Las Letras

Estas letras son tan caprichosas...
algunos días no quieren que las escribas (hoy no es uno de ellos),
otros días cuando andan más alegres, se ponen de todos los colores,
otros días se enojan entre ellas y n o q u i e r e n e s t a r c e r c a ,
otros días andan tan cariñosas que nosequierenseparar
y otros días comen mucho y andan gorditas.

Algunos días se ponen extremistas,

pero luego vuelven a estar más centradas,

,ojepse nu ne nàtse euq neerc saìd sotro
otros días se sienten importantes,
y otros días, insignificantes,
algunos días se creen finas y distinguidas.
A veces me cambian el amarillo por el celeste,
y a veces el rojo por el verde
a combion lo o par lo a (o cambian la a por la o).
Pero yo de todas maneras las quiero ♥

Mi humilde objetivo

Mi humilde objetivo no es hacer poesía
si es que a la métrica usted se refería.

Nunca he sido buen contador
ni tampoco buen rimador.

Si la rima no le suena, no fuerze la lectura
seguramente está mal de factura,

y si las silabas no le cuadran, no las vuelva a contar
al menos yo en eso no me he de fijar.

Solo quiero que mis líneas le parezcan entretenidas
y si además suenan rimas, serán bienvenidas.




¿Que sentido tendría esta vida
si se acabara hoy la rima entretenida?

Rima con A

Navegando por el Loa
llegaré hasta Lisboa,

aunque no rime con canoa,
y aunque esta no tenga proa,

hago una rima con oa
y despues una con a

porque una gitana en Alcalá
me leyó la suerte en una ensalá,

y me predijo una fortuna
aunque me dejo sin ninguna.

Rima con E

Voy a hacer la rima con e
antes que se me olvide

no se si la publicaré
depende como me quede

y pondré esta para que rellene
antes que sin rimas me quede

ja, eso lo hice de adrede.

Rima con I

Me cuesta hacer rimas con i
porque no se hablar sefardí

aunque eso es un baladí,
¿porque no lo omití?

En serio, no te mentí,
aunque te lo pueda decir en iraní,

te lo diré en español, ¿y?
"Sabes que te quiero a ti".

Rima con O

No soy bueno rimando,
menos con la o,

creo que esto
ya no resultó

Rima con U

Paseando por Moscú
o tal vez por Iguazú

de la mano yo y tú
y nuestro gato misifú

¡No entiendo este menú,
está en Mapudungú!

Quiero probar el caribú
¿y que tal tú
unos tallarines montú?,

te lo confieso, aunque no es tabú:
que quiero ser como Gokú.

Vacaciones

Que fomes mis vacaciones de invierno-primavera, pasarlas enfermo.

Al menos estoy bien acompañado, me pregunto ¿Como le estará yendo en este momento a mi amigo Julián con la caprichosa de Matilde La Mole? Si quiere saberlo, averígüelo en su librería más cercana, solo pregunte por Rojo y Negro. Y no se preocupe, no será afectado por la Ley de Seguridad del Estado.

Oda al Derecho a la Propiedad Privada.

Llego un día cualquiera a mi casa luego del trabajo
con ganas de descansar,

dejo los ojos en el velador,
la cabeza en el perchero

dejo los pies bajo la cama
y me quito la piel

la doblo, la cuelgo
y me acuesto.

Al final del día
que soy sin mis bienes

Nada.

Ayúdeme con esto.

Ya se que venía escribiendo solo obras excelentes de grandes autores, y que yo no soy nadie comparado con ellos, pero patudamente voy a tener el atrevimiento de mezclar mis palabras con las de ellos, mejor dicho, poner a continuación, juntas pero no revueltas. Algo me pica aqui en la cabeza, por dentro, en el alma, hay un sentimiento, sensación, o como quieran llamarlo, que me resulta contradictorio, nisiquiera se como nombrarlo, es parecido a la nostalgia pero no es exactamente igual, todos conocemos la nostalgia, todos alguna vez la hemos sentido, pero este sentimiento peculiar, no es respecto a "objetos" (entendamos objetos como cosas, situaciones, experiencias, etc.) del pasado, si no a "objetos" del futuro si es que se pueden llamar de esa manera, más bien dicho de un posible futuro, de uno tal cual como lo anhelamos. Si, claro, anhelos, me diran, deseos de como quieres que sea tu futuro, todos los tenemos, pero yo no me refiero a ese tipo de anhelos, esto tiene una carga emocional más fuerte y cercana que solo desear, es un "echar de menos" algo. Pero obviamente, entiendo que no puedo echar de menos algo que nunca he tenido o vivido, mi problema radica en que siento que aquello ya me pertenece, por eso lo extraño, no se si podrá llegar a pertenecerme en verdad alguna vez, y si lo hará, de que modo, pero lo siento mio ya. Y eso no sé que explicación tiene, aunque no quiero poder explicarlo, solo saber como se llama, y si es que no tuviese nombre, saber como lo llamarían ustedes, mi lectores imaginarios, probablemente inexistentes, yo personalmente pienso que le podríamos decir "Nostalgia Anticipada".

