Libros WHITMAN: DIOS DE LA POESÍA

[Jacques de Molay]

Ha llegado el momento, a pocos posts de los 15000 y a punto de ser Uno con el Todo y ascender al Nirvana foril, es el momento de abrir este hilo.

Walt Whitman es el hombre, y también más que eso. Ha sido uno de los pocos que ha trascendido las barreras de la carne y aunque su existencia fuera mediocre, su creación hizo de él un Dios sobre la tierra.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

He ahí unas pequeñas muestras:

FULL OF LIFE NOW

FULL of life, now, compact, visible,
I, forty years old the Eighty-third Year of The States,
To one a century hence, or any number of centuries hence,
To you, yet unborn, these, seeking you.

When you read these, I, that was visible, am become invisible;
Now it is you, compact, visible, realizing my poems, seeking me;
Fancying how happy you were, if I could be with you, and become your comrade;
Be it as if I were with you. (Be not too certain but I am now with you.)



IN PATHS UNTRODDEN

IN paths untrodden,
In the growths by margins of pond-waters,
Escaped from the life that exhibits itself,
From all the standards hitherto publish'd, from the pleasures,
profits, conformities,
Which too long I was offering to feed my soul,
Clear to me now standards not yet publish'd, clear to me that
my soul,
That the soul of the man I speak for rejoices in comrades,
Here by myself away from the clank of the world,
Tallying and talk'd to here by tongues aromatic,
No longer abash'd, (for in this secluded spot I can respond as
I would not dare elsewhere,)
Strong upon me the life that does not exhibit itself, yet
contains all the rest,
Resolv'd to sing no songs to-day but those of manly attachment,
Projecting them along that substantial life,
Bequeathing hence types of athletic love,
Afternoon this delicious Ninth-month in my forty-first year,
I proceed for all who are or have been young men,
To tell the secret of my nights and days,
To celebrate the need of comrades.

1860 1867


SCENTED HERBAGE OF MY BREAST

SCENTED herbage of my breast,
Leaves from you I glean, I write, to be perused best
afterwards,
Tomb- leaves, body-leaves growing up above me above death.

Perennial roots, tall leaves, O the winter shall not freeze you
delicate leaves,
Every year shall you bloom again, out from where you retired
you shall emerge again;
O I do not know whether many passing by will discover you
or inhale your faint odor, but I believe a few will;
O slender leaves! O blossoms of my blood! I permit you to
tell in your own way of the heart that is under you,
O I do not know what you mean there underneath yourselves,
you are not happiness,
You are often more bitter than I can bear, you burn and sting
me,
Yet you are beautiful to me you faint-tinged roots, you make
me think of death,
Death is beautiful from you, (what indeed is finally beautiful
except death and love?)
O I think it is not for life I am chanting here my chant of
lovers, I think it must be for death,
For how calm, how solemn it grows to ascend to the
atmosphere of lovers,
Death or life I am then indifferent, my soul declines to prefer,
(I am not sure but the high soul of lovers welcomes death
most,)
Indeed O death, I think now these leaves mean precisely the
same as you mean,
Grow up taller sweet leaves that I may see! grow up out of
my breast!
Spring away from the conceal'd heart there!
Do not fold yourself so in your pink-tinged roots timid leaves!
Do not remain down there so ashamed, herbage of my breast!
Come I am determin'd to unbare this broad breast of mine, I
have long enough stifled and choked;
Emblematic and capricious blades I leave you, now you serve
me not,
I will say what I have to say by itself,
I will sound myself and comrades only, I will never again
utter a call only their call,
I will raise with it immortal reverberations through the States,
I will give an example to lovers to take permanent shape and
will through the States,

Through me shall the words be said to make death
exhilarating.
Give me your tone therefore O death, that I may accord with
it,
Give me yourself, for I see that you belong to me now above
all, and are folded inseparably together, you love and
death are,
Nor will I allow you to balk me any more with what I was
calling life,
For now it is convey'd to me that you are the purports
essential,
That you hide in these shifting forms of life, for reasons, and
that they are mainly for you,
That you beyond them come forth to remain, the real reality,
That behind the mask of materials you patiently wait, no
matter how long,
That you will one day perhaps take control of all,
That you will perhaps dissipate this entire show of appearance,
That may-be you are what it is all for, but it does not last so
very long,
But you will last very long.

