugar?

El papel de ese árbol confundido por

décadas con un bonsai, las voces

subiendo desde las canchas de tenis –

Los campos. Olor a pasto crecido, recién cortado.

Lo que se espera de un poeta lírico.

Miramos el mundo una sola vez, en la infancia.

El resto es memoria.

Louise Glück

Nostos

C’era un melo nell’orto – 

saranno stati

quarant’anni fa – dietro,

soltanto pascolo. I petali

del croco sull’erba umida.

Ero a quella finestra:

fine aprile. I fiori

di primavera nell’orto dei vicini.

Quante volte, davvero, l’albero

è fiorito per il mio compleanno,

esattamente quel giorno, non

prima, non dopo? Sostituzione

dell’immutabile

con quel che muta, che evolve.

Sostituzione dell’immagine

con la terra incessante. Cosa

so di questo luogo,

il ruolo dell’albero per decenni

sostituito da un bonsai, voci

che giungono dai campi da tennis –

Prati. Odore dell’erba alta, tagliata da poco. 

Come ci si aspetta da un poeta lirico.

Guardiamo il mondo una sola volta, nell’infanzia.

Il resto è ricordo.

Louise Glück

(da “Meadowlands”, traduzione di Bianca Tarozzi)

Nostos

C’era un melo nel giardino –

saranno stati quarant’anni fa – dietro,

solo prati. Distese

di crochi nell’erba umida.

Stavo a quella finestra:

fine aprile. Fiori primaverili

nel giardino del vicino.

Quante volte, davvero, l’albero

era fiorito il giorno del mio compleanno,

il giorno esatto, non

prima, non dopo? Sostituzione 

dell’immutabile 

per il mutevole, ciò che evolve.

Sostituzione dell’immagine

per la terra inesorabile. Che cosa

so di questo luogo,

il ruolo dell’albero per decenni

assunto da un bonsai, voci

che si elevano dai campi da tennis –

Campi. Odore dell’erba alta, appena tagliata.

Come uno si aspetta da un poeta lirico.

Guardiamo il mondo una volta, da piccoli.

Il resto è memoria.

Louise Glück

Traduzione: Fabiola Castellani

Yuvaya Dönüş

Bahçede bir elma ağacı vardı -

Bu kırk yıl evvel olmalı – ardında

alabildiğine çayırlar. Çiğdemler

ıslak çimlerde sürüklenen.

O pencerede duruyordu:

Nisan sonuydu. Bahar

çiçekleri komşunun bahçesinde.

Kaç kez çiçek açtı o ağaç,

tam o gün ama, doğum günümde,

daha önce ya da daha sonra değil?

Değişkenin, evrilenin

sabitle ikamesi.

Amansız yeryüzünün

imgeyle ikamesi. Ne biliyorum

bu yere dair,

ağaç rolünü on yıllardır

bir bonsai oynuyor, sesler

yükseliyor tenis kortlarından –

Tarlalar. Uzun çimenlerin kokusu, taze

biçilmiş.

Lirik bir şairden bekleneceği gibi.

Dünyaya bir kez çocukken bakarız.

Gerisi hatıradır.

Louise Glück

Çeviren: Nuray Önoğlu

Eve Dönüş  

Bahçede bir elma ağacı vardı  

kırk yıl kadar  önce olmalı — ardından, 

yalnızca çayır. Çiğdem 

çiçekleriyle bezeli ıslak çimler.

Pencerede dururdum:

Nisan sonu. Komşunun bahçesinde 

ilkbahar çiçekleri.

Sahi, kaç kere çiçek açtı şu ağaç  

doğum günümde,
tam o gün ama, ne önce ne de sonra,  

kaç kere? Değişkenin, 

evrilenin, 
durağanın yerine geçmesi. 

Acımasız dünyanın,  

düşlerin yerine geçmesi. Bildiklerim 

nedir, buraya dair, 

bir bonsai, ağaç rolünü üstleniyor 

onyıllardır, sesler yükseliyor,  

tenis sahalarından —

Tarlalar. Uzun çimenlerin kokusu, yeni biçilmiş. 

