EZRA POUND

[Jacques de Molay]

EZRA POUND (1885-1972).

Uno de los grandes poetas del siglo junto a T.S. Eliot y C. Cavafis

* A Lume spento, 1908
* Personae, 1909
* Exultations, 1909
* Cathay, 1915
* Hugh Selwyn Mauberley, 1920
* The Cantos; How to Read, 1931
* Make it New, 1934
* Literay Essays, 1954


Salutation

O generation of the thoroughly smug
and thoroughly uncomfortable,
I have seen fishermen picnicking in the sun,
I have seen them with untidy families,
I have seen their smiles full of teeth
and heard ungainly laughter.
And I am happier than you are,
And they were happier than I am;
And the fish swim in the lake
and do not even own clothing.

 

[Jacques de Molay]

Song of the Bowmen of Shu

Here we are, picking the first fern-shoots
And saying: When shall we get back to our country?
Here we are because we have the Ken-nin for our foemen,
We have no comfort because of these Mongols.
We grub the soft fern-shoots,
When anyone says "Return," the others are full of sorrow.
Sorrowful minds, sorrow is strong, we are hungry and thirsty.
Our defence is not yet made sure, no one can let his friend return.
We grub the old fern-stalks.
We say: Will we be let to go back in October?
There is no ease in royal affairs, we have no comfort.
Our sorrow is bitter, but we would not return to our country.
What flower has come into blossom?
Whose chariot? The General's.
Horses, his horses even, are tired. They were strong.
We have no rest, trhee battles a month.
By heavn, his horses are tired.
The generals are on them, the soldiers are by them.
The horses are well trained, the generals have ivory arrows and
quivers ornamented with fish-skin.
The enemy is swift, we must be careful.
When we set out, the willows were drooping with spring,
We come back in the snow,
We go slowly, we are hungry and thirsty,
Our mind is full of sorrow, who will know of our grief?

By Bunno, reputedly 1100 B. C.

 

[Jacques de Molay]

A girl

The tree has entered my hands,
The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast-
Downward,
The branches grow out of me, like arms.

Tree you are,
Moss you are,
You are violets with wind above them.
A child - so high - you are,
And all this is folly to the world.

 

[Jacques de Molay]

Ahora uno traducido, para que no os quejéis:

Un pacto

Haré un pacto contigo, Walt Whitman,
te he detestado ya bastante.
Vengo a ti como un niño crecido
que ha tenido un papá testarudo,
ya tengo edad de hacer amigos.
Fuiste tú el que cortaste la madera,
ahora es tiempo de labrar.
Tenemos la misma savia y la misma raíz,
haya comercio, pues, entre nosotros.


A pact

I make a pact with you, Walt Whitman-
I have detested you long enough.
I come to you as a grown child
Who has had a pig-headed father;
I am old enough now to make friends.
It was you that broke the new wood,
Now is a time for carving.
We have one sap and one root-
Let there be commerce between us.

 

[Jacques de Molay]

Francesca

You came in out of the night
And there were flowers in your hand,
Now you will come out of a confusion of people,
Out of a turmoil of speech about you.

I who have seen you amid the primal things
Was angry when they spoke your name
IN ordinary places.
I would that the cool waves might flow over my mind,
And that the world should dry as a dead leaf,
Or as a dandelion see-pod and be swept away,
So that I might find you again,
Alone.

Francesca

Saliste de la noche
Con flores en las manos.
Vas a salir ahora del barullo del mundo,
De la babel de lenguas que te nombra.

Yo que te vi rodeada de hechos primordiales,
Monté en cólera cuando te mencionaron
En burdos callejones.
¡Cómo me gustaría que una ola fresca cubriera mi mente
Que el mundo en hoja seca se trocara,
O en un vilano al viento,
Para que yo pudiera encontrarte de nuevo,
Sola!

(Traducción de José Luis Rivas)

 

[Jacques de Molay]

In the Old Age of the Soul

I do not choose to dream; there cometh on me
Some strange old lust for deeds.
As to the nerveless hand of some old warrior
The sword-hilt or the war-worn wonted helmet
Brings momentary life and long-fled cunning,
So to my soul grown old -
Grown old with many a jousting, many a foray,
Grown old with namy a hither-coming and hence-going -
Till now they send him dreams and no more deed;
So doth he flame again with might for action,
Forgetful of the council of elders,
Forgetful that who rules doth no more battle,
Forgetful that such might no more cleaves to him
So doth he flame again toward valiant doing.

