jueves, 17 de junio de 2010


In Memory of W. B. Yeats


He disappeared in the dead of winter:
The brooks were frozen, the airports almost deserted,
And snow disfigured the public statues;
The mercury sank in the mouth of the dying day.

What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.

Far from his illness
The wolves ran on through the evergreen forests,
The peasant river was untempted by the fashionable quays;

By mourning tongues
The death of the poet was kept from his poems.

But for him it was his last afternoon as himself,
An afternoon of nurses and rumours;
The provinces of his body revolted,
The squares of his mind were empty,

Silence invaded the suburbs,
The current of his feeling failed; he became his admirers.

Now he is scattered among a hundred cities
And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections,
To find his happiness in another kind of wood

And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.
The words of a dead man
Are modified in the guts of the living.

But in the importance and noise of to-morrow
When the brokers are roaring like beasts on the floor of the Bourse,

And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed,
And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom,
A few thousand will think of this day
As one thinks of a day when one did something slightly unusual.

What instruments we have agree
The day of his death was a dark cold day.


You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,

For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,

A way of happening, a mouth.


Earth, receive an honoured guest:
William Yeats is laid to rest.
Let the Irish vessel lie
Emptied of its poetry.

In the nightmare of the dark
All the dogs of Europe bark,

And the living nations wait,
Each sequestered in its hate;

Intellectual disgrace
Stares from every human face,
And the seas of pity lie
Locked and frozen in each eye.

Follow, poet, follow right
To the bottom of the night,
With your unconstraining voice
Still persuade us to rejoice;

With the farming of a verse
Make a vineyard of the curse,

Sing of human unsuccess
In a rapture of distress;

In the deserts of the heart
Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.

W. H. Auden - Another Time.

6 comentarios:

g. dijo...

Obviamente la traducción corre cuenta del lector, no me voy a poner a traducir esto en mi mal inglés.
Además, el poema pierde tanto en las traducciones. Más cuando el traductor -yo en este caso-, no es poeta.
Yo no soy ni narrador,
no soy sucio poeta.
Ni siquiera lisboeta,
en este sucio parador.
A veces me cago em los metros, señora. La máquina perfecta no tendría que tener ningún error. Las máquinas perfectas no mueren, ni tienen que execrar a los que lo invaden.
Este poema lo tengo desde el 21 de mayo en carpeta, así que ahora pienso que todas las entradas anteriores deben ser de antes.
Hoy me pierdo en las ganas, me gano en los olores y me engalano en las palabras que te susurro sin que vos me escuches. Hoy me surso los ganas y me reprocho los labios. Te encuentro en Plaza de Mayo y te pierdo en Diagonal.

Cloe dijo...

Hermoso poema.


Anónimo dijo...

Muy triste como mucho de lo de Auden.


Luna dijo...

Coincido con lo de la traducción. Nunca falta uno que te tira un verso y te pide que lo traduzcas, como si fuera el titular de un diario.
Este es tentador porque parece sencillo a la lectura, pero guardar el estilo, eso es lo difícil.


Crítico Nº 2 dijo...

"en este sucio parador"
Genial. Suena a rock nacional.

Anónimo dijo...

Aprendi mucho