La Reversible

Antonio Gala nació en Brazatortas (Ciudad Real) en 1930 y murió en Córdoba en 2023. AÚN ERES MÍO, PORQUE NO TE TUVE  Aún eres mío, porque no te tuve. Cuánto tardan, sin ti, las olas en pasar… Cuando el amor comienza, hay un momento en que Dios se sorprende de haber urdido algo tan hermoso. Entonces, se inaugura -entre el fulgor y el júbilo- el mundo nuevamente, y pedir lo imposible no es pedir demasiado. Fue a la vera del mar, a medianoche. Supe que estaba Dios, y que la arena y tú y el mar y yo y la luna éramos Dios. Y lo adoré. YOU ARE STILL MINE BECAUSE I NEVER HAD YOU  You are still mine, because I never had you. How long it takes, without you, for the waves to pass...   When love begins, there is a moment in which God is surprised to have cooked up something so beautiful. Hence, -between brilliance and jubilation- the world is inaugurated anew, and asking for the impossible is not asking too much.   I went to the seaside, at midnight. I knew tha

Dannie Abse nació en 1923 en Cardiff (Reino Unido), donde murió en 2014.  TALKING TO MYSELF   In the mildew of age all pavements slope uphill   slow, slow, towards an exit.   It´s late and light allows the darkest shadows to be born of it.   Courage , the ventriloquist bird cries (a little god he is, censor of language)   remember plain Hardy and dandy Yeats in their inspired wise pre-dotage .   I, old man, in my new timidity, think how, profligate, I wasted time   – Those yawning postponements on rainy days, those paperhat hours of benign frivolity.   Now Time wastes me and there’s hardly time To fuss for more vascular speech.   The aspen tree trembles as I do and there are feathers in the wind.   Quick, quick Speak, old parrot, Do I not feed you with my life?     HABLANDO SOLO   En el moho de la vejez todos los pavimentos ascienden cuesta arriba   lento   lento hacia una salida.   Es tarde y la luz pe

Grace Paley nació en Nueva York (EE.UU.) en 1922 y murió en Thetford en 2007.   THE POET'S OCCASIONAL ALTERNATIVE   I was going to write a poem I made a pie instead it took about the same amount of time of course the pie was a final draft a poem would have some distance to go days and weeks and much crumpled paper the pie already had a talking tumbling audience among small trucks and a fire engine on the kitchen floor everybody will like this pie it will have apples and cranberries dried apricots in it many friends will say why in the world did you make only one this does not happen with poems because of unreportable sadnesses I decided to settle this morning for a responsive eatership I do not want to wait a week a year a generation for the right consumer to come along   LA ALTERNATIVA ESPORÁDICA DE LA POETA   Iba a escribir un poema en lugar de eso preparé un pastel me llevó casi el mismo tiempo por supuesto el pastel era la versión final un poema debería haber re

Martin Heidegger nació en Messkirch (Alemania) en 1889 y murió Friburgo en 1976. HÜTTE AM ABEND   Weit geschartes Waldgezüge wandert durch den blauen Duft. Zeichen ziehen Schwalbenflüge ungelesen in die Luft.   Jäh verhallt ein junger Schrei. Langgestreckte Höfe dämmern in den Abend. Welt wird frei. Bauern ihre Sensen hämmern.   Grau blickt in das Rot der Stein. Wind versickert in die Stille. Abendwärts klagt später Schein. Hart verlöschen Wahn und Wille.   Rankes Reh kommt an die Quelle, ob den Berg der erste Stern. Nacht verhüllt die eigene Helle. Denken stillt sich scheu und gern .   CABAÑA DE NOCHE   Vasta reunida pesca forestal vaga en fragancia celeste. Alas de golondrina trazan grafías ilegibles en el aire.   De golpe se apaga un grito gallardo. Oscurecen alargados patios. Se libera el mundo. Aldeanos martillan sus hocinos.   Gris mira el rojo de la piedra. Viento se filtra en el silencio. Un tardío resplandor clama. Delirio y volunta

William Stafford nació en Hutchinson (Kansas, EE.UU.) en 1914 y murió en Lake Oswego (Oregon) en 1993. TRAVELING THROUGHT THE DARK.... Traveling through the dark I found a deer dead on the edge of the Wilson River road. It is usually best to roll them into the canyon: that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead. By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing; she had stiffened already, almost cold. I dragged her off; she was large in the belly. My fingers touching her side brought me the reason- her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting, alive, still, never to be born. Beside that mountain road I hesitated. The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights; under the hood purred the steady engine. I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red; around our group I could hear the wilderness listen. I thought hard for us all -my only swerving-, then pushed her over the edge into the river.   VIAJA