Catorce versos en el cumpleaños

(Poemilla ínfimo y azorado, tenue, orgulloso y levemente soberbio, que
debe leerse en cueros y con mucha parsimonia)


Cuando mi corazón empezó a nadar en el caudaloso río de la alegría de las más
limpias herraduras de agua
Y descubrí que en el alma de la mujer subyacen cinco estaciones de grácil
silueta
Oí silbar al ruiseñor del camposanto de la aldea y ahuyenté de mi piel los malos
pensamientos
Aparté de mí los torvos presagios de la debilidad la enfermedad el hambre la
guerra la miseria y los vacíos de la conciencia.
Empecé a oler tímidamente el gimnástico aire de la belleza que duerme contigo
Y volé tan alto que perdí de vista el aire de los invernaderos el agua quieta de las
acequias y el fuego purificador también la arcillosa y pedregosa tierra que
piso y en la que seré olvidado por tu mano
Te amo lleno de esperanza
Tu vida es aún muy breve para acariciar la esperanza
Y hoy cumples años quizá excesivos
Hoy cumples mil años
Quisiera bailar en un local cerrado con la muerte coronada de esmeraldas y
rubíes yo coronado de musgo y alfileres
Para proclamar en el reino de las más solitarias ballenas
Mi dulce sueño con estas sobrecogidas palabras
Pregono en voz alta el espanto que me produce la felicidad.

Catorce versos en el cumpleaños de una mujer, Camilo José Cela, poeta

Saudades de minha irmã

Darbón, el médico de Platero, es grande como el buey pío, rojo como una sandía. Pesa once arrobas. Cuenta, según él, tres duros de edad.

Cuando habla, le faltan notas, cual a los pianos viejos; otras veces, en lugar de palabra, le sale un escape de aire. Y estas pifias llevan un acompañamiento de inclinaciones de cabeza, de manotadas ponderativas, de vacilaciones chochas, de quejumbres de garganta y salivas en el pañuelo, que no hay más que pedir. Un amable concierto para antes de la cena.

No le queda muela ni diente, y casi sólo come migajón de pan, que ablanda primero en la mano. Hace una bola y ¡a la boca roja! Allí la tiene revolviéndola, una hora. Luego, otra bola, y otra. Masca con las encías, y la barba le llega, entonces, a la aguileña nariz.

Digo que es grande como el buey pío. En la puerta del banco, tapa la casa. Pero se enternece, igual que un niño, con Platero. Y si ve una flor o un pajarillo, se ríe de pronto, abriendo toda su boca, con una gran risa sostenida, cuya velocidad y duración él no puede regular, y que acaba siempre en llanto. Luego, ya sereno, mira largamente del lado del cementerio viejo:

—Mi niña, pobrecita niña...

Darbón, Platero y yo, Juan Ramón Jiménez, escritor, poeta 

em memória de minha irmã Marta, no Céu há 33 anos

Se ao encontrares Triunfo e Desastre, tratares esses dois impostores da mesma forma...

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

If, Joseph Rudyard Kipling, escritor, poeta

Is dying hard, Daddy?

Indian Camp

    At the lake shore there was another rowboat drawn up. The two Indians stood waiting.

    Nick and his father got in the stern of the boat and the Indians shoved it off and one of them got in to row. Uncle George sat in the stern of the camp rowboat. The young Indian shoved the camp boat off and got in to row Uncle George.

    The two boats started off in the dark. Nick heard the oarlocks of the other boat quite a way ahead of them in the mist. The Indians rowed with quick choppy strokes. Nick lay back with his father's arm around him. It was cold on the water. The Indian who was rowing them was working very hard, but the other boat moved further ahead in the mist all the time.

    "Where are we going, Dad?" Nick asked.

    "Over to the Indian camp. There is an Indian lady very sick."

    "Oh," said Nick.

    Across the bay they found the other boat beached. Uncle George was smoking a cigar in the dark. The young Indian pulled the boat way up on the beach. Uncle George gave both the Indians cigars.