 

[Jacques de Molay]

Canto I

And then went down to the ship,
Set keel to breakers, forth on the godly sea, and
We set up mast and sail on that swart ship,
Bore sheep aboard her, and our bodies also
Heavy with weeping, and winds from sternward
Bore us onward with bellying canvas,
Crice's this craft, the trim-coifed goddess.
Then sat we amidships, wind jamming the tiller,
Thus with stretched sail, we went over sea till day's end.
Sun to his slumber, shadows o'er all the ocean,
Came we then to the bounds of deepest water,
To the Kimmerian lands, and peopled cities
Covered with close-webbed mist, unpierced ever
With glitter of sun-rays
Nor with stars stretched, nor looking back from heaven
Swartest night stretched over wreteched men there.
The ocean flowing backward, came we then to the place
Aforesaid by Circe.
Here did they rites, Perimedes and Eurylochus,
And drawing sword from my hip
I dug the ell-square pitkin;
Poured we libations unto each the dead,
First mead and then sweet wine, water mixed with white flour
Then prayed I many a prayer to the sickly death's-heads;
As set in Ithaca, sterile bulls of the best
For sacrifice, heaping the pyre with goods,
A sheep to Tiresias only, black and a bell-sheep.
Dark blood flowed in the fosse,
Souls out of Erebus, cadaverous dead, of brides
Of youths and of the old who had borne much;
Souls stained with recent tears, girls tender,
Men many, mauled with bronze lance heads,
Battle spoil, bearing yet dreory arms,
These many crowded about me; with shouting,
Pallor upon me, cried to my men for more beasts;
Slaughtered the herds, sheep slain of bronze;
Poured ointment, cried to the gods,
To Pluto the strong, and praised Proserpine;
Unsheathed the narrow sword,
I sat to keep off the impetuous impotent dead,
Till I should hear Tiresias.
But first Elpenor came, our friend Elpenor,
Unburied, cast on the wide earth,
Limbs that we left in the house of Circe,
Unwept, unwrapped in the sepulchre, since toils urged other.
Pitiful spirit. And I cried in hurried speech:
"Elpenor, how art thou come to this dark coast?
"Cam'st thou afoot, outstripping seamen?"
And he in heavy speech:
"Ill fate and abundant wine. I slept in Crice's ingle.
"Going down the long ladder unguarded,
"I fell against the buttress,
"Shattered the nape-nerve, the soul sought Avernus.
"But thou, O King, I bid remember me, unwept, unburied,
"Heap up mine arms, be tomb by sea-bord, and inscribed:
"A man of no fortune, and with a name to come.
"And set my oar up, that I swung mid fellows."

And Anticlea came, whom I beat off, and then Tiresias Theban,
Holding his golden wand, knew me, and spoke first:
"A second time? why? man of ill star,
"Facing the sunless dead and this joyless region?
"Stand from the fosse, leave me my bloody bever
"For soothsay."
And I stepped back,
And he strong with the blood, said then: "Odysseus
"Shalt return through spiteful Neptune, over dark seas,
"Lose all companions." Then Anticlea came.
Lie quiet Divus. I mean, that is Andreas Divus,
In officina Wecheli, 1538, out of Homer.
And he sailed, by Sirens and thence outwards and away
And unto Crice.
Venerandam,
In the Cretan's phrase, with the golden crown, Aphrodite,
Cypri munimenta sortita est, mirthful, oricalchi, with golden
Girdle and breat bands, thou with dark eyelids
Bearing the golden bough of Argicidia. So that:

 

[Jacques de Molay]

In a station of the metro

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

 

[Jacques de Molay]

These fought in any case

These fought in any case,
and some believing
pro domo, in any case .....

Died some, pro patria,
walked eye-deep in hell
believing in old men's lies, then unbelieving
came home, home to a lie,
home to many deceits,
home to old lies and new infamy;
usury age-old and age-thick
and liars in public places.

Daring as never before, wastage as never before.
Young blood and high blood,
fair cheeks, and fine bodies;

fortitude as never before

frankness as never before,
disillusions as never told in the old days,
hysterias, trench confessions,
laughter out of dead bellies.

