13.6.18

William Carlos Williams: Asfódelo, esa flor verdosa




Libro I


Del asfódelo, esa flor verdosa,
                      como una caléndula
                                              sobre su tallo bifurcado,
(sólo que verde y leñosa),
                      vengo, querida,
                                              a cantarte.
Vivimos juntos mucho tiempo
                      una vida llena,
                                               si querés,
de flores. Por eso
                      me alegré
                                               apenas supe   
que había flores también
                     en el infierno.
                                               Hoy
estoy lleno del recuerdo borroso de esas flores        
                     que los dos amamos,                  
                                               incluso el de esta pobre
cosa descolorida
                     (la vi
                  cuando era chico)
poco apreciada entre los vivos
                        pero que los muertos ven,
                                               preguntándose entre sí:           
¿Qué es lo que recuerdo                       
                         moldeado                    
                                               con forma parecida?        
mientras nuestros ojos se llenan
                          de lágrimas.
                                                Del amor, duradero amor             
estará hablando
                           aunque un débil baño carmesí                        
                                                 la coloree
para hacerla totalmente creíble.                                    
                           Hay algo
                                                  algo urgente
que tengo que decirte
                            y sólo a vos
                                                  pero debe esperar
mientras me embriago en                                  
                            la alegría de tu proximidad
                                                  quizás por última vez.
Y entonces
                            con miedo en mi corazón
                                                   me extiendo
y sigo hablando
                            sin atreverme a parar.
                                                   Oíme mientras hablo        
contra el tiempo.
                            No será
                                                     por mucho.
He olvidado
                             y sin embargo veo bastante claro                      
                                                     algo
central para el cielo
                             que se ordena alrededor.     
                                                      ¡Un olor
emana de eso!               
                             ¡Olor tan dulce!
                                                      ¡Madreselva! ¡Y ahora
llega el zumbido de una abeja!
                             ¡Y una oleada             
                                                       de memorias hermanas!
Sólo dame tiempo,
                             tiempo para recordarlas
                                                       antes de hablar.
Dame tiempo,
                             tiempo.
Cuando era chico
                             guardaba un libro                         
                                                        al que, de tanto
en tanto,
                             añadía flores prensadas              
                                                       hasta que, tiempo después
tuve una buena colección.
                             El asfódelo,
                                                        como un presagio,
entre ellas.
                              Te traigo,
                                                          revivido,
el recuerdo de esas flores.              
                          Eran dulces
                                                          al prensarlas
y conservaron
                          algo de su dulzura
                                                          un tiempo largo.          
Es un olor curioso,
                          un olor moral,
                                                          que me trae
cerca tuyo.
                          El color
                                                          fue lo primero en irse.         
Tuve que enfrentarme
                          a un desafío,
                                                          a tu querida persona,
mortal como yo era,
                         ¡la garganta del lirio
                                                          ante el colibrí!
La riqueza infinita,
                         pensé,
                                                          me tendió sus brazos.
Mil trópicos
                         en la floración de un manzano.
                                                          La propia tierra generosa                 
se entregó con ganas.               
                        ¡El mundo entero
                                                         se volvió mi jardín!
Pero el mar
                        que nadie cultiva
                                                      también es un jardín
cuando le pega el sol                                                               
                         y las olas
                                                      se despiertan.
Yo lo he visto              
                         y vos también
                                                      cuando deja a las flores
en ridículo.                           
                        También, hay una estrella de mar             
                                                      tiesa por el sol,
algas marinas
                        y otros yuyos. Sabíamos eso
                                                       tanto como el resto         
porque nacimos junto al mar,
                         sabíamos de sus cercos rosados
                                                       al borde mismo del agua.
Ahí crece la malva rosa
                         y en temporada,                        
                                                      frutillas,                         
y ahí, más tarde,
                         íbamos a juntar
                                                      ciruelas silvestres.
No puedo decir
                         que fui al infierno
                                                      por tu amor
pero muchas veces
                          me vi en él  
                                                      buscándote.
No me gusta
                         y preferí estar
                                                       en el cielo. Escuchá todo.       
No te alejes.