1860 1881


WHOEVER YOU ARE HOLDING ME NOW IN HAND

WHOEVER you are holding me now in hand,
Without one thing all will be useless,
I give you fair warning before you attempt me further,
I am not what you supposed, but far different.

Who is he that would become my follower?
Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections?

 

[Jacques de Molay]

¿Habéis sentido algo parecido? Yo sí, et excrucior:


Once I Pass’d Through a Populous City


ONCE I pass’d through a populous city, imprinting my brain, for future use, with its shows, architecture, customs, and traditions;
Yet now, of all that city, I remember only a woman I casually met there, who detain’d me for love of me;
Day by day and night by night we were together,—All else has long been forgotten by me;
I remember, I say, only that woman who passionately clung to me;
Again we wander—we love—we separate again;
Again she holds me by the hand—I must not go!
I see her close beside me, with silent lips, sad and tremulous.

 

[Konstanz]

Enhorabuena por los 15000 Molay.
Una vez dijiste que cuando llegaras a esta cifra dejarías el foro, o que te registrarías con un usuario nuevo, ¿lo cumplirás?
Espero que no te vayas.

 

[Jacques de Molay]

Molay sigue aquí.

I Sing the Body Electric


1

I SING the Body electric;
The armies of those I love engirth me, and I engirth them;
They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them,
And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the Soul.

Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves; 5
And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile the dead?
And if the body does not do as much as the Soul?
And if the body were not the Soul, what is the Soul?

2

The love of the Body of man or woman balks account—the body itself balks account;
That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect. 10

The expression of the face balks account;
But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face;
It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists;
It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees—dress does not hide him;
The strong, sweet, supple quality he has, strikes through the cotton and flannel; 15
To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more;
You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side.

The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and heads of women, the folds of their dress, their style as we pass in the street, the contour of their shape downwards,
The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he swims through the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face up, and rolls silently to and fro in the heave of the water,
The bending forward and backward of rowers in row-boats—the horseman in his saddle, 20
Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances,
The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their open dinner-kettles, and their wives waiting,
The female soothing a child—the farmer’s daughter in the garden or cow-yard,
The young fellow hoeing corn—the sleigh-driver guiding his six horses through the crowd,
The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite grown, lusty, good-natured, native-born, out on the vacant lot at sundown, after work, 25
The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love and resistance,
The upper-hold and the under-hold, the hair rumpled over and blinding the eyes;
The march of firemen in their own costumes, the play of masculine muscle through clean-setting trowsers and waist-straps,
The slow return from the fire, the pause when the bell strikes suddenly again, and the listening on the alert,
The natural, perfect, varied attitudes—the bent head, the curv’d neck, and the counting; 30
Such-like I love—I loosen myself, pass freely, am at the mother’s breast with the little child,
Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march in line with the firemen, and pause, listen, and count.

3

I know a man, a common farmer—the father of five sons;
And in them were the fathers of sons—and in them were the fathers of sons.

This man was of wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty of person; 35
The shape of his head, the pale yellow and white of his hair and beard, and the immeasurable meaning of his black eyes—the richness and breadth of his manners,
These I used to go and visit him to see—he was wise also;
He was six feet tall, he was over eighty years old—his sons were massive, clean, bearded, tan-faced, handsome;
They and his daughters loved him—all who saw him loved him;
They did not love him by allowance—they loved him with personal love; 40
He drank water only—the blood show’d like scarlet through the clear-brown skin of his face;
He was a frequent gunner and fisher—he sail’d his boat himself—he had a fine one presented to him by a ship-joiner—he had fowling-pieces, presented to him by men that loved him;
When he went with his five sons and many grand-sons to hunt or fish, you would pick him out as the most beautiful and vigorous of the gang.

