Poema
de la dedicación
La vista desde las habitaciones del sótano es bastante
reducida,
una o dos manchas de verde, un poco de cielo,
se oyen voces de niños pero nunca se los ve, un viejo
muro,
dos árboles, un tendedero entre ellos, ventanas
con cortinas altas para bloquear el ojo
exterior:
parece que nada cambia, nada crece,
pero de repente la mente se libera de las
cadenas
y se purifica ante el cálido
mediterráneo, que llena las venas,
para hacer el cuerpo hermoso y ligero-
la pesadez de los miembros o del alma puede
imitar la calma-
cierro el ojo para tener una vista mejor .
Hay un paisaje sin duda, es el mar
entre sus amplias realidades, atrae
porque es un símbolo de la libre
vida demoníaca interior,
apenas sugerida en la superficie,
ríos que un hombre puede esperar vencer
simplemente fluyendo , aprendiendo a fluir,
los árboles implican una evidente necesidad de
raíces,
todo crecimiento orgánico es lento.
Tanto la poesía como la vida ilustran:
cada estación trae sus frutos peculiares,
tiempo para actuar, tiempo para
contemplar.
La imagen se crea; trata de cambiar.
no para buscar la liberación sino la resolución,
no anhelar una gama amplia y divina
de
pensamientos, ni la destreza del torero
No quiero la concentración del yogui,
no quiero la caridad perfecta
de los santos ni el poder infinito del tirano.
Quiero vivir en equilibrio
fructífero en la hora común.
Esto, Elizabeth, es mi creación,
expresada en términos poéticos
es
lo que puedo ofrecer con devoción
versin libre de Jorge
Santkovsky
Poem of Dedication
The view from basement
rooms is rather small,
A patch or two of green, a bit of sky,
Children heard but never seen, an old wall,
Two trees, a washing line between, windows
With high curtains to block the outward eye:
It seems that nothing changes, nothing grows,
But suddenly the mind is loosed of chains
And purifies itself before the warm
Mediterranean, which fills the veins,
To make the body beautiful and light—
Heaviness of limbs or soul can mimic calm—
I close the eye to see with better sight.
There is a landscape certainly, the sea
Among its broad realities, attracts
Because it is a symbol of the free
Demoniac life within,
Hardly suggested by the surface facts,
And rivers what a man can hope to win
By simple flowing, learning how to flow,
And trees imply an obvious need of roots,
Besides that all organic growth is slow.
Both poetry and living illustrate:
Each season brings its own peculiar fruits,
A time to act, a time to contemplate.
The image is created; try to change.
Not to seek release but resolution,
Not to hanker for a wide, god-like range
Of thought, nor the matador's dexterity.
I do not want the yogi's concentration,
I do not want the perfect charity
Of saints nor the tyrant's endless power.
I want a human balance, humanly
Acquired, fruitful in the common hour.
This, Elizabeth, is my creation,
Stated in the terms of poetry.
I offer it to you in dedication.
Tr
Himnos en la oscuridad
Sabe
hablar de humildad, sin humildad.
Ha
cambiado la sabiduría de la juventud
por
los disparates de la madurez.
Lo
que se pierde es innegable, lo que gana es de dudoso valor.
La
autoestima entorpece su crecimiento.
No
ha aprendido como ser nadie.
Todas
sus verdades están fuera de él,
y
se burlan de su actividad.
Ha
encontrado demasiados secretos que no funcionarán
demasiadas
teclas que no desbloquean ningún bloqueo.
Es
todo de poca utilidad.
Todavía
es un yo endeble
con
la esperanza de manipular el universo
y que todos
sus poderes se vayan manifestando
para
su propio progreso, para tomar ventaja.
Una
y otra vez pierde la guerra de motivos,
y
se ha engañado a si mismo.
version libre de Jorge
Santkovsky
Hymns in darkness
He knows how to speak of humility,
without humility.
He has exchanged the wisdom of youthfulness
for the follies of maturity.
What is lost is certain, what is gained
of dubious value.
Self-esteem stunts his growth. He has not learnt
how to be nobody.
All his truths are outside him,
and mock his activity.
He has found too many secrets that will not work
too many keys that unlock no locks.
It's all of little use.
He's still a puny self
hoping to manipulate the universe and all
its manifest powers for his own advancement,
advantages.
Again and again, he loses the war of motives,
self-deceived.
version libre de Jorge Santkovsky
Boda Judia en Bombay
de acuerdo a la ley mosaica.
estábamos todos entretenidos . ¿Quién sabe cuánta era nuestra fe?
porque era más barato, y algunos incluso arriesgaron sus almas
por saborear carne de cerdo.
de la casa familiar de mi esposa
y aunque era medianoche ella seguía diciendo
"hagámoslo cariño, hagámoslo querido"
Jewish Wedding in Bombay
crying. It was the thing to do, so she did it
enjoying every moment. The bride laughed when I
sympathized, and said don't be silly.
Her brothers had a shoe of mine and made me pay
to get it back. The game delighted all the neighbors’
children, who never stopped staring at me, the reluctant
bridegroom of the day.
There was no dowry because they knew I was 'modern'
and claimed to be modern too. Her father asked me how
much jewellery I expected him to give away with his daughter.
When I said I did't know, he laughed it off.
There was no brass band outside the synagogue
but I remember a chanting procession or two, some rituals,
lots of skull-caps, felt hats, decorated shawls
and grape juice from a common glass for bride and
bridegroom.
I remember the breaking of the glass and the congregation
clapping which signified that we were well and truly married
according to the Mosaic Law.
Well that's about all. I don't think there was much
that struck me as solemn or beautiful. Mostly, we were
amused, and so were the others. Who knows how much belief
we had?
Even the most orthodox it was said ate beef because it
was cheaper, and some even risked their souls by
relishing pork.
The Sabbath was for betting and swearing and drinking.
Nothing extravagant, mind you, all in a low key
and very decently kept in check. My father used to say,
these orthodox chaps certainly know how to draw the line
in their own crude way. He himself had drifted into the liberal
creed but without much conviction, taking us all with him.
My mother was very proud of being 'progressive'.
Anyway as I was saying, there was that clapping and later
we went to the photographic studio of Lobo and Fernandes,
world-famous specialists in wedding portraits. Still later,
we lay on a floor-matress in the kitchen of my wife's
family apartment and though it was part midnight she
kept saying let's do it darling let's do it darling
so we did it.
More than ten years passed before she told me that
she remembered being very disappointed. Is that all
there is to it? She had wondered. Back from London
eighteen months earlier, I was horribly out of practice.
During our first serious marriage quarrel she said Why did
you take my virginity from me? I would gladly have
returned it, but not one of the books I had read
instructed me how.