PS: Podría ser un fenómeno bioquímico también, en ese caso, el nombre sería tan largo y complicado que me sería indiferente conocerlo pues no lo podría recordar.

PS2: El que alguien lea mis entradas es un sentimiento de este tipo, pues lo extraño aunque nunca haya sucedido y probablemente nunca suceda.

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door,
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow,
From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore,
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door,
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you", here I opened wide the door;
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore,
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;
'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door,
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore,
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being,
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door,
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered,
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before,
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster,
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore,
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore,
Of "Never - nevermore."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking,
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore,
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore,
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining,
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee,
Respite - respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted,
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore,
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore,
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor,
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

Edgar Allan Poe

T.S. Eliot

What the Thunder Said - The Waste Lands

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and palace and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience

 Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock without water
If there were water we should stop and drink
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
If there were only water amongst the rock
Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
There is not even silence in the mountains
But dry sterile thunder without rain
There is not even solitude in the mountains
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From doors of mudcracked houses
                                   If there were water
 And no rock
 If there were rock
 And also water
 And water
 A spring
 A pool among the rock
 If there were the sound of water only
 Not the cicada
 And dry grass singing
 But sound of water over a rock
 Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
 Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
 But here there is no water

 Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together
But when I look ahead, up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you,
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
- But who is that on the other side of you?

 What is that sound high in the air
Murmur of maternal lamentation
Who are those hooded hordes swarming
Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
Ringed by the flat horizon only
What is the city over the mountains
Cracks and reforms and bursts in violet air
Falling towers
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
Vienna London
Unreal

 A woman drew her long black hair out tight
And fiddled whisper music on those strings
And bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled, and beat their wings
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And upside down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.

 In this decayed hole among the mountains,
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.
It has no windows, and the door swings,
Dry bones can harm no one.
Only a cock stood on the rooftree
Co co rico co co rico
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
Bringing rain

 Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves
Waited for rain, while the black clouds
Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
Then spoke the thunder
DA
Datta: what have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment's surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract,
By this, and this only, we have existed,
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms
DA
Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
Turn in the door once and turn once only
We think of the key, each in his prison
Thinking of the key, each confirms his prison
Only at nightfall, aethereal rumors
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
DA
Damyata: the boat responded
Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
To controlling hands

                        I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
Shall I at least set my lands in order?
London bridge is falling down falling down falling down
Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina
Quando fiam uti chelidon - O swallow swallow
Le prince d'Aquitaine a la tour abolie
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe.
Da. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
                           Shantih shantih shantih

(T.S. Eliot, The Wasteland)

Death by Water - The Waste Land

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, the deep sea swell
And the profit and loss.
                            A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth,
Entering the whirlpool.
                       Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

(T.S. Eliot, The Wasteland)

The Fire Sermon - The Waste Land

The river's tent is broken; the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;
Departed, have left no addresses.
By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . .
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.

A rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
While I sat fishing in the dull canal
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
Musing upon the king my brother's wreck
And on the king my father's death before him.
White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year.
But at my back from time to time I hear
The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And on her daughter
They wash their feet in soda water
Et O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug
So rudely forc'd
Tereu

Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays,
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest -
I too awaited the expected guest.
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house agent's clerk, with a bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The time is now propitious, as he guesses;
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired.
Endeavors to engage her in caresses
Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defense.;
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows one final patronizing kiss,
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . .

She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
'Well now that's done, and I'm glad it's over.'
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
And puts a record on the gramophone.

'The music crept by me upon the waters'
And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
O City city, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,
The pleasant whining of a mandoline
And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of Magnus Martyr hold
Inexplicable splendor of Ionian white and gold.

                The river sweats
                Oil and tar
                The barges drift
                With the turning tide
                Red sails
                Wide
                To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
                The barges wash
                Drifting logs
                Down Greenwich reach
                Past the Isle of Dogs.
                                Weialala leia
                                Wallala leialala

                Elizabeth and Leicester
                Beating oars
                The stern was formed
                A gilded shell
                Red and gold
                The brisk swell
                Rippled both shores
                Southwest wind
                Carried down stream
                The peal of bells
                White towers
                                Weialala leia
                                Wallala leialala

                'Trams and dusty trees.
                Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew
                Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees
                Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.'