You would wish long and long to be with him—you would wish to sit by him in the boat, that you and he might touch each other.

4

I have perceiv’d that to be with those I like is enough, 45
To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough,
To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough,
To pass among them, or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so lightly round his or her neck for a moment—what is this, then?
I do not ask any more delight—I swim in it, as in a sea.

There is something in staying close to men and women, and looking on them, and in the contact and odor of them, that pleases the soul well; 50
All things please the soul—but these please the soul well.

5

This is the female form;
A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot;
It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction!
I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor—all falls aside but myself and it; 55
Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, the atmosphere and the clouds, and what was expected of heaven or fear’d of hell, are now consumed;
Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it—the response likewise ungovernable;
Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands, all diffused—mine too diffused;
Ebb stung by the flow, and flow stung by the ebb—love-flesh swelling and deliciously aching;
Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of love, white-blow and delirious juice; 60
Bridegroom night of love, working surely and softly into the prostrate dawn;
Undulating into the willing and yielding day,
Lost in the cleave of the clasping and sweet-flesh’d day.

This is the nucleus—after the child is born of woman, the man is born of woman;
This is the bath of birth—this is the merge of small and large, and the outlet again. 65

Be not ashamed, women—your privilege encloses the rest, and is the exit of the rest;
You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul.

The female contains all qualities, and tempers them—she is in her place, and moves with perfect balance;
She is all things duly veil’d—she is both passive and active;
She is to conceive daughters as well as sons, and sons as well as daughters. 70

As I see my soul reflected in nature;
As I see through a mist, one with inexpressible completeness and beauty,
See the bent head, and arms folded over the breast—the female I see.

6

The male is not less the soul, nor more—he too is in his place;
He too is all qualities—he is action and power; 75
The flush of the known universe is in him;
Scorn becomes him well, and appetite and defiance become him well;
The wildest largest passions, bliss that is utmost, sorrow that is utmost, become him well—pride is for him;
The full-spread pride of man is calming and excellent to the soul;
Knowledge becomes him—he likes it always—he brings everything to the test of himself; 80
Whatever the survey, whatever the sea and the sail, he strikes soundings at last only here;
(Where else does he strike soundings, except here?)

The man’s body is sacred, and the woman’s body is sacred;
No matter who it is, it is sacred;
Is it a slave? Is it one of the dull-faced immigrants just landed on the wharf? 85
Each belongs here or anywhere, just as much as the well-off—just as much as you;
Each has his or her place in the procession.

(All is a procession;
The universe is a procession, with measured and beautiful motion.)

Do you know so much yourself, that you call the slave or the dull-face ignorant? 90
Do you suppose you have a right to a good sight, and he or she has no right to a sight?
Do you think matter has cohered together from its diffuse float—and the soil is on the surface, and water runs, and vegetation sprouts,
For you only, and not for him and her?

7

A man’s Body at auction;
I help the auctioneer—the sloven does not half know his business. 95

Gentlemen, look on this wonder!
Whatever the bids of the bidders, they cannot be high enough for it;
For it the globe lay preparing quintillions of years, without one animal or plant;
For it the revolving cycles truly and steadily roll’d.

In this head the all-baffling brain; 100
In it and below it, the makings of heroes.

Examine these limbs, red, black, or white—they are so cunning in tendon and nerve;
They shall be stript, that you may see them.

Exquisite senses, life-lit eyes, pluck, volition,
Flakes of breast-muscle, pliant back-bone and neck, flesh not flabby, good-sized arms and legs, 105
And wonders within there yet.