Aprendí mucho en mi vida
                        de los libros
                                                      y fuera de ellos
sobre el amor.
                        La muerte
                                                      no le pone fin.
Hay una jerarquía
                         que se puede alcanzar,     
                                                      creo,              
al servirlo.
                         Su galardón,
                                                      una flor mágica;     
un gato de veinte vidas.
                         Si nadie se atreviera a intentarlo
                                                      el mundo
saldría perdiendo.
                         Ha sido
                                                      para vos y para mí
como vigilar una tormenta         
                         flotando sobre el agua.
                                                      De pie             
año tras año
                         frente el espectáculo de nuestras vidas
                                                      con las manos juntas
La tormenta se despliega.
                         El relámpago
                                                       juega con los bordes de las nubes.
Hacia el norte el cielo
                         es plácido,
                                                       azul en su resplandor
mientras la tormenta se prepara.
                         Es una flor
                                                       que pronto alcanzará
la cúspide de su floración.                                                
                         Hemos bailado
                                                       en sueños,
y leído un libro juntos.             
                         ¿Te acordás?
                                                       Un libro serio.
Y así los libros
                         entraron en nuestras vidas.
¡El mar! ¡El mar!
                         Siempre
                                                       que pienso en el mar
viene a mi mente
                         la Iliada
                                                       y el desliz público de Helena
que engendró el poema.
                         Si no hubiera sido por eso
                                                       no habría habido
poema y el mundo,
                          si hubiésemos acaso recordado,
                                                       aquellos pétalos carmesí
desparramados sobre las rocas,
                             lo habría llamado simplemente
                                                       asesinato.
La orquídea sexual que entonces floreció
                             mandando a tantos      
                                                       hombres
apáticos a su tumba
                            le dejó su memoria
                                                       a una raza de tontos      
o héroes
                            si el silencio es virtud.
                                                       Sólo el mar              
con su multiplicidad
                            sostiene la esperanza.
                                                       La tormenta  
fue abortada               
                           pero seguimos                                   
                                                      tras los pensamientos que suscitó
reconstruyendo
                          nuestras vidas.

                                              Es la mente                          

la mente             
                          la que tiene q curarse
                                                      poco antes que la muerte        
intervenga                              
                         y el deseo volverá a ser
                                                      un jardín. El poema
es complejo como el lugar que en nuestras vidas    
                         hemos hecho               
                                                      para el poema.               
El silencio puede ser complejo, también
                          pero no se llega lejos
                                                      con silencio.
Empieza otra vez.
                         Es como el catálogo de barcos
                                                      en Homero:           
ocupa el tiempo.                                               
                         Hablo en forma figurada
                                                      suficientemente bien, los vestidos
que usás son figuras también,
                         de otro modo no podríamos
                                                     encontrarnos. Cuando hablo
de flores
                         es para recordar
                                                     que una vez
fuimos jóvenes.
                         No todas las mujeres son Helena,
                                                     lo sé,
pero llevan a Helena en sus corazones.
                         Querida,
                                                     vos también, así            
te quiero
                           y no podría quererte de otro modo.
                                                     Imaginá que ves      
un campo hecho de mujeres         
                           todas de un blanco plata.
                                                    ¿Qué habrías hecho
sIno quererlas?
                           ¡La tormenta estalla
                                                     o se disipa! No es
el fin del mundo.
                           El amor es algo más,
                                                     o eso creí,
                           un jardín que se expande,
                           aunque te conocí como mujer               
                                                      y nunca te vi de otro modo,
hasta que el mar entero
                           haya sido ocupado        
                                                     y todos sus jardines.
Era el amor al amor,
                           el amor que todo lo devora,
                                                     amor agradecido,                 
amor a la naturaleza, a la gente,
                           a los animales,
                                                      amor que engendra               
dulzura y bondad
                          el que me conmovió        
                                                     y eso vi en vos.
Debería haberlo sabido,
                          pero no lo sabía,
                                                     que el lirio del valle
es una flor que enferma            
                          al que la huele.
                                                     Tuvimos nuestros chicos,
rivales en el asalto general.
                         Los hice a un lado,
                                                      aunque cuidé de ellos
tanto como un hombre                
                        podría cuidar a sus hijos
                                                      en la medida de mis luces. 
Vos sabés,
                        tenía que encontrarte
                                                      después de lo que pasó
y todavía tengo que hacerlo.
                         Amor
                                                      al que reverenciás también              
igual que yo -                                                                                       
                         una flor,
                                                      la flor más frágil,                                             
será nuestro aval   
                         y no porque
                                                     seamos débiles  
para arreglarnos de otro modo
                          sino porque
                                                      en la cima de mis fuerzas
arriesgué lo que debía
                          para probar así
                                                      que nos amamos    
mientras mis huesos mismos transpiraban          
                        que no podía llamarte
                                                     en pleno acto.              
¡Del asfódelo, esa flor verdosa,
                          vengo, querida
                                                       a cantarte!                                                         
Mi corazón se enciende
                             al pensar que traigo noticias 
                                                    de algo
que te atañe
                             y atañe a muchos hombres. Mirá
                                                    lo que suele pasar por nuevo.
No lo encontrarás ahí sino en      
                             poemas despreciados.
                                                    Es difícil
sacar noticias de un poema                   
                             aunque los hombres mueren miserablemente cada día
                                                    por falta
de lo que ahí se encuentra.           
                            Escuchá todo                                          
                                                    puesto que a mí también me atañe,
como a cualquier hombre             
                            que quiera morir en su cama            
y en paz.