 

[Jacques de Molay]

Canto XIII

Kung walked
by the dynastic temple
and into the cedar grove,
and then out by the lower river,
And with him Khieu Tchi
and Tian the low speaking
And "we are unknown," said Kung,
"You will take up charioteering?
"Then you will become known,
"Or perhaps I should take up charioterring, or archery?
"Or the practice of public speaking?"
And Tseu-lou said, "I would put the defences in order,"
And Khieu said, "If I were lord of a province
"I would put it in better order than this is."
And Tchi said, "I would prefer a small mountain temple,
"With order in the observances,
with a suitable performance of the ritual,"
And Tian said, with his hand on the strings of his lute
The low sounds continuing
after his hand left the strings,
And the sound went up like smoke, under the leaves,
And he looked after the sound:
"The old swimming hole,
"And the boys flopping off the planks,
"Or sitting in the underbrush playing mandolins."
And Kung smiled upon all of them equally.
And Thseng-sie desired to know:
"Which had answered correctly?"
And Kung said, "They have all answered correctly,
"That is to say, each in his nature."
And Kung raised his cane against Yuan Jang,
Yuan Jang being his elder,

or Yuan Jang sat by the roadside pretending to
be receiving wisdom.
And Kung said
"You old fool, come out of it,
"Get up and do something useful."
And Kung said
"Respect a child's faculties
"From the moment it inhales the clear air,
"But a man of fifty who knows nothing
Is worthy of no respect."
And "When the prince has gathered about him
"All the savants and artists, his riches will be fully employed."
And Kung said, and wrote on the bo leaves:
If a man have not order within him
He can not spread order about him;
And if a man have not order within him
His family will not act with due order;
And if the prince have not order within him
He can not put order in his dominions.
And Kung gave the words "order"
and "brotherly deference"
And said nothing of the "life after death."
And he said
"Anyone can run to excesses,
"It is easy to shoot past the mark,
"It is hard to stand firm in the middle."

And they said: If a man commit murder
Should his father protect him, and hide him?
And Kung said:
He should hide him.

And Kung gave his daughter to Kong-Tchang
Although Kong-Tchang was in prison.
And he gave his niece to Nan-Young
although Nan-Young was out of office.
And Kung said "Wan ruled with moderation,
"In his day the State was well kept,
"And even I can remember
"A day when the historians left blanks in their writings,
"I mean, for things they didn't know,
"But that time seems to be passing.
A day when the historians left blanks in their writings,
But that time seems to be passing."
And Kung said, "Without character you will
"be unable to play on that instrument
"Or to execute the music fit for the Odes.
"The blossoms of the apricot
"blow from the east to the west,
"And I have tried to keep them from falling."

 

[Jacques de Molay]

Canto XLIX

For the seven lakes, and by no man these verses:
Rain; empty river; a voyage,
Fire from frozen cloud, heavy rain in the twilight
Under the cabin roof was one lantern.
The reeds are heavy; bent;
and the bamboos speak as if weeping.

Autumn moon; hills rise about lakes
against sunset
Evening is like a curtain of cloud,
a blurr above ripples; and through it
sharp long spikes of the cinnamon,
a cold tune amid reeds.
Behind hill the monk's bell
borne on the wind.
Sail passed here in April; may return in October
Boat fades in silver; slowly;
Sun blaze alone on the river.

Where wine flag catches the sunset
Sparse chimneys smoke in the cross light

Comes then snow scur on the river
And a world is covered with jade
Small boat floats like a lanthorn,
The flowing water closts as with cold. And at San Yin
they are a people of leisure.

Wild geese swoop to the sand-bar,
Clouds gather about the hole of the window
Broad water; geese line out with the autumn
Rooks clatter over the fishermen's lanthorns,

A light moves on the north sky line;
where the young boys prod stones for shrimp.
In seventeen hundred came Tsing to these hill lakes.
A light moves on the South sky line.

State by creating riches shd. thereby get into debt?
This is infamy; this is Geryon.
This canal goes still to TenShi
Though the old king built it for pleasure

K E I M E N R A N K E I
K I U M A N M A N K E I
JITSU GETSU K O K W A
T A N FUKU T A N K A I

Sun up; work
sundown; to rest
dig well and drink of the water
dig field; eat of the grain
Imperial power is? and to us what is it?