Within there runs blood,
The same old blood!
The same red-running blood!
There swells and jets a heart—there all passions, desires, reachings, aspirations; 110
Do you think they are not there because they are not express’d in parlors and lecture-rooms?

This is not only one man—this is the father of those who shall be fathers in their turns;
In him the start of populous states and rich republics;
Of him countless immortal lives, with countless embodiments and enjoyments.

How do you know who shall come from the offspring of his offspring through the centuries? 115
Who might you find you have come from yourself, if you could trace back through the centuries?

8

A woman’s Body at auction!
She too is not only herself—she is the teeming mother of mothers;
She is the bearer of them that shall grow and be mates to the mothers.

Have you ever loved the Body of a woman? 120
Have you ever loved the Body of a man?
Your father—where is your father?
Your mother—is she living? have you been much with her? and has she been much with you?
—Do you not see that these are exactly the same to all, in all nations and times, all over the earth?

If any thing is sacred, the human body is sacred, 125
And the glory and sweet of a man, is the token of manhood untainted;
And in man or woman, a clean, strong, firm-fibred body, is beautiful as the most beautiful face.

Have you seen the fool that corrupted his own live body? or the fool that corrupted her own live body?
For they do not conceal themselves, and cannot conceal themselves.

9

O my Body! I dare not desert the likes of you in other men and women, nor the likes of the parts of you; 130
I believe the likes of you are to stand or fall with the likes of the Soul, (and that they are the Soul;)
I believe the likes of you shall stand or fall with my poems—and that they are poems,
Man’s, woman’s, child’s, youth’s, wife’s, husband’s, mother’s, father’s, young man’s, young woman’s poems;
Head, neck, hair, ears, drop and tympan of the ears,
Eyes, eye-fringes, iris of the eye, eye-brows, and the waking or sleeping of the lids, 135
Mouth, tongue, lips, teeth, roof of the mouth, jaws, and the jaw-hinges,
Nose, nostrils of the nose, and the partition,
Cheeks, temples, forehead, chin, throat, back of the neck, neck-slue,
Strong shoulders, manly beard, scapula, hind-shoulders, and the ample side-round of the chest.

Upper-arm, arm-pit, elbow-socket, lower-arm, arm-sinews, arm-bones, 140
Wrist and wrist-joints, hand, palm, knuckles, thumb, fore-finger, finger-balls, finger-joints, finger-nails,
Broad breast-front, curling hair of the breast, breast-bone, breast-side,
Ribs, belly, back-bone, joints of the back-bone,
Hips, hip-sockets, hip-strength, inward and outward round, man-balls, man-root,
Strong set of thighs, well carrying the trunk above, 145
Leg-fibres, knee, knee-pan, upper-leg, under leg,
Ankles, instep, foot-ball, toes, toe-joints, the heel;
All attitudes, all the shapeliness, all the belongings of my or your body, or of any one’s body, male or female,
The lung-sponges, the stomach-sac, the bowels sweet and clean,
The brain in its folds inside the skull-frame, 150
Sympathies, heart-valves, palate-valves, sexuality, maternity,
Womanhood, and all that is a woman—and the man that comes from woman,
The womb, the teats, nipples, breast-milk, tears, laughter, weeping, love-looks, love-perturbations and risings,
The voice, articulation, language, whispering, shouting aloud,
Food, drink, pulse, digestion, sweat, sleep, walking, swimming, 155
Poise on the hips, leaping, reclining, embracing, arm-curving and tightening,
The continual changes of the flex of the mouth, and around the eyes,
The skin, the sun-burnt shade, freckles, hair,
The curious sympathy one feels, when feeling with the hand the naked meat of the body,
The circling rivers, the breath, and breathing it in and out, 160
The beauty of the waist, and thence of the hips, and thence downward toward the knees,
The thin red jellies within you, or within me—the bones, and the marrow in the bones,
The exquisite realization of health;
O I say, these are not the parts and poems of the Body only, but of the Soul,
O I say now these are the Soul! 165

 

[Jacques de Molay]

A Woman Waits for Me


A WOMAN waits for me—she contains all, nothing is lacking,
Yet all were lacking, if sex were lacking, or if the moisture of the right man were lacking.