    They walked up from the beach through a meadow that was soaking wet with dew, following the young Indian who carried a lantern. Then they went into the woods and followed a trail that led to the logging road that ran back into the hills. It was much lighter on the logging road as the timber was cut away on both sides. The young Indian stopped and blew out his lantern and they all walled on along the road.

    They came around a bend and a dog came out barking. Ahead were the lights of the shanties where the Indian bark-peelers lived. More dogs rushed out at them. The two Indians sent them back to the shanties. In the shanty nearest the road there was a light in the window. An old woman stood in the doorway holding a lamp.

    Inside on a wooden bunk lay a young Indian woman. She had been trying to have her baby for two days. All the old women in the camp had been helping her. The men had moved off up the road to sit in the dark and smoke cut of range of the noise she made. She screamed just as Nick and the two Indians followed his father and Uncle George into the shanty. She lay in the lower bunk, very big under a quilt. Her head was turned to one side. In the upper bunk was her husband. He had cut his foot very badly with an ax three days before. He was smoking a pipe. The room smelled very bad.

    Nick's father ordered some water to be put on the stove, and while it was heating he spoke to Nick.

    "This lady is going to have a baby, Nick," he said.

    "I know," said Nick.

    "You don't know," said his father. "Listen to me. What she is going through is called being in labor. The baby wants to be born and she wants it to be born. All her muscles are trying to get the baby born. That is what is happening when she screams."

    "I see," Nick said.

    Just then the woman cried out.

    "Oh, Daddy, can't you give her something to make her stop screaming?" asked Nick.

    "No. I haven't any anaesthetic," his father said. "But her screams are not important. I don't hear them because they are not important."

    The husband in the upper bunk rolled over against the wall.

    The woman in the kitchen motioned to the doctor that the water was hot. Nick's father went into the kitchen and poured about half of the water out of the big kettle into a basin. Into the water left in the kettle he put several things he unwrapped from a handkerchief.

    "Those must boil," he said, and began to scrub his hands in the basin of hot water with a cake of soap he had brought from the camp. Nick watched his father's hands scrubbing each other with the soap. While his father washed his hands very carefully and thoroughly, he talked.

    "You see, Nick, babies are supposed to be born head first but sometimes they're not. When they're not they make a lot of trouble for everybody. Maybe I'll have to operate on this lady. We'll know in a little while."

    When he was satisfied with his hands he went in and went to work.

    "Pull back that quilt, will you, George?" he said. "I'd rather not touch it."

    Later when he started to operate Uncle George and three Indian men held the woman still. She bit Uncle George on the arm and Uncle George said, "Damn squaw bitch!" and the young Indian who had rowed Uncle George over laughed at him. Nick held the basin for his father. It all took a long time.

    His father picked the baby up and slapped it to make it breathe and handed it to the old woman.

    "See, it's a boy, Nick," he said. "How do you like being an interne?"

    Nick said. "All right." He was looking away so as not to see what his father was doing.

    "There. That gets it," said his father and put something into the basin.

    Nick didn't look at it.

    "Now," his father said, "there's some stitches to put in. You can watch this or not, Nick, just as you like. I'm going to sew up the incision I made."

    Nick did not watch. His curiosity had been gone for a long time.

    His father finished and stood up. Uncle George and the three Indian men stood up. Nick put the basin out in the kitchen.

    Uncle George looked at his arm. The young Indian smiled reminiscently.

    "I'll put some peroxide on that, George," the doctor said.

    He bent over the Indian woman. She was quiet now and her eyes were closed. She looked very pale. She did not know what had become of the baby or anything.

    "I'll be back in the morning." the doctor said, standing up.

    "The nurse should be here from St. Ignace by noon and she'll bring everything we need."

    He was feeling exalted and talkative as football players are in the dressing room after a game.

    "That's one for the medical journal, George," he said. "Doing a Caesarian with a jack-knife and sewing it up with nine-foot, tapered gut leaders."

    Uncle George was standing against the wall, looking at his arm.

    "Oh, you're a great man, all right," he said.

    "Ought to have a look at the proud father. They're usually the worst sufferers in these little affairs," the doctor said. "I must say he took it all pretty quietly."

