by Robert Bly
Te deshojé, como una rosa,
para verte tu alma,
y no la vi.
Mas todo en torno
—horizontes de tierras y de mares—,
todo, hasta el infinito,
se colmó de una esencia
inmensa y viva.
Birkendene, Caldwell,
February 20th
“I TOOK OFF PETAL AFTER PETAL”
I took off petal after petal, as if you were a rose,
in order to see your soul,
and I didn’t see it.
However, everything around—
horizons of fields and oceans—
everything, even what was infinite,
was filled with a perfume,
immense and living.
New York,
28 de marzo
CEMENTERIO
Se ha quedado esta pequeña aldea de muertos, olvido que se recordara, al amor de unos árboles que fueron grandes en su niñez agreste, pequeños, hoy que son viejos, entre los terribles rascacielos. La noche deja, ahora, paralelos los vivos que duermen, un poco más alto, con los muertos que duermen, un poco más abajo, hace un poco más de tiempo y para un poco más de tiempo. ¡ Paralelos hacia un infinito cercano en el que no se encontrarán!
Quita el viento y pone, cegándome de un agudo blandor, la nieve—que se irisa en sus altos remolinos, a la luz de las farolas blancas—, de las tumbas. Las horas agudizan la sombra, y lo que descansó en la luz del día, está despierto, y mira, escucha y ve. Así, los sueños de estos muertos se oyen, como si ellos soñaran alto, y su soñar de tantos años, más vivo que el soñar de los muertos de una noche, es la vida más alta y más honda de la ciudad desierta.
New York,
March 28th
CEMETERY
This tiny village of dead people has stayed on, forgetfulness which is remembered, in the care of some trees that in their rural childhood were large, and now that they are old, are small, among the frightening skyscrapers. Now the night makes the living who are asleep a little higher up, parallel with the dead who are asleep a little lower down, a little time that is past and a little time to come. Parallel rows toward a neighborly infinity, though in it they will never meet!
The wind removes and puts back the snow, from the gravestones, blinding me with its sharp whiteness, changing colors in its high whirling columns in the light of the white streetlamps. The hours make the darkness more apparent, and whatever was resting in the daylight is awake now, and looks, listens, and sees. In this way the dreams of these dead people are heard, as if they were dreaming out loud, and their dreaming over so many years, more alive than the dreaming of these dead for one night, is the life that is highest and deepest in the abandoned city.
New York,
2 de abril
“EN SUBWAY”
En subway. La sufragista, de una fealdad alardeada, con su postre mustio por sombrero, se levanta hacia un ancianito rojo que entra, y le ofrece, con dignidad imperativa, su sitio. El se resiste, mirando con humildad celeste a la nieve entre dos sombreros de señoras negras. Ella le coge por el brazo. El se indigna, en una actitud de quita golpes. Ella lo sienta, sin hablar, de una vez. El se queda hablando sin voz, agitando furioso las manos altas, con una chispa de sangre última en sus claros y débiles ojos azules.
New York,
April 2nd
“IN THE SUBWAY”
In the subway. The suffragette, with an ugliness that is positively exhibitionistic, and some stale pastry for a hat, rises toward a red-faced old man who comes in and, with a domineering dignity, offers him her seat. He resists, looking with divine humility at the snow between two Negro women’s hats. She takes him by the arm. He becomes indignant and looks as though he might hit someone. She sits him down, once and for all, without speaking. He goes on talking soundlessly, moving his raised hands furiously, a final spark of blood in his clear eyes that are weak and blue.
New York,
27 de abril
ALTA NOCHE
New York solitario ¡ sin cuerpo! . . . Y voy despacio, Quinta Avenida abajo, cantando alto. De vez en cuando, me paro a contemplar los enormes y complicados cierres de los bancos, los escaparates en transformación, las banderolas ondeantes en la noche . . . Y este eco, que, como dentro de un aljibe inmenso, ha venido en mi oído inconsciente, no sé desde qué calle, se acerca, se endurece, se ancha. Son unos pasos claudicantes y arrastrados como por el cielo, que llegan siempre y no acaban de llegar. Me paro una vez más y miro arriba y abajo. Nada. La luna ojerosa de primavera mojada, el eco y yo.