Sex contains all,
Bodies, Souls, meanings, proofs, purities, delicacies, results, promulgations,
Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal mystery, the seminal milk; 5
All hopes, benefactions, bestowals,
All the passions, loves, beauties, delights of the earth,
All the governments, judges, gods, follow’d persons of the earth,
These are contain’d in sex, as parts of itself, and justifications of itself.

Without shame the man I like knows and avows the deliciousness of his sex, 10
Without shame the woman I like knows and avows hers.

Now I will dismiss myself from impassive women,
I will go stay with her who waits for me, and with those women that are warm-blooded and sufficient for me;
I see that they understand me, and do not deny me;
I see that they are worthy of me—I will be the robust husband of those women. 15

They are not one jot less than I am,
They are tann’d in the face by shining suns and blowing winds,
Their flesh has the old divine suppleness and strength,
They know how to swim, row, ride, wrestle, shoot, run, strike, retreat, advance, resist, defend themselves,
They are ultimate in their own right—they are calm, clear, well-possess’d of themselves. 20

I draw you close to me, you women!
I cannot let you go, I would do you good,
I am for you, and you are for me, not only for our own sake, but for others’ sakes;
Envelop’d in you sleep greater heroes and bards,
They refuse to awake at the touch of any man but me. 25

It is I, you women—I make my way,
I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable—but I love you,
I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for you,
I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for These States—I press with slow rude muscle,
I brace myself effectually—I listen to no entreaties, 30
I dare not withdraw till I deposit what has so long accumulated within me.

Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself,
In you I wrap a thousand onward years,
On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of me and America,
The drops I distil upon you shall grow fierce and athletic girls, new artists, musicians, and singers, 35
The babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in their turn,
I shall demand perfect men and women out of my love-spendings,
I shall expect them to interpenetrate with others, as I and you interpenetrate now,
I shall count on the fruits of the gushing showers of them, as I count on the fruits of the gushing showers I give now,
I shall look for loving crops from the birth, life, death, immortality, I plant so lovingly now.

 

[Prathe]

Es en éstos momentos cuando odio ser tan vieja y que en mi colegio de monjas solo me enseñaran francés (les ruego se guarden el chiste fácil).
Qué tal una traducción, maese, para los ingleses parlantes nulos como yo?

 

[Konstanz]

Molay sigue aquí.

Por los tiempos de los tiempos

 

[Jacques de Molay]

Habrá traducciones, lo juro.

Simplemente quería abrir boca con los originales.

 

[Prathe]

Pues me ha entrado hambre, no se si porque auguro una traducción o por mirar su avatar :D

 

[Jacques de Molay]

Alguna de las traducciones prometidas, primero de aquellos que me sé más o menos de memoria.

LLENO DE VIDA AHORA

Lleno de vida ahora, compacto, visible,
yo, a los cuarenta años el año ochenta y tres de los Estados Unidos,
a quien viva dentro de un siglo o dentro de muchos siglos;
para ti, que aun no has nacido, estos cantos que te buscan.

Cuando los leas, yo que era visible, me habré vuelto invisible.
Entonces serás tú, compacto, visible, que comprenderás mis poemas y me buscarás,
imaginando lo feliz que serías si yo pudiera estar contigo y ser tu camarada.
Que todo sea como si yo estuviera contigo. (No estés muy seguro, pero ahora estoy contigo.)