    He pulled back the blanket from the Indian's head. His hand came away wet. He mounted on the edge of the lower bunk with the lamp in one hand and looked in. The Indian lay with his face toward the wall. His throat had been cut from ear to ear. The blood had flowed down into a pool where his body sagged the bunk. His head rested on his left arm. The open razor lay, edge up, in the blankets.

    "Take Nick out of the shanty, George," the doctor said.

    There was no need of that. Nick, standing in the door of the kitchen, had a good view of the upper bunk when his father, the lamp in one hand, tipped the Indian's head back.

    It was just beginning to be daylight when they walked along the logging road back toward the lake.

    "I'm terribly sorry I brought you along; Nickie," said his father, all his post-operative exhilaration gone. "It was an awful mess to put you through."

    "Do ladies always have such a hard time having babies?" Nick asked.

    "No, that was very, very exceptional."

    "Why did he kill himself, Daddy?"

    "I don't know, Nick. He couldn't stand things, I guess."

    "Do many men kill themselves, Daddy?"

    "Not very many, Nick."

    "Do many women?"

    "Hardly ever."

    "Don't they ever?"

    "Oh, yes. They do sometimes."

    "Daddy?"

    "Yes."

    "Where did Uncle George go?"

    "He'll turn up all right."

    "Is dying hard, Daddy?"

    "No, I think it's pretty easy, Nick. It all depends."

    They were seated in the boat. Nick in the stern, his father rowing. The sun was coming up over the hills. A bass jumped, making a circle in the water. Nick trailed his hand in the water. It felt warm in the sharp chill of the morning.

    In the early morning on the lake sitting in the stern of the boat with his father rowing; he felt quite sure that he would never die.

Indian Camp, Ernest Miller Hemingway, escritor

Hoje deitei-me como se na margem de um oceano branco

Hoy me he tendido junto a una joven pura
como a la orilla de un océano blanco,
como en el centro de una ardiente estrella
de lento espacio.

De su mirada largamente verde
la luz caía como un agua seca,
en transparentes y profundos círculos
de fresca fuerza.

Su pecho como un fuego de dos llamas
ardía en dos regiones levantado,
y en doble río llegaba a sus pies,
grandes y claros.

Un clima de oro maduraba apenas
las diurnas longitudes de su cuerpo
llenándolo de frutas extendidas
y oculto fuego.

Ángela Adónica, Pablo Neruda (Ricardo Eliécer Neftalí Reyes Basoalto), poeta

Caminho da vida

Gotama ouviu-o silenciosamente, quieto. Com a sua voz bondosa, delicada e clara o Perfeito disse:
– Tu ouviste a doutrina, ó filho de brâmane, e ainda bem que tão profundamente reflectiste sobre ela. Encontraste nela uma falha, um erro. Que possas continuar a reflectir sobre ela. Deixa-me, contudo, avisar-te, a ti que és ávido de saber, acerca do problema das opiniões e das disputas sobre palavras. Nada se encontra nas opiniões, podem ser belas ou feias, inteligentes ou imprudentes, qualquer um pode aceitá-las ou refutá-las. Mas a doutrina que de mim ouviste não é uma opinião e o seu objectivo não é explicar o mundo aos que são ávidos de saber. O seu objectivo é outro; o seu objectivo é a libertação do sofrimento. É isso que Gotama ensina, nada mais.
– Não fiques zangado comigo, ó Sublime – disse o jovem. – Não te falei nestes termos para procurar uma disputa contigo, uma disputa sobre palavras. Tens de facto razão, pouco se encontra nas opiniões. Mas permite que eu diga ainda isto: nem por um instante duvidei de ti. Nem por um instante duvidei que tu és o Buda, que alcançaste o Objectivo, o mais elevado, aquele que tantos milhares de brâmanes e de filhos de brâmanes perseguem. Encontraste a libertação da morte. Conseguiste-o pela tua própria procura, pelo teu próprio pé, através da reflexão, da meditação, do conhecimento, da revelação. Nada conseguiste através de doutrinas! E – é isto o que eu penso, ó Sublime – ninguém conseguirá a libertação através de doutrinas! Com ninguém, ó Venerável, conseguirás partilhar e dizer o que aconteceu na hora da tua iluminação! Os ensinamentos do Buda iluminado contêm muitas coisas, ensinam muitas coisas, a viver com honradez e a evitar o mal. Mas uma coisa esses ensinamentos tão claros, tão veneráveis, não contêm: não contêm o segredo daquilo que o Sublime viveu, ele, o único entre centenas de milhares. Foi isto que eu pensei e compreendi ao escutar a tua doutrina. Esta é a razão pela qual prossigo a minha peregrinação – não para procurar uma doutrina diferente e melhor, pois sei que tal não existe, mas para abandonar todas as doutrinas e todos os mestres, para alcançar sozinho o meu objectivo ou para morrer. Mas muitas vezes recordarei este dia, ó Sublime, e esta hora, em que os meus olhos viram um santo.