The fourth; the dimension of stillness.
And the power over wild beasts.

 

[Jacques de Molay]

Notes for Canto CXX

I have tried to write Paradise

Do not move
Let the wind speak
that is paradise.

Let the Gods forgive what I
have made
Let those I love try to forgive
what I have made.

 

[Jacques de Molay]

Meditatio

When I carefully consider the curious habits of dogs
I am compelled to conclude
That man is the superior animal.

When I consider the curious habits of man
I confess, my friend, I am puzzled.

When I carefully consider the curious habits of dogs
I am compelled to conclude
That man is the superior animal.

When I consider the curious habits of man
I confess, my friend, I am puzzled.

 

[Jacques de Molay]

E.P. Ode Pour L'election De Son Sepulchre

For three years, out of key with his time,
He strove to resuscitate the dead art
Of poetry; to maintain "the sublime"
In the old sense. Wrong from the start--

No, hardly, but seeing he had been born
In a half savage country, out of date;
Bent resolutely on wringing lilies from the acorn;
Capaneus; trout for factitious bait;

Idmen gar toi panth, hos eni troie
Caught in the unstopped ear;
Giving the rocks small lee-way
The chopped seas held him, therefore, that year.

His true Penelope was Flaubert,
He fished by obstinate isles;
Observed the elegance of Circe's hair
Rather than the mottoes on sun-dials.

Unaffected by "the march of events,"
He passed from men's memory in l'an trentuniesme
de son eage;the case presents
No adjunct to the Muses' diadem.

II
The age demanded an image
Of its accelerated grimace,
Something for the modern stage
Not, at any rate, an Attic grace;

Not, certainly, the obscure reveries
Of the inward gaze;
Better mendacities
Than the classics in paraphrase!

The "age demanded" chiefly a mould in plaster,
Made with no loss of time,
A prose kinema, not, not assuredly, alabaster
Or the "sculpture" of rhyme.

III
The tea-rose tea-gown, etc.
Supplants the mousseline of Cos,
The pianola "replaces"
Sappho's barbitos.

Christ follows Dionysus,
Phallic and ambrosial
Made way for macerations;
Caliban casts out Ariel.

All things are a flowing
Sage Heracleitus say;
But a tawdry cheapness
Shall outlast our days.

Even the Christian beauty
Defects--after Samothrace;
We see to kalon
Decreed in the market place.

Faun's flesh is not to us,
Nor the saint's vision.
We have the press for wafer;
Franchise for circumcision.

All men, in law, are equals.
Free of Pisistratus,
We choose a knave or an eunuch
To rule over us.

O bright Apollo,
Tin andra, tin heroa, tina theon,
What god, man or hero
Shall I place a tin wreath upon!

IV
These fought in any case,
And some believing,
pro domo, in any case...

Some quick to arm,
some for adventure,
some from fear of weakness,
some from fear of censure,
some for love of slaughter, in imagination,
learning later...
some in fear, learning love of slaughter;

Died some, pro patria,
non "dulce" not "et decor"...
walked eye-deep in hell
believing old men's lies, then unbelieving
came home, home to a lie,
home to many deceits,
home to old lies and new infamy;
usury age-old and age-thick
and liars in public places.

Daring as never before, wastage as never before.
Young blood and high blood,
fair cheeks, and fine bodies;

fortitude as never before

frankness as never before,
disillusions as never told in the old days,
hysterias, trench confessions,
laughter out of dead bellies.

V
There died a myriad,
And of the best, among them,
For an old bitch gone in the teeth,
For a botched civilization,

Charm, smiling at the good mouth,
Quick eyes gone under earth's lid,

For two gross of broken statues,
For a few thousand battered books.

 

[Cesarborgia]

Magnifico poeta

Magnifico poeta gran enamorado de la civilizacion europea "todo lo bueno que tenemos se lo debemos a Europa" llego a decirle a uno de sus editores americanos que le recriminaba el pasar tanto rato al otro lado del atlantico.

Desafortundamente por sus simpatias por las potencias del eje en la segunda guerra mundial fue injustamente olvidado y marginado en la posguerra como tantos otros intelectuales que han sido olvidados por nuestro mundo "politicamente correcto" como Celine,Brasilach,Marinetti o el magnifico D'anunzio.