CIERTA VEZ QUE ATRAVESÉ UNA CIUDAD POPULOSA

Cierta vez que atravesé una ciudad populosa imprimí en mi mente, para usos futuros, sus espectáculos, arquitectura, costumbres, tradiciones.
Pero ahora, de toda aquella ciudad, sólo recuerdo a una mujer que allí conocí casualmente y que me retuvo porque me amaba.
Día tras día y noche tras noche estuvimos juntos. Todo lo demás hace ya tiempo que lo he olvidado.
Recuerdo, digo, sólo a aquella mujer que apasionadamente se aferraba a mí.
Otra vez vagamos, nos amamos; de nuevo nos separamos.
De nuevo me retiene con su mano: no debo irme.
La veo muy cerca de mí, con labios silenciosos, triste y trémula.

UNA MUJER ME ESPERA

Una mujer me espera. Ella contiene todo; nada le falta.
Sin embargo, todo faltaría si faltara el sexo o faltara el licor del hombre adecuado.

El sexo todo lo contiene, cuerpos, almas,
significados, pruebas, purezas, delicadezas, resultados, promulgaciones,
canciones, órdenes, salud, orgullo, el misterio maternal, la leche seminal,
todas las esperanzas, beneficencias, dones, todas las pasiones, amores, bellezas, delicias de la tierra,
todos los gobiernos, jueces, dioses, personas que cuentan con seguidores en la tierra.
Todo está contenido en el sexo, como partes de sí mismo y justificaciones de sí mismo.
Sin ruborizarse, el hombre que me gusta reconoce y confiesa la delicia de su sexo.
Sin ruborizarse, la mujer que me gusta, reconoce y confiesa la suya.

Desde ahora me apartaré de las mujeres impasibles.
Iré a encontrar a la que me espera y a aquellas mujeres que tienen la sangre caliente y me van bien.
Veo que éstas me entienden y no me niegan.
Veo que son dignas de mí. Seré el marido robusto de tales mujeres.

No son en absoluto menos que yo.
Tienen el rostro tostado por soles brillantes y vientos que soplan;
sus carnes tienen toda la divina elasticidad y fortaleza.
Saben nadar, remar, cabalgar, luchar, cazar, correr, golpear, retroceder, avanzar, resistir, defenderse.
Son lo esencial por derecho propio. Son serenas, claras, completamente dueñas de sí mismas.

Os atraigo a mí, mujeres.
No puedo dejaros ir, os haría bien,
soy para vosotras y vosotras sois para mí, no sólo por vuestro propio bien sino por el de los demás,
encerrados en vosotras duermen héroes y bardos,
que rehúsan despertar ante el contacto de cualquiera hombre que no sea yo.

Soy yo, mujeres, llego,
soy inflexible, acre, amplio y terco pero os amo.
No os hago más daño del necesario.
Vierto el líquido espeso para dar origen a los hijos y a las hijas adecuados a estos Estados, os presiono con músculo lento y rudo,
me afano con eficiencia, no escucho ruegos,
no oso retirarme hasta depositar lo que durante tanto tiempo se acumuló dentro de mí.

A través de vosotras descargo los ríos encerrados de mi ser,
en vosotras encierro mil años venideros,
en vosotras injerto los injertos de lo más preciado de mí y de América,
las gotas que destilo sobre vosotras se transformarán en fuertes y atléticas muchachas; en nuevos artistas, músicos y cantantes.

Los pequeños que engendro en vosotras engendrarán a su vez a otros,
exigiré hombres y mujeres perfectos a cambio de mis gastos de amor,
esperaré que se mezclen con otros, tal y como tú y yo nos mezclamos ahora,
confiaré en los frutos del brotar de sus chorros, como confío en el brotar de estos chorros que ahora te doy,
cuidaré que se produzcan cosechas de amor del nacimiento, de la vida, de la muerte y de la inmortalidad que tan amorosamente siembro ahora.