                'My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart
                Under my feet. After the event
                He wept. He promised "a new start."
                I made no comment. What should I resent?'

                'On Margate Sands
                I can connect
                Nothing with nothing.
                The broken fingernails of dirty hands
                My people humble people who expect
                Nothing.'
                          la la

                To Carthage then I came

                Burning burning burning burning
                O Lord Thou pluckest me out
                O Lord Thou pluckest

                burning.

(T.S. Eliot, The Wasteland)

A Game of Chess - The Waste Land

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion.
In vials of ivory and coloured glass,
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid - troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carved dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantle was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
'Jug Jug' to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the world enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.

'My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
'Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
   What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
I never know what you are thinking. Think.'

I think we are in rats' alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.

'What is that noise?'
                       The wind under the door.
'What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?'
                       Nothing again nothing.
                                                 'Do
'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
Nothing?'

   I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?'
                                                     But
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag -
It's so elegant
So intelligent
'What shall I do now? What shall I do?'
I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow?
What shall we ever do?'
                          The hot water at ten.
And, if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said -
I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself,
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert.
He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time.
And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said.
Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can't.
But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be all right, but I've never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said.
What you get married for if you don't want children?
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot -
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
HURRY UP PLEASE IT'S TIME
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

(T.S. Eliot, The Wasteland)

The Burial of Dead - The Waste Land

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
        Frisch weht der Wind
        Der heimat zu
        Mein Irisch kind,
        Wo weilest du?

'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
'They called me the hyacinth girl.'
- Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed' und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Has a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor.
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something that he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself;
One must be so careful these days.

Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet,
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying, 'Stetson!
'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
'That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
'O keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
'You! hypocrite lecteur! - mon semblable! - mon frère!"

(T.S. Eliot, The Wasteland)

Blitzkrieg

Porque la gallina cruzó la calle?

-Sócrates: Porque así actuán las aves virtuosas, no hay porque darle explicaciones a ustedes (el vulgo)
-Platón: Por su bien. Al otro lado de la carretera se encuentra la verdad.
-Aristóteles: Porque cruzar calles es la virtud más perfecta de un ser avícola, y esta la llevara a la felicidad
-Tomás de Aquino: Si lo hizo para contemplar a Dios, no tiene porque respetar los cruces peatonales establecidos por los hombres.
-Thomas Hobbes: Gracias a la existencia del Leviatán pudo cruzar sin temer por su vida
-David Hume: Cruzó por que así lo prefirió su sensibilidadante ante las opciones de cruzar o quedarse en este lado de la calle.
-Immanuel Kant: Debido a que la Crítica de la Razón Pura es la condición de posibilidad de toda Metafísica, la posibilidad de la existencia de la Metafísica radica en la existencia de juicios sintéticos a priori, lo que resulta imposible, de esto se despreden que hay que establecer una Metafísica de las Costumbres que se base en juicios sintéticos a priori que justifiquen su existencia, estos serán los Imperativos Categóricos, pues de estos, a priori se puede derivar la autonomía de la voluntad de la gallina como ser racional sin estar esto incluido en el enunciado inicial. De la autonomía de la voluntad de la gallina se puede desprender la segunda formulacón del Imperativo Categórico que afirma que esta actuará según su voluntad y no por miedo a ser constreñida. Además, de la primera forma de enunciar el Imperativo Categórico se puede derivar que la acción de cruzar la calle no es perjudicial como máxima universalizable, y por último es reconocible que la gallina en tanto se entienda a si misma como un fin en cruzar la calle y no como un medio, estaría moralmente correcto su actuar, por lo tanto, cruza.
-Jhon Stuart Mill: Cruza la calle porque es la acción cualitativamente más placentera, que puede realizar sin significar esto un perjuicio para la sociedad que la rodea.
-Orellana: Cruza la calle porque la pluralidad valórica acepta su "vivir como valor" por encontrarse dentro del Rango Abierto Pero Acotado de conductas plausibles.
-Miguel(alias Rulitos, alias Wikipedia): El que haya cruzado deviene irrelevante.