 

[Jacques de Molay]

De Pound están editados en edición bilingüe todos sus cantos en Cátedra, Letras Universales.

 

[Ramon Llull]

Buen hilo, Maese.
Colaboro un poco

Nicotine

A Hymn to the Dope

Goddess of the murmuring courts,
Nicotine, my Nicotine,
Houri of the mystic sports,
trailing-robed in gabardine,
Gliding where the breath hath glided,
Hidden sylph of filmy veils,
Truth behind the dream is veiléd
E'en as thou art, smiling ever, ever gliding,
Wraith of wraiths, dim lights dividing
Purple, grey, and shadow green
Goddess, Dream-grace, Nicotine.

Goddess of the shadow's lights,
Nicotine, my Nicotine,
Some would set old Earth to rights,
Thou I none such ween.
Veils of shade our dream dividing,
Houris dancing, intergliding,
Wraith of wraiths and dream of faces,
Silent guardian of the old unhallowed places,
Utter symbol of all old sweet druidings,
Mem'ry of witched wold and green,
Nicotine, my Nicotine:

Neath the shadows of thy weaving
Dreams that need no undeceiving,
Loves that longer hold me not,
Dreams I dream not any more,
Fragrance of old sweet forgotten places,
Smiles of dream-lit, flit-by faces
All as perfume Arab-sweet
Deck the high road to thy feet

As were Godiva's coming fated
And all the April's blush belated
Were lain before her, carpeting
The stones of Coventry with spring,
So thou my mist-enwreathéd queen,
Nicotine, white Nicotine,
Riding engloried in they hair
Mak'st by-road of our dreams
Thy thorough-fare.


An immorality

Sing we for love and idleness,
Naught else is worth the having.

Though I have been in many a land,
There is naught else in living.

And I would rather have my sweet,
Though rose-leaves die of grieving,

Than do high deeds in Hungary
To pass all men's believing.


Masks

These tales of old disguisings, are they not
Strange myths of souls that found themselves among
Unwonted folk that spake an hostile tongue,
Some soul from all the rest who'd not forgot
The star-span acres of a former lot
Where boundless mid the clouds his course he swung,
Or carnate with his elder brothers sung
Ere ballad-makers lisped of Camelot?

Old singers half-forgetful of their tunes,
Old painters color-blind come back once more,
Old poets skill-less in the wind-heart runes,
Old wizards lacking in their wonder-lore:

All they that with strange sadness in their eyes
Ponder in silence o'er earth's queynt devyse?

 

[Ramon Llull]

Ité

Go, my songs, seek your praise from the young
and from the intolerant,
Move among the lovers of perfection alone.
Seek ever to stand in the hard Sophoclean light
And take you wounds from it gladly.


Statement of being

I am a grave poetic hen
That lays poetic eggs
And to enhance my temperament
A little quiet begs.

We make the yolk philosophy,
True beauty the albumen.
And then gum on a shell of form
To make the screed sound human.


The return

See, they return; ah, see the tentative
Movements, and the slow feet,
The trouble in the pace and the uncertain
Wavering!

See, they return, one by one,
With fear, as half-awakened;
As if the snow should hesitate
And murmur in the wind,
and half turn back;
These were the "Wing'd-with-Awe,"
Inviolable.

Gods of the Wingèd shoe!
With them the silver hounds,
sniffing the trace of air!

Haie! Haie!
These were the swift to harry;
These the keen-scented;
These were the souls of blood.

Slow on the leash,
pallid the leash-men!

 

[Jacques de Molay]

Este hombre, junto con Whitman, es el máximo poeta americano, pero ¿acaso es recordado como merece?
Como siempre los prejuicios pueden más que la pura belleza de las palabras.

 

[Jacques de Molay]

Uno que he encontrado traducido en la red.