 

[Jacques de Molay]

YO CANTO AL CUERPO ELÉCTRICO

¡Oh, cuerpo mío!, no me atrevo a abandonar a tus semejantes en otros hombres y otras mujeres, ni a los semejantes de las partes que te componen;
Creo que tus semejantes perdurarán o morirán con los semejantes del alma (y que son el alma),
Creo que tus semejantes perdurarán o morirán con mis poemas, y que son mis poemas,
Poemas del hombre, de la mujer, del niño, del muchacho, de la esposa, del esposo, de la madre, del padre, del joven y de la joven,
Cabeza, cuello, pelo, orejas, lóbulo y tímpano de la oreja,
Ojos, pestañas, iris del ojo, cejas y la vigilia o sueño de los párpados,
Boca, lengua, labios, dientes, paladar, mandíbulas y articulaciones de las mandíbulas,
Nariz, aletas de la nariz y tabique,
Mejillas, sienes, frente, mentón, garganta, nuca, forma del cuello,
Fuertes hombros, barba viril, omóplatos, espalda, y el ámbito del pecho,
Brazo, axila, junta del codo, antebrazo, músculos del brazo, huesos del brazo,
Muñeca y coyunturas de la muñeca, mano, palma, nudillos, pulgar, índice, articulaciones de los dedos, uñas,
Amplio pecho, rizado vello del pecho, esternón, costados,
Costillas, vientre, espinazo, vértebras,
Caderas, articulaciones de las caderas, fuerzas de las caderas, redondez cóncava y cónvexa, testículos, raíz del hombre,
Muslos, que son la firme base del tronco,
Músculos de la pierna, rodilla, rótula, piernas,
Tobillos, empeine, planta del pie, dedos del pie, talón,
Todas las actitudes, todas las bellezas, todos los bienes de mi cuerpo o el tuyo, o del cuerpo de cualquier otro, varón o mujer,
Las celdillas de los pulmones, el estómago, las entrañas dulces y limpias,
El cerebro y sus pliegues dentro del cráneo,
Simpatías, válvulas del corazón, válvulas del paladar, sexo, maternidad,
Lo femenino y todo lo que pertenece a la mujer, y al hombre que nace de la mujer,
El seno, los pechos, los pezones, la leche del pezón, las lágrimas, la risa, el llanto, las miradas de amor, la amorosa inquietud, las erecciones,
La voz, la articulación, el lenguaje, el susurro, el grito,
El alimento, la bebida, el pulso, la digestión, el sudor, el sueño, caminar, nadar,
Porte de las caderas, saltar, recostarse, abrazarse, brazos que se curvan y aprietan,
El continuo movimiento de las comisuras de los labios y de los ojos,
La piel, la mejilla tostada, las pecas, el pelo,
La sensación curiosa de la mano al rozar la desnuda carne del cuerpo,
Los ríos incesantes del aliento, de la inspiración y la exhalación,
La belleza del talle y de las caderas, y más abajo, hasta las rodillas,
Las mínimas partículas rojas que llevo y que tú llevas, los huesos y la médula de los huesos,
La sensación deliciosa de la salud;
Afirmo que estas cosas no sólo son los poemas del cuerpo, sino también del alma,
Afirmo que son el alma.

 

[Jacques de Molay]

Ahora, además de poner poemas (y esto va para todos los hilos) hablemos de lo que estos poemas os sugieren.

Whitman, que tuvo una vida bastante prosaica, en su obra se transforma.
Ya no es sólo un hombre, sino todos los hombres, se remonta por encima de la raza humana y deviene un Héroe antiguo, un Semi-dios o un Dios.
Y su sonrisa, como la de Siddhartha, es la de un Ser Perfecto.

Desde que dejamos el mono atrás muy pocos hombres han tenido ese espíritu, pocos han sido verdaderos filósofos. Whitman lo logró.

Basta ver alguna de sus fotografías de madurez, donde se le ve como un Patriarca, como un Profeta de barba blanca. Puede percibirse el fuego eterno y sereno que hay en su alma.
Imagino a Epicuro con el aspecto de Whitman. Tal vez fueran uno y el mismo, o tal vez ambos vieran y comprendieran.