De pronto, no sé si cerca o lejos, como aquel carabinero solitario por las playas de Castilla, aquella tarde de vendaval, un punto, un niño, un animal, un enano . . . ¿ Qué? Y avanza. ¡ Ya! . . . Casi no pasa junto a mí. Entonces vuelvo la cara y me encuentro con la mirada suya, brillante, negra, roja y amarilla, mayor que el rostro, todo y solo él. Y un negro viejo, cojo, de paletó mustio y sombrero de copa mate, me saluda ceremonioso y sonriente, y sigue, Quinta Avenida arriba . . . Me recorre un breve escalofrío, y, las manos en los bolsillos, sigo, con la luna amarilla en la cara, semicantando.
El eco del negro cojo, rey de la ciudad, va dando la vuelta a la noche por el cielo, ahora hacia el poniente . . .
New York,
April 27th
DEEP NIGHT
New York deserted—without a person! I walk down Fifth Avenue, with lots of time, singing aloud. From time to time, I stop to look at the gigantic and complicated locks in the banks, the department store windows being changed, the flags flapping in the night . . . And this sound which my ears, as if inside some enormous cistern, have taken in unconsciously, coming from I don’t know which street, gets nearer, harder, louder. The sounds are footsteps, shuffling and limping, they seem to be coming from above, they constantly approach and never manage to get here. I stop again and look up the avenue and down. Nothing. The moist spring moon, with circles under its eyes, the sounds, and I.
Suddenly, I can t tell if far off or near, like the solitary soldier I saw on the sands of Castille, that evening when the sea wind was strong, a point or a child, or an animal, or a dwarf—What? And slowly it comes closer. Closer. About to pass. I turn my face and meet his gaze, the eyes bright, black, red and yellow, larger than his face, all he is is his gaze. An old Negro, crippled, with a shrunken overcoat and a hat with a faded top, greets me ceremoniously, and then, smiling, goes on up Fifth Avenue . . . A brief shudder goes through me, and with my hands in my pockets I go on, the yellow moon in my face, half singing to myself.
The echo of the crippled Negro, king of the city, makes a turn around the night in the sky, now toward the west.
AUTHOR’S CLUB
Creí siempre que en New York pudiera no haber poetas. Lo que no sospechaba es que hubiese tantos poetas malos, ni un tugurio como éste, tan seco y polvoriento como nuestro Ateneo Madrileño, a pesar de estar en un piso 15, casi a la altura del Parnaso.
Son señores de décima clase, que cultivan parecidos físicos a Poe, a Walt Whitman, a Stevenson, a Mark Twain, y que se dejan consumir el alma con su cigarro gratuito, hechos uno con él; melenudos que se ríen de Robinson, de Frost, de Masters, de Vachel Lindsay, de Amy Lowell, y que no se ríen de Poe, de Emily Dickinson y de Whitman, porque ya están muertos. Y me muestran paredes y paredes llenas de retratos y autógrafos en barquillo, de Bryant, de Aldrich, de Lowell, de, de, de . . .
. . . He cogido de la fumadora un cigarrillo y, encendiéndolo, lo he echado en un rincón, sobre la alfombra, a ver si el fuego se levanta y deja, en vez de este Club de escoria, un alto hueco fresco y hondo, con estrellas claras, en el cielo limpio de la noche de abril.
AUTHOR’S CLUB
I had always thought perhaps there would be no poets at all in New York. What I had never suspected was that there would be so many bad ones, or a place like this, as dry and dusty as our own Ateneo in Madrid, in spite of its being on the 15th floor, almost at the altitude of Parnassus.
Tenth-rate
men, all of them, cultivating physical resemblances to Poe, to Walt Whitman, to Stevenson, to Mark Twain, letting their soul be burned up with their free cigar, since the two are the same; bushy-haired men who make fun of Robinson, Frost, Masters, Vachel Lindsay, Amy Lowell and who fail to make fun of Poe, Emily Dickinson and Whitman only because they are already dead. And they show me wall after wall of portraits and autographs in holograph, of Bryant, of Aldrich, of Lowell, etc., etc., etc . . .
. . . I have taken a cigarette from the fumidor, lighted it and thrown it into a corner, on the rug, in order to see if the fire will catch and leave behind it in place of this club of rubbish a high and empty hole, fresh and deep, with clear stars, in the cloudless sky of this April night.