Canto XLVII

¡El que aun después de muerto conserva todas sus facultades!
Estas palabras surgieron de las tinieblas.
Primero tendréis que ir por el camino del infierno.
Y hasta la glorieta de Proserpina, hija de Ceres,
En medio de la oscuridad sobrecogedora, hasta donde Tiresias.
Sin ojos él, sombra en el infierno.
Tan pleno de saber que los de carnes firmes saben menos que él,
Antes de que lleguéis al cabo del camino.
Conocimiento sombra de una sombra,
Y, no obstante, navegaréis en su busca
Sabiendo aun menos que las bestias narcotizadas.
La lamparillas a la deriva en la bahía
Y la garra del mar las recoge.
Neptunus bebe después de la marea muertas.
¡Tamuz! ¡Tamuz!!
La llama roja metiéndose en el mar.
Por esta puerta se os mide.
Se encienden luces sobre el agua desde los botes largos
La garra del mar los echa hacia afuera.
Los canes de Escila gruñen a los pies del desfiladero
Los dientes blancos roen la base del acantilado.
Mas en la pálida noche de lamparillas derivan hacia el mar
La luces parpadean rojas en pequeños frascos.
Brotes de trigo crecen nuevos cerca
del altar, floreciendo de la semilla rápida.
Dos jemes, dos jemes hasta una mujer.
No cree en nada más remoto. Nada tiene importancia alguna.
Hacia eso tiende, es su intención.
Hacia eso sois llamada, intención siempre recurrente
Ya sea por la noche el canto del búho o por la sabia en el brote,
Nunca ociosa, intermitente en los medios, las artimañas, nunca
La polilla recibe el llamado desde el otro lado del monte
Y el toro se lanza ciego sobre el estoque, naturans
Sois llamado a la caverna, Odiseo,
Por Molu tenéis descanso breve
Por Molu os libráis de un lecho, para poder tornar al otro
Las estrellas nada le importan,
Considéralas agujeros errantes.
Empezad a elavar el arado
Cuando las Pléyades van a su descanso
Empezad a elavar el arado
40 días pasan litoral adentro,
Hacedlo así en los campos próximos al litoral
Y en los valles serpentinos hacia el mar.
Cuando la grulla vuele alto pensad en el arado.
Por esta puerta se os mide
Vuestro día pasa entre puerta y puerta
Dos bueyes están uncidos al arado
O seis en el campo del alcor
Bulto blanco bajo los olivos, una veintena para arrastrar piedras al llano
Aquí las mulas están techadas con pizarra por el camino del cerro.
Así sucedió en el tiempo.
Y las estrellitas caen ahora de las ramas de los olivos,
Y la sombra bifurcada cae sobre la terraza
Más negra que la del vencejo flotante,
que no se cura de vuestra presencia,
Su huella alada es negra en el tejado
Y se desvancee con su grito.
Tan ligero tu peso sobre Tellus
Sin querer más honda tu muesca
Tu peso más alado que la sombra
No obstante habéis roído a través de la montaña,
Los dientes de Escila menos cortantes.
¿Habéis encontrado nido más suave que cunnus
O mejor descanso?
¿Tenéis siembra más honda o vuestro año de muerte
Brota más prontos renuevos?
¿Habéis penetrado más hondo en la montaña?
La luz ha entrado en la caverna. ¡Io! ¡Io!
La luz ha bajado a la caverna,
¡Esplendor sobre esplendor!
A plea he penetrado estos cerros:
Que la hierba crezca de mi cuerpo,
Que yo olga que las raíces conversan en corro,
El aire es nuevo en mis hojas,
Las ramas bifurcadas tiemblan con el viento.
¿Es Céfiro más ligero en la rama, Apeliota
más luz en la rama de almendro?
Por esta puerta entré en el cerro.
Cae,
Adonis Cae.
El fruto viene después. Las lucecillas se deslizan hacia
afuera con la marea,
la garra del mar las echa hacia afuera,
Cuatro pendones para cada flor
La garra del mar echa las lamparillas hacia afuera.
Medita así sobre tu cultivo
Cuando las siete estrellas bajan a su descanso
Cuarenta días para su descanso, en el litoral
Y en valles serpentinos hacia el mar
KAI MOIRAI ADONIN
Cuando la rama del almendro proyecta su llama,
cuando los nuevos brotes son llevados al altar
TU DIONA, KAI MOIRAI
KAI MOIRAI ADONIN
que posee el don de curar,
que tiene dominio sobre las fieras.



(Traduccion de José Vásquez Amaral)

 

[Jacques de Molay]

Hugh Selwyn Mauberley

(Un fragmento)


V

Allí murieron a puñados;
Y los mejores, Por una vieja puta ya exprimida,
Por una civilización con parches,

Encanto que sonríe en fresca boca,
Vivaces ojos apagados bajo el párpado de tierra,

Por dos gruesas de estatuas en pedazos,
Por unos pocos miles de maltratados libros.

