Pillow

Quisiera volverme hiedra,
y enredarme en tu cintura.
- Carmen Paris, Savia nueva

And it was worth it
After all
When
Settling a single pillow under both of our heads
We had no need to say anything at all

(And indeed, there was time for you and me)



Revisiting Elliot's Prufrock.

The Gravedigger's Requiem (or, the early death of the newly born twin trees)

And was it worth it,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
After the porcelain, after all those talks of you and me,
to have bitten off all those matters with a smile
to have squeezed the universe into so many balls
and rolled them towards all those overwhelming questions,
to have said "That's exactly what I mean"
or "That is not what I meant"?
Was it worthwhile,
after having laid our pillows by each other's head
and had no need to say anything at all?

For I am not Prince Hamlet, but I am no attendant lord.
I am no attendant lady, either.
I'm a gravedigger.
I find no difference between a jester and a king,
and burying the death has become so auspicious
that I can dig while whistling a merry tune.
I can dig and bury even if the occassion
requires a requiem.

I'm also a good prophet.
I could tell you all, but you'll find it out yourself.



Yet again, another variation on Elliot's Prufrock.

A hundred indecisions, and a hundred visions and revisions which a minute will reverse

Celebrar el naufragio
Desatar al destino
Olvidar frente al mar
que lo mismo es distinto
- Jordi Soler, Los peces del viento

And would it have been worth it
after all
after the cups, the marmalade, the tea
after the sunsets, the dooryards and the sprinkled streets
after the skirts that trailed along the floor
after having beaten off the matter with sighs and cries and smiles
after having squeezed the universe into a ball
and rolled it towards all these overwhelming questions
after having settled pillows by each other's head
would it have been worthwhile
after all
just to say
once more
"I am Lazarus, come from the dead
come back to tell you all
but now I know I should not tell you all"

And how should I begin?
Will I find the strenght
to force the moment to its crisis?
And should I then presume?

(I should've been a pair of ragged claws
scuttling across the floors of silent seas)



(Yet another variation on Prufrock)

Absently dreaming

I have seen them riding seaward
Combing the hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black
   - T. S. Eliot, "The love song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

The melancholic seaside smiled
absently
dreaming

The waves pretended silences
They understood

Magic Lantern

È già spezzato il fiatto
e ricomincio a respirare
senza sforzo e senza affanno
-Carmen Consoli, Perturbazione Atlantica

A magic lantern could throw the nerves in patterns
on a screen:
of the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
of the sunsets, the dooryards, and the sprinkled
streets
of the novels and the skirts that trailed along the floor
of perfumes from dresses and restless nights
in one-night cheap hotels
and of half-desserted streets
that follow like a tedious argument
of insidious intent

the nerves of braceleted arms and arms in short-sleeves
of windows and tables and shawls
and cups, marmalade, tea
and cakes and tea and ices
of porcelain, teacups, toast

the patterns of the nerves within eyes that
fix all in formulated phrases
of the nerves of formulated men and women
pinned and wriggling and sprawling on walls
and this, and so mucho more!

All to make it possible to say just what I mean:
in short, that I was afraid.

For perhaps we're all meant to be both
Prince Hamlet and an attendant lord.
To somehow both drown,
and not.

Music for mermaids (ou à la recherche du J. A. P. perdu)

                                                                                       There was nothing in our hands

                                                                                       no history      

                                                                                       no waiting, no memory

                                                                                       no fate

                                                                                       there was only one moment

                                                                                       only one moment

                                                                                       our hearts were on fire

                                                                                       and it burned in our bones.

                                                                                          -Our Hearts, Firehorse

An indeed there was no time
to wonder, "Do I dare?" and "Do I dare?"
There was time to turn back and ascend the stair,
Time to disturb the universe
with a hundred visions and decisions
that no revisions could reverse.
Time for you and time for me.

For either of us could be Hamlet,
and we've both had our prophet.
We did not let the moment of our greatness flicker,
we just bit off the matter with a smile,
we squeezed the universe into a ball
and rolled it towards some overwhelming question,
We each said: "I have been Lazarus, come from the dead,
I could tell you all, but I shall not tell you all."

And it was worth it, after all, it was worth while
when, settling a pillow by each other's head
we did not need to say: "That is what I mean,
indeed, that is it".

And in short, we were not afraid.

Las horas IX - To Squeeze the Universe into a Ball

Do I dare
Disturb the Universe?
And how should I begin?
And should I then presume?

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strenght to force the moment to its crisis?

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,

To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all."
No! I am no prophet. I am not Prince Hamlet.
Am an attendant Lord; almost, at times, the Fool.

Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say, "That is not what I meant at all;
That is not it, at all."


Fragmentos de "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock", de T. S. Elliot.