WALT WHITMAN
—Pero, ¿ de veras quiere usted ver la casa de Whitman mejor que la de Roosevelt? ¡ Nadie me ha pedido nunca tal cosa . . .!
. . . La casa es pequeña y amarilla, y está junto a la vía férrea, como la casa de un gaurdaagujas, en una praderita verde limitada de piedrecillas con cal, bajo un solo árbol. En torno, al llano inmenso so ofrece al viento, que lo barre y nos barre, y deja mondo el mármol tosco y humilde que le dice a los trenes:
TO MARK THE BIRTHPLACE OF
WALT WHITMAN
THE GOOD GRAY POET
BORN MAY 31, 1819
ERECTED BY THE COLONIAL SOCIETY
OF HUNTINGTON IN 1905
Como el estanciero no parece que está, doy vueltas a la casa, intentando ver algo por sus ventanuchos . . . De pronto, un hombre alto, lento y barbudo, en camisa y con sombrero ancho, como el retrato juvenil de Whitman, viene—¿ de dónde?—y me dice, apoyado en su barra de hierro, que no sabe quién es Whitman, que él es polaco, que la casa es suya y que no tiene ganas de enseñársela a nadie. Y, encojiéndose, se mete dentro, por la puertecita que parece de juguete.
Soledad y frío. Pasa un tren, contra el viento. El sol, grana un instante, se muere tras el bosque bajo, y en la charca verde y un poco sangrienta que bordeamos, silban, en el silencio enorme, innumerables sapos.
WALT WHITMAN
“But do you really want to see Whitman’s house instead of Roosevelt’s? I’ve never had this request before!”
The house is tiny and yellow, and next to the railroad track, like the hut of a switchman, in a small green patch of grass, marked out with whitewashed stones, beneath a single tree. Around it, the wide meadow area is open to the wind, which sweeps it, and us, and has polished the simple rough piece of marble which announces to the trains:
TO MARK THE BIRTHPLACE OF
WALT WHITMAN
THE GOOD GRAY POET
BORN MAY 31, 1819
ERECTED BY THE COLONIAL SOCIETY
OF HUNTINGTON IN 1905
Since the farmer doesn’t seem to be at home, I walk around the house a couple of times, hoping to see something through the windowlets. Suddenly a man, tall, slow-moving and bearded, wearing a shirt and wide-brimmed hat—like the early photograph of Whitman—comes, from somewhere, and tells me, leaning on his iron bar, that he doesn’t know who Whitman was, that he is Polish, that this house is his, and that he does not intend to show it to anyone. Then pulling himself up, he goes inside, through the little door that looks like a toy door.
Solitude and cold. A train goes by, into the wind. The sun, scarlet for an instant, dies behind the low woods, and in the swamp we walk past which is green and faintly blood-colored, innumerable toads are croaking in the enormous silence.
New York
UN IMITADOR DE BILLY SUNDAY
Billy Sunday, el terrible predicador, no se atreve a venir a esta “Ciudad de incrédulos”. Pero tiene discípulos de una “fuerza” relativa. Así este Pastor A. Ray Petty, de la Iglesia Anabaptista de Washington Square. He aquí dos de sus anuncios:
Anuncio en “C”:
CRISIS DEL CRISTO
Recital de órgano, a las 7,45 de la tarde
Sermón, a las 8 de la tarde
FUNCIONES ESPECIALES EL DOMINGO POR LA NOCHE
A. RAY PETTY
Temas:
Abril 2. Cristo y la caterva
Abril 9. Cristo y el cobarde
Abril 16. Cristo y la cruz
Abril 23. Cristo y la conquista
Abril 30. Cristo y la corona
MÚSICA EXTRAORDINARIABUEN CANTO
BIENVENIDO SEAS
Anuncio en “Sportsman”:
SERMONES DE BASEBALL
Los domingos por la noche, a las 8
A. Ray Petty, Pastor
Temas:
Mayo 14. “El Pala” en aprieto
Mayo 21. Golpe sacrificado
Mayo 28. Se supende el juego a
causa de la oscuridad
MENSAJES DE VIDAACABADOS DE SALIR DE LA PALA
New York
AN IMITATOR OF BILLY SUNDAY
Billy Sunday, the fear-inspiring preacher, does not dare to come to this “city of heathens.” However, he has disciples with a certain relative “power.” One of these is Pastor A. Ray Petty, of the Anabaptist Church in Washington Square. Here are two of his public announcements:
Notice in “C”:
THE CRISES OF CHRIST
Organ recital 7:45 P.M.