Versión: Gabriela Goldberg

El lenguaje modificado por su entorno, la lengua familiar, el tipo de conversaciones con las que uno crece, lo americano como el nombre de lo particular, mi idioma americano, frases del autor que desafían el intento de versionarlo en un español neutro, y la necesidad de un asfódelo para compartir con amigos. Un acercamiento a un poema largo, signado por graves problemas de salud, que se compone de 3 libros y una coda, y forman parte de Viaje al amor, dedicado a Flossie, su esposa.
G.G.

*


Asphodel, That Greeny Flower


Of asphodel, that greeny flower,
                               like a buttercup
                                                               upon its branching stem-
save that it’s green and wooden-
                               I come, my sweet,
                                                               to sing to you.
We lived long together
                               a life filled,
                                                               if you will,
with flowers.  So that
                               I was cheered
                                                               when I came first to know
that there were flowers also
                               in hell.
                                                               Today
I’m filled with the fading memory of those flowers
                               that we both loved,
                                                               even to this poor
colorless thing-
                               I saw it
                                                               when I was a child-
little prized among the living
                               but the dead see,
                                                               asking among themselves:
What do I remember
                               that was shaped
                                                               as this thing is shaped?
while our eyes fill
                               with tears.
                                                               Of love, abiding love
it will be telling
                               though too weak a wash of crimson
                                                               colors it
to make it wholly credible.
                               There is something
                                                               something urgent
I have to say to you
                               and you alone
                                                               but it must wait
while I drink in
                               the joy of your approach,
                                                               perhaps for the last time.
And so
                               with fear in my heart
                                                               I drag it out
and keep on talking
                               for I dare not stop.
                                                               Listen while I talk on
against time.
                               It will not be
                                                               for long.
I have forgot
                               and yet I see clearly enough
                                                               something
central to the sky
                               which ranges round it.
                                                               An odor
springs from it!
                               A sweetest odor!
                                                               Honeysuckle!  And now
there comes the buzzing of a bee!
                               and a whole flood
                                                               of sister memories!
Only give me time,
                               time to recall them
                                                               before I shall speak out.
Give me time,
                               time.
When I was a boy
                               I kept a book
                                                               to which, from time
to time,
                               I added pressed flowers
                                                               until, after a time,
I had a good collection.
                               The asphodel,
                                                               forebodingly,
among them.
                               I bring you,
                                                               reawakened,
a memory of those flowers.
                               They were sweet
                                                               when I pressed them
and retained
                               something of their sweetness
                                                               a long time.
It is a curious odor,
                               a moral odor,
                                                               that brings me
near to you.
                               The color
                                                               was the first to go.
There had come to me
                               a challenge,
                                                               your dear self,
mortal as I was,
                               the lily’s throat
                                                               to the hummingbird!
Endless wealth,
                               I thought,
                                                               held out its arms to me.
A thousand tropics
                               in an apple blossom.
                                                               The generous earth itself
gave us lief.
                               The whole world
                                                               became my garden!
But the sea
                               which no one tends
                                                               is also a garden
when the sun strikes it
                               and the waves
                                                               are wakened.
I have seen it
                               and so have you
                                                               when it puts all flowers
to shame.
                               Too, there are the starfish
                                                               stiffened by the sun
and other sea wrack
                               and weeds.  We knew that
                                                               along with the rest of it
for we were born by the sea,
                               knew its rose hedges
                                                               to the very water’s brink.
There the pink mallow grows
                               and in their season
                                                               strawberries
and there, later,
                               we went to gather
                                                               the wild plum.
I cannot say
                               that I have gone to hell
                                                               for your love
but often
                               found myself there
                                                               in your pursuit.
I do not like it
                               and wanted to be
                                                               in heaven.  Hear me out.
Do not turn away.
I have learned much in my life
                               from books
                                                               and out of them
about love.
                               Death
                                                               is not the end of it.
There is a hierarchy
                               which can be attained,
                                                               I think,
in its service.
                               Its guerdon
                                                               is a fairy flower;
a cat of twenty lives.
                               If no one came to try it
                                                               the world
would be the loser.
                               It has been
                                                               for you and me
as one who watches a storm
                               come in over the water.