Siddhartha, Herman Hess, escritor

Uma Flor para a Marisa

A maior flor do mundo, animação de Juan Pablo Etcheverry da obra de José Saramago, com narração de José Saramago

O Homem que não pôde ser imperador

Contar-te-ei a historia do pai de todos nós, uma historia cómica, que nunca pude esquecer.

Um dia, um homem calçou as sandálias, envolveu-se numa capa e partiu de casa, dirigindo-se aos países do Oriente, para conquistar a Mundo. Estava cheio de grandes pensamentos, a seu coração era maior do que o Mundo. E pensava: conquistarei um reino tão vasto que aos mensageiros lhes branqueará a cabeça antes que cheguem aos confins para levar as minhas mensagens; conquistarei um tesouro tão grande que um dia, se quiser, poderei encher um lago com moedas de ouro. Gozarei brancas mulheres em leitos cor do mar; aniquilarei inimigos terríveis, nas montanhas, com o fogo do meu olhar. Agora, sou um homem pequeno e pobre e só me cobre uma capa, mas os meus pensamentos são magníficos e quero chegar a ser o senhor de tudo o que existe e o dono de tudo o que vive.

Este homem foi a uma cidade e, quando anunciou que queria ser rei e levar todos os homens à guerra para conquistar um grande reino, todos se riram dele. Então, pensou em castigar aquela cidade, quando fosse poderoso, e dirigiu-se a outra, onde lhe sucedeu o mesmo. E assim andou por todo o Mundo e em todos os países se riram dele e lhe deram algumas moedas, tomando-o por um pobre louco.

Um dia, finalmente, achou-se defronte da sua casa. Nada havia mudado, somente as suas sandálias estavam rotas, a sua capa em frangalhos e os seus cabelos brancos. Entrou em casa e pensou: «Ninguém me quis acompanhar. Não tive forças para reunir um só exercito. Não conquistei tesouro algum. Não serei nunca, ao que parece, dono do Mundo.» E então pôs-se a meditar sobre o seu destino e esteve muito triste durante alguns dias.

Certa manhã, porém - estava-se no mês de Março e nos prados tinham aparecido já as primeiras flores amarelas –, o homem levantou-se muito alegre e disse consigo próprio: «Compreendi, afinal, o meu destino. Cego fui, ao sair para conquistar o Mundo. O Mundo que eu considerava real não o é, não é ele o real, o supremo, senão apenas o mundo das aparências, dos sentidos, do engano. É o Mundo dos rústicos e dos mercadores. O verdadeiro mundo só se descobre no pensamento, em nós próprios, e posso ser dono de tudo o que quiser, desde que o busque dentro de mim, no mais profundo do meu ser.» E o homem encanecido começou, com uma lâmpada acesa, a procurar o verdadeiro, o profundo, o perfeito mundo. E esse homem – recorda-o bem – foi o pai de todos os poetas, o pai de todos os metafísicos, o pai de todos os sonhadores. Fundou a dinastia dos que não possuem um único resquício de mundo real e fabricam cada dia cem pequenos mundos de nadas, de alvaiade, de gesso. E eu e tu – homem leitor –, e todos os nossos companheiros, somos os últimos descendentes do homem que não pôde ser imperador.

O Homem que não pôde ser imperador, Giovanni Papini, poeta, escritor