Preaching 8 P.M.
SPECIAL SUNDAY EVENING SERVICES
A. RAY PETTY
Topics:
April 2. Christ and the crowd
April 9. Christ and the coward
April 16. Christ and the cross
April 23. Christ and the conquest
April 30. Christ and the crown
SPECIAL MUSICGOOD SINGING
YOU ARE WELCOME
Notice in “Sportsman”:
BASEBALL SERMONS
Sunday evening at 8 P.M.
A. Ray Petty, Pastor
Topics:
May 14. The pinch hitter
May 21. The sacrifice hit
May 28. Game called on
account of darkness
LIVE MESSAGESHOT OFF THE BAT
. . . Es noche de primavera. La plaza, verde; el cielo, un poco dorado aún del día caliente y polvoriento; la luna, como un pájaro de luz, de árbol a árbol; el aire, húmedo de los surtidores desflecados por el viento fuerte y grato. Parece la plaza el gran patio de una casa de vecinos. En los bancos, gente sórdida, que duerme en fraternal desahogo. Borrachos, borrachos, borrachos hablando con niños, con la luna, con quien pasa . . . De MacDougal Alley vienen musiquillas y gritos de la gente que se ve bailar en las casas abiertas. La iglesia también está de par en par. Entran en ella los gritos de los niños y salen de ella los gritos del pastor semiterrible que, sin cuello, se desgañita en su sermón—sudor y gesto—de frontón.
A spring night. Washington Square green, the sky still faintly gold from the day which was hot and dusty; the moon moves like a bird made of the light from tree to tree; the air is moist from jets of water whose tips are sheared off by the gusty and welcome wind. The Square looks like a tenement courtyard. Tumbledown people are asleep on the benches in a friendly forgiveness of each other. And drunks, drunks, drunks, talking to children, to the moon, to everyone going by . . . Bursts of music can be heard from MacDougal Alley, and voices of dancers from the houses with open doors. The church also stands wide open. Into it go the cries of the street children, and out of it come the cries of the half fear-inspiring pastor, who is throwing himself about now, his collar off, sweating and waving his arms, in his baseball sermon.
New York
DESHORA
“Abingdon Sq.” Dos de la madrugada. Una farola de cristal negro con letras encendidas en blanco:
INASMUCH MISSION
(Misión con motivo de . . .)
SERVICES AT 8 P.M.
Entre dos escaparates de probres y aislados grapefruits y tomates, cuyos amarillos y carmines duermen un poco, tristes, hasta mañana, una escalerilla sucia baja a una puerta humilde. Todo en dos metros de espacio y encuadrado, como esquelas de def
unción, en madera de luto con polvo. Y en un cristal de la puerta, con luz:
WHAT MUST I DO TO BE SAVED?
Come and hear
REV. L. R. CARTER
(¿ Qué he de hacer para salvarme?
Ven a oír al Rev. L. R. C.)
New York
WRONG TIME
“Abingdon Square.” Two o’clock in the morning. A sign made of black glass with letters lit up in white:
INASMUCH MISSION
SERVICES AT 8:00 P.M.
Between two storefronts of poor and lonesome grapefruits, and tomatoes, whose yellows and scarlets are sleeping a little, sadly, until tomorrow, a sad and dirty stair goes down to an unpretentious door. The whole thing six feet wide and framed, like death notices, in wood turned funereal from dust. And in a glass panel of the door, lighted:
WHAT MUST I DO TO BE SAVED?
Come and hear
REV. L. R. CARTER
“ANDAN POR NEW YORK”
Andan por New York, mala amiga—¿ por qué?—de Boston, la culta, la Ciudad-Eje, unos versillos que dicen así:
Here is to good old Boston,
the home of the bean and the cod,
where the Cabots speak only to Lowells,
and the Lowells speak only to God.
He conocido bien a una Cabot. ¡ Cómo deben de aburrirse los Lowells! He leído La fuente de Lowell. ¡ Cómo debe de estarse aburriendo Dios!