(Bonus Track)
-Karl Marx: Las razones económicas la llevaron a cuestionarse la superestructura social del otro lado de la calle, era historicamente inevitable desde el punto de vista de la dialéctica que cruzara la calle.
-Descartes: Primero se percata de que se está cuestionando porque cruzó la calle, de esto deriva que necesariamente piensa, luego que existe, y luego que cruza la calle.
-Martin Luther King: Ha tenido un sueño donde todos las gallinas eran libres de cruzar una carretera sin tener que justificar sus actos.
-Moises: Dios le dijo a la gallina: 'cruza la calle'. Y los autos se hicieron a un lado y ella cruzó.
-Richard Nixon: La gallina no cruzó la carretera, repito, la gallina no cruzó nunca la carretera.
-Pinochet: La gallina un dia estuvo al borde de la calle y hoy ha dado un paso adelante
-Salvador Allende: Porque estaba en su derecho de cruzar las grandes Alamedas.
-Nicolás Maquiavelo: Lo importante es que la gallina logró cruzar la calle, el que haya podido lograrlo justifica el motivo que hubiera tenido para hacerlo.
-Nietzche: Porque no le importaba morir atropellada, su vida no tiene valores ni sentido.
-Sigmund Freud: El hecho de que te preocupe por qué la gallina cruzó la calle revela una fuerte sentimiento de inseguridad sexual latente, que deriva de traumas en la infancia.
-Galileo: Y sin embargo, cruza.

Cajas y Paneles

Ya que estás acá
quieres, café... o té
no hay té

Se le aliviará,
el corazón
no nací ayer.

F.M.

Aunque todo salió mal

Que haces tirado en el pasto
la mirada fija en el cielo,
de noche.

Aqui no se ven estrellas
y no hagas metáforas de ello,
en serio.

F.M.

Cuantos días en un día?

Hay días en los que aquellas cosas que normalmente me hacen sonreir, no lo logran(ni siquiera el título del blog), hay otros días en que la guitarra no quiere entregar ningún sonido amable, días en que la mente no quiere dar a luz ninguna idea cuando se necesita, hay aquellos en que las manos no quieren responder a las intenciones, y hay días que son todos ellos en uno solo, los conocen? No deberían existir días como esos.

Hamlet se cruza en mi camino

No me mires a mi con tus ojos calavéricos que no caeré en tu juego duditativo del ser o no ser. La cara desnuda del que burlón y pícaro vivió y hoy ya no puede reírse, al menos es serena y libre de dudar y tiene más paz que quien vive atormentado en la espera de que la valentía lo impulse a actuar y por mientras busca la manera de ser y no ser al mismo tiempo dilatando los segundos antes de la tormenta. Niño asustado paralizado por el temor o genio calculador preparando los detalles, no apuñales las cortinas que el azar te empujará irremediablemente a tener que decidir sin escapatoria, si es que estabas preparado o si lo tenías planeado solo lo sabrás tu, por mi parte yo te puedo decir que a mi no me mires con tus ojos calavéricos que no caeré en tu juego.

Los Viejos Buenos Tiempos

En vida veo la decadencia y muertede mi único objeto de admiración, del único que, orgullosamente admito, me puedo declarador admirador ferviente. Quien manda los patrones morales a la mierda y vive como le da la gana con coherencia y consecuencia, y es precisamente lo que no quiero llegar a ser y por ello mismo lo admiro, por ser la persona que nadie quiere que sea, pero que todos secretamente admiran por su valentía de serlo,y si no todos, al menos yo si lo hago y no en secreto. Si solo tuviera la mitad de la decisión y la valentía para desligarme completamente de las amarras de la sociedad y desarrollar todo mi potencial humano como el lo hace. Sin vergüenza construir en la tierra tu utopía, y vivirla a fondo, aunque nadie lo crea, con tal que te lo creas tu mismo es suficiente, ser consecuente y llegar hasta las últimas instancias. Porque no importa que la Reina Boadicea haya muerto hace mucho, su espíritu vive en los hijos de sus hijos de sus hijos. Pero amigo no pierdas la fe en el amor y la música, pues si la pierdes tu, la perderé yo también y eso será el fin. Sabes que he intentado mucho por no caer en mis antiguas costumbres, y me hiere el corazón oirte clamando por los viejos buenos tiempos, entiende que no existen esos viejos buenos tiempos, ¡Estos son los viejos buenos tiempos! No es acerca de todo lo que te puedan dar, ni la maldad de sus ojos que te pueda herir, ni lo que odian en lo profundo de su mente, es sobre nuestros sueños, sobre nuestros juegos, y sobre esa lista de cosas que dijimos haríamos mañana ¡Esa lista de cosas que dijimos que haríamos mañana! El sueño Arcadio ha caído completamente, pero El Albion sigue navegando, deja a los hombres levar anclas y preparar el viaje, que los hombres-cerdo han encontrado la fuente y aún hay doce marinos en los remos.





Chao Pescao*