                                                               We have stood
from year to year
                               before the spectacle of our lives
                                                               with joined hands.
The storm unfolds.
                               Lightning
                                                               plays about the edges of the clouds.
The sky to the north
                               is placid,
                                                               blue in the afterglow
as the storm piles up.
                               It is a flower
                                                               that will soon reach
the apex of its bloom.
                               We danced,
                                                               in our minds,
and read a book together.
                               You remember?
                                                               It was a serious book.
And so books
                               entered our lives.
The sea!  The sea!
                               Always
                                                               when I think of the sea
there comes to mind
                               the Iliad
                                                               and Helen’s public fault
that bred it.
                               Were it not for that
                                                               there would have been
 no poem but the world
                               if we had remembered,
                                                               those crimson petals
spilled among the stones,
                               would have called it simply
                                                               murder.
The sexual orchid that bloomed then
                               sending so many
                                                               disinterested
men to their graves
                               has left its memory
                                                               to a race of fools
or heroes
                               if silence is a virtue.
                                                               The sea alone
with its multiplicity
                               holds any hope.
                                                               The storm
has proven abortive
                               but we remain
                                                               after the thoughts it roused
to
                               re-cement our lives.
                                                               It is the mind
the mind
                               that must be cured
                                                               short of death’s
intervention,
                               and the will becomes again
                                                               a garden.  The poem
is complex and the place made
                               in our lives
                                                               for the poem.
Silence can be complex too,
                               but you do not get far
                                                               with silence.
Begin again.
                               It is like Homer’s
                                                               catalogue of ships:
it fills up the time.
                               I speak in figures,
                                                               well enough, the dresses
you wear are figures also,
                               we could not meet
                                                               otherwise.  When I speak
of flowers
                               it is to recall
                                                               that at one time
we were young.
                               All women are not Helen,
                                                               I know that,
but have Helen in their hearts.
                               My sweet,
                                                               you have it also, therefore
I love you
                               and could not love you otherwise.
                                                               Imagine you saw
a field made up of women
                               all silver-white.
                                                               What should you do
but love them?
                               The storm bursts
                                                               or fades!  it is not
the end of the world.
                               Love is something else,
                                                               or so I thought it,
a garden which expands,
                               though I knew you as a woman
                                                               and never thought otherwise,
until the whole sea
                               has been taken up
                                                               and all its gardens.
It was the love of love,
                               the love that swallows up all else,
                                                               a grateful love,
a love of nature, of people,
                               of animals,
                                                               a love engendering
gentleness and goodness
                               that moved me
                                                               and that I saw in you.
I should have known,
                               though I did not,
                                                               that the lily-of-the-valley
is a flower makes many ill
                               who whiff it.
                                                               We had our children,
rivals in the general onslaught.
                               I put them aside
                                                               though I cared for them.
as well as any man
                               could care for his children
                                                               according to my lights.
You understand
                               I had to meet you
                                                               after the event
and have still to meet you.
                               Love
                                                               to which you too shall bow
along with me-
                               a flower
                                                               a weakest flower
shall be our trust
                               and not because
                                                               we are too feeble
to do otherwise
                               but because
                                                               at the height of my power
I risked what I had to do,
                               therefore to prove
                                                               that we love each other
while my very bones sweated
                               that I could not cry to you
                                                               in the act.
Of asphodel, that greeny flower,
                               I come, my sweet,
                                                               to sing to you!
My heart rouses
                               thinking to bring you news
                                                               of something
that concerns you
                               and concerns many men.  Look at
                                                               what passes for the new.
You will not find it there but in
                               despised poems.
                                                               It is difficult
to get the news from poems
                               yet men die miserably every day
                                                               for lack
of what is found there.
                               Hear me out
                                                               for I too am concerned
and every man
                               who wants to die at peace in his bed
                                                               besides.