(Traducción de José Luis Rivas)

 

[Jacques de Molay]

Sestina: Altaforte

LOQUITUR: En Bertrans de Born.
Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer up of strife.
Eccovi!
Judge ye!
Have I dug him up again?
The scene is at his castle, Altaforte. "Papiols" is his jongleur. "The Leopard," the device of Richard Coeur de Lion.

I

Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let's to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howls my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.


II

In hot summer have I great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,
And the lightnings from black heav'n flash crimson,
And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.


III

Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing!
Better one hour's stour than a year's peace
With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!
Bah! there's no wine like the blood's crimson!


IV

And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
And I watch his spears through the dark clash
And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And pries wide my mouth with fast music
When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing.


V

The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson
But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth's won and the swords clash
For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music.


VI

Papiols, Papiols, to the music!
There's no sound like to swords swords opposing,
No cry like the battle's rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
And our charges 'gainst "The Leopard's" rush clash.
May God damn for ever all who cry "Peace!"


VII

And let the music of the swords make them crimson!
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
Hell blot black for always the thought "Peace!"



Sestina: Altaforte

"Loquitur (l): En (2) Bertrán de Born. Dante Alighieri colocó a este hombre en el Infierno porque era un provocador. ¡Eccovi! (3) ¡Juzgadlo! ¿Lo he expulsado de su tumba? La escena transcurre en su castillo de Altaforte. "Papiol" es su juglar. "El Leopardo" es el estandarte de Ricardo Corazón de León."


I

¡Maldita sea! Todo nuestro sur hiede a paz.
Tú, Papiol, hijo de puta, acércate! ¡Quiero música!
No hay vida para mí si las espadas no chocan.
Pero ¡ah!, cuando veo los estandartes de oro, vero y púrpura
combatiendo,
y los vastos campos bajo ellos tornarse carmesí,
entonces aúllo, con mi corazón enloquecido de júbilo.


II

En el tórrido verano voy ardiendo de júbilo
cuando las tormentas devastan la tierra y su estúpida paz;
y cuando los relámpagos, en el cielo sombrío, fulguran carmesí
mientras los truenos con furia me rugen su música
y los vientos ululan a través de las nubes, combatiendo,
y a través de todas las hendiduras del cielo resuenan las espadas de Dios cuando chocan.


III

¡Quiera el infierno que escuchemos otra vez las espadas cuando chocan!
¡Y los estridentes relinchos de los corceles en la batalla, su júbilo,
pecho contra pecho, combatiendo!
¡Es mejor una hora de lucha que todo un año de paz
con opulentos festines, alcahuetas, vino y delicada música!
¡Bah! No hay mejor vino que la sangre carmesí.


IV

A-mo el ascenso del sol, bañado en sangre carmesí
Contemplar cada uno de sus rayos, cual lanzas que atravesando la oscuridad chocan.
¡Oh! Mi corazón se llena de júbilo
y mi boca se colma de veloz música
cuando lo veo desafiar y despreciar la paz
y salir al paso de las sombras, con su sola fuerza, combatiendo.


V

El hombre que teme luchar y se agazapa, no combatiendo
al oír mi llamado a la guerra, no tiene sangre carmesí;
Sólo sabe pudrirse en su lánguida paz,
lejos de donde impera el valor y las espadas chocan
¡Oh! La muerte de esos perros es mi júbilo,
sí, yo que lleno todo el aire con mi música.


VI

¡Papiol, Papiol! ¡A la música!
No hay sonido comparable al de las espadas combatiendo;
Ni aullido semejante al fragor de la batalla, mi gran júbilo,
cuando nuestros codos y espadas chorrean carmesí
y cuando nuestras huestes, enfrentando la embestida de "El Leopardo", chocan.
¡Que Dios maldiga para siempre a todo aquel que grite paz!


VII

¡Y que la música de las espadas los vuelva carmesí!
¡Quiera el infierno que escuchemos otra vez el clamor de las espadas cuando chocan!
¡Que el infierno oscurezca para siempre la idea de la paz!



(Traducción: Armando Roa Vial. Notas: 1)Del latín: "Habla". 2)Del Provenzal: "Señor". 3)Del italiano: "¡Aqui teneis!")