Çoşkulu bir şairden beklendiği gibi. 

Dünyaya bir kez çocukken bakarız, 

Hatıradır gerisi.

Louise Glück

Çeviren: Fahri Alpyürür

Photo by @as_it_is_____

White Nights / Paul Auster

White Nights

No one here,

and the body says: whatever is said

is not to be said.  But no one 

is a body as well, and what the body says

is heard by no one

but you.

Snowfall and night. The repetition

of a murder 

among the trees. The pen

moves across the earth: it no longer knows

what will happen, and the hand that holds it

has disappeared.

Nevertheless, it writes.

It writes: in the beginning,

among the trees, a body came walking

from the night.  It writes:

the body's whiteness

is the color of earth.  It is earth,

and the earth writes: everything

is the color of silence.

I am no longer here. I have never said

what you say

I have said. And yet, the body is a place

where nothing dies. And each night,

from the silence of the trees, you know

that my voice

comes walking toward you.

Paul Auster

(from Disappearances, Selected Poems Overlook Press)

Noches Blancas

No hay nadie aquí,

y el cuerpo dice: todo lo dicho

no debe ser dicho. Pero nadie

es un cuerpo igualmente, y lo que el cuerpo dice

nadie lo oye

excepto tú.

Nevada y noche. La repetición

de un asesinato

entre los árboles. La pluma

se mueve sobre la tierra: qué ocurrirá

lo ignora, y la mano que la sostiene

ha desaparecido.

No obstante, escribe.

Escribe: en el principio,

entre los árboles, un cuerpo vino caminando

desde la noche. Escribe:

la blancura del cuerpo

es del color de la tierra. Es tierra,

y la tierra escribe: todo

es del color del silencio.

Yo no estoy aquí. Nunca he dicho

lo que tú dices

que he dicho. Y, cada noche,

desde el silencio de los árboles, sabes

que mi voz

viene caminando hacia ti.

Paul Auster

Notti Bianche

Nessuno qui,

e il corpo dice: qualunque cosa si dica

non dev’essere detta. Ma nessuno

è anche un corpo, e ciò che dice il corpo

non è udito da nessuno

tranne te.

Nevicata e notte. La replica

di un omicidio

fra gli alberi. La penna

si muove attraverso la terra: non sa più

cosa accadrà, e la mano che la tiene

è scomparsa.

Eppure, scrive.

Scrive: al principio,

tra gli alberi, un corpo

è venuto a piedi dalla notte. Scrive:

il bianco del corpo

è il colore della terra. È terra,

e la terra scrive: tutto

è il colore del silenzio.

Io non sono più qui. Non ho mai detto

ciò che dici

che ho detto. Ma il corpo è un luogo

dove non muore niente. E ogni notte,

dal silenzio degli alberi, tu sai

che la mia voce

cammina verso te.

Paul Auster

Beyaz Geceler

Burada kimse yok

ve beden der her ne söylediyse

söylenmedi aslında. Kimse

bir beden değildir sadece ve bedenin

ne dediğini senden başka

kimse duymaz.

Kar yağışı, gece. Bir cinayetin

ezberden yinelenmesi

ağaçların arasında. Bir kalem

dolaşır dünyada: ne bulacağını

bilmez artık ve çoktan yitmiştir

kalemi tutan el.

Yine de yazar.

Başlangıçta

ağaçların arasından bir beden

yürüyüp gelmişti geceden

diye yazar. Yazar bedenin beyazlığı

dünyanın rengidir diye. O dünyadır

ve dünya, yazar her şey sessizlik rengindedir diye.

Artık yokum burada. Söylediğimi

söylediğin şeyleri hiç söylemedim.

Ve şimdi beden hiçbir şeyin

ölmediği bir yerdir. Bilirsin ki her gece

ağaçların sessizliğinden

yürür gelir sana sesim.

Paul Auster

Çeviren: Gökçenur Ç.

Bench in Snow. Central Park, 1933, by John Albok