Whitman es la voz de América. Leyéndolo se puede entender el por qué de su Imperio. Pero la suya no es la voz de las legiones, que desdeña, sino de la vida cotidiana, del fluir de los hombres sobre la tierra.

Es uno de los últimos Dioses que se han encarnado y caminado entre nosotros. Y el mundo, a menudo, no los conoce, aunque sean el Verbo hecho carne.

Reverenciadlo, como yo lo reverencio.

AHORA OS TOCA A VOSOTROS HABLAR.

 

[Jacques de Molay]

¿ERES TÚ EL NUEVO SER ATRAÍDO HACIA MÍ?

¿Eres tú el nuevo ser atraído hacia mí?
Para comenzar, ten cuidado, sin duda alguna soy muy diferente de cuanto supones.
¿Supones que encontrarás en mí a tu ideal?
¿Crees que es fácil que yo llegue a ser tu amante?
¿Crees que mi amistad de ha de brindar pura satisfacción?
¿Crees que soy fiel y de confianza?
¿No ves otra cosa que esta fachada, que esta amable y tolerante forma de ser mía?
¿Te supones que avanzar por terreno firme hacia un hombre realmente heroico?
¿No has pensado, oh soñador, que todo podría no ser más que maya, ilusión?

 

[snow]

Maravilloso hilo.

Felicidades Molay.

 

[snow]

Leer a Whitman es leer la vida eterna, entrar en un espacio sin tiempo en el cual se unen presentes, pasados y futuros.

Whitman tiene el poder de aunar en sus versos todo lo que nos es cercano y, en un solo gesto, compactarlos y lanzarlos directos al corazón y la mente de quien los lee.

Si bien su existencia, como dijo Molay, fué mediocre, su grandeza estaba dentro, y era tal y tan hermosa, que no conoce fin.

Personalmente, para mi Whitman es el reflejo de la paradoja que es el ser humano. El reflejo (de nuevo como bien dijo Molay), del verdadero y único Dios que existe, el que cada uno lleva dentro de si mismo.

 

[sadex]

Guardo silencio y leo.




gracias

 

[El Sr.Lubarski]

De Whitman, el "Homero americano" siempre me ha fascinado la manera sencilla en la que se ¿autoproclama? voz de la nación -o al menos, cronista atípico-.

La forma de describir las batallas terribles.

"[...] Yazgo en el aire de la noche con mi camisa roja...el
penetrante silencio es por mi causa,
Yazgo sin dolor después de todo, exhausto pero no tan
desdichado,
Blancos y hermosos son los rostros que me
rodean...las cabezas desnudas de sus cascos,
La muchedumbre arrodillada se desvanece a la luz de las
antorchas.[...]"


"[...]De nuevo borbotea la boca de mi general que
agoniza...agita furiosamente la mano,
Jadea entre coágulos...No se ocupen de
mí...defended...las trincheras."

Eso, señoras y señores, es lo que me sobrecoge de Whitman. Cómo puede una persona buscar lo bello y lo sutil en medio de un infierno.

"No cuento la caída de El Álamo...nadie escapó para
contar la caída de El Álamo,
Los ciento cincuenta siguen siendo mudos en El Álamo.
[...]
Eran la gloria de la estirpe de los rangers,
Incomparables con el caballo, el rifle, la canción, la
comida o el cortejo,
Grandes, turbulentos, bravos, hermosos, generosos,
altivos y afectuosos,
Barbudos, curtidos por el sol, vestidos con el traje libre
de los cazadores,
Ninguno con más de treinta años".



Una persona capaz de convertir la Historia en Épica, merece mi más profundo respeto, admiración y agradecimiento.

 

[Jacques de Molay]

Visor se acaba de currar una magnífica edición bilingüe de "Hojas de hierba".

La repolla, son dos volúmenes a 40 leuros cada uno, pero merecen la pena.