 

[Jacques de Molay]

https://www.henciclopedia.org.uy/autores/Mazzucchelli/Pound 1.htm

Un link interesante sobre Pound.

 

[Ramon Llull]

A virginal

No, no! Go from me. I have left her lately.
I will not spoil my sheath with lesser brightness,
For my surrounding air hath a new lightness;
Slight are her arms, yet they have bound me straitly
And left me cloaked as with a gauze of æther;
As with sweet leaves; as with subtle clearness.
Oh, I have picked up magic in her nearness
To sheathe me half in half the things that sheathe her.
No, no! Go from me. I have still the flavour,
Soft as spring wind that's come from birchen bowers.
Green come the shoots, aye April in the branches,
As winter's wound with her sleight hand she staunches,
Hath of the trees a likeness of the savour:
As white as their bark, so white this lady's hours.


Ballad of the goodly fere

Simon Zelotes speaketh it somewhile after the Crucifixion
Ha' we lost the goodliest fere o' all
For the priests and the gallows tree?
Aye lover he was of brawny men,
O' ships and the open sea.

When they came wi' a host to take Our Man
His smile was good to see,
"First let these go!" quo' our Goodly Fere,
"Or I'll see ye damned," says he.

Aye he sent us out through the crossed high spears
And the scorn of his laugh rang free,
"Why took ye not me when I walked about
Alone in the town?" says he.

Oh we drunk his "Hale" in the good red wine
When we last made company,
No capon priest was the Goodly Fere
But a man o' men was he.

I ha' seen him drive a hundred men
Wi' a bundle o' cords swung free,
That they took the high and holy house
For their pawn and treasury.

They'ss no' get him a' in a book I think
Though they write it cunningly;
No mouse of the scrolls was the Goodly Fere
But aye loved the open sea.

If they think they ha' snared our Goodly Fere
They are fools to the last degree.
"I'll go to the feast," quo' our Goodly Fere,
"Though I go to the gallows tree."

"Ye ha' seen me heal the lame and blind,
And wake the dead," says he,
"Ye shall see one thing to master all:
'Tis how a brave man dies on the tree."

A son of God was the Goodly Fere
That bade us his brothers be.
I ha' seen him cow a thousand men.
I have seen him upon the tree.

He cried no cry when they drave the nails
And the blood gushed hot and free,
The hounds of the crimson sky gave tongue
But never a cry cried he.

I ha' seen him cow a thousand men
On the hills o' Galilee,
They whined as he walked out calm between,
Wi' his eyes like the grey o' the sea,

Like the sea that brooks no voyaging
With the winds unleashed and free,
Like the sea he cowed at Genseret
Wi' twey words spoke' suddently.

A master of men was the Goodly Fere,
A mate of the wind and sea,
If they think they ha' slain our Goodly Fere
They are fools eternally.

I ha' seen him eat o' the honey-comb
Sin' they nailed him to the tree.


L'art

Green arsenic smeared on an egg-white cloth,
Crushed strawberries! Come, let us feast our eyes.

 

[Ramon Llull]

In tempore senectutis

When I am old
I will not have you look apart
From me, into the cold,
Friend of my heart,
Nor be sad in your remembrance
Of the careless, mad-heart semblance
That the wind hath blown away
When I am old.

When I am old
And the white hot wonder-fire
Unto the world seem cold,
My soul's desire
Know you then that all life's shower,
The rain of the years, that hour
Shall make blow for us one flower,
Including all, when we are old.

When I am old
If you remember
Any love save what is then
Hearth light unto life's December
Be your joy of past sweet chalices
To know then naught but this
"How many wonders are less sweet
Than love I bear to thee
When I am old."


Ancient music

Winter is icummen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm.
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
And how the wind doth ramm!
Sing: Goddamm.

Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,
An ague hath my ham.
Freezeth river, turneth liver,
Damn you, sing: Goddamm.

Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm,
So 'gainst the winter's balm.

Sing goddamm, damm, sing Goddamm.
Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM.


The garret

Come, let us pity those who are better off than we are.
come, my friend, and remember
that the rich have butlers and no friends,
And we have friends and no butlers.
Come, let us pity the married and the unmarried.

Dawn enters with little feet
like a gilded Pavlova,
And I am near my desire.
Nor has life in it aught better
Than this hour of clear coolness,
the hour of waking together.