El tributo de Moore a Ezra Pound, inédito hasta 1979 cuando apareció en The Marianne Moore Newsletter (III, 2, pp. 5-8), fue incluido en la edición de Schulman de The Poems of Marianne Moore, p. 79. Gran parte del poema se basó en la lectura de Blast de Moore en 1915. Aquí se presenta la traducción del poema y las páginas de Blast de la que Moore tomó notas. Son las páginas 22, 23, 48, 49 y la portada. La página 48 contiene los “Epitafios” de Pound, incluido el de Li Po, al que ella se refirió como “Pobre Li Po” y la 49 incluye “Meditatio“, que ella saluda como “Buena Meditatio”.


Juan Arabia

Ezra Pound:

“Frae bank to bank, frae wood to wood I rin.”

Las vueltas que das
no son tan nuevas
como admirables
“el vigor notifica tu
preSencia en SS*” y la pasión la teje.

Buena Meditatio
y el pobre Li Po;
y esa página de Blast, en la que
pequeños barcos navegan de un
lado a otro en líneas de abejas. ¡Bendice a Blast!

* Forma de S (S-shape): una curva doble que se asemeja a la curva de la letra S.

Ezra Pound:

“Frae bank to bank, frae wood to wood I rin.”

The rinning that you do,
Is not so new As it is admirable.
”Vigor informs your
SS Shape” and ardor knits it.

Good Meditatio
And poor Li Po;
And that page of Blast, on which
Small boats ply to and
Fro in bee lines. Bless Blast.


Modernist Journals Project (Brown and the University of Tulsa) | p. 22
Modernist Journals Project (Brown and the University of Tulsa) |p. 23
Modernist Journals Project (Brown and the University of Tulsa) | p. 48
Modernist Journals Project (Brown and the University of Tulsa) | p. 49
Modernist Journals Project (Brown and the University of Tulsa) | BLAST Cover

Extraído de The poems of Marianne Moore by Moore, Marianne, 1887-1972
Publication date 2005 Publisher New York : Penguin Books | Traducción de Juan Arabia | Buenos Aires Poetry, 2021 | Imagen: George Platt Lynes.

T. S. ELIOT, POEMS WRITTEN IN EARLY YOUTH, FARRAR STRAUSS AND GIROUX, NEW YORK, 1967. Valerie Eliot, All rights reserved.
T. S. ELIOT, POEMAS ESCRITOS EN LA PRIMERA JUVENTUD. TRADUCCIÓN Y NOTAS DE JUAN ARABIA, COLECCIÓN ABRACADABRA, BUENOS AIRES POETRY, BUENOS AIRES, 2021.

En la graduación, 1905

I

Parados sobre la orilla de todo lo que conocemos
nos demoramos un momento en la duda,
luego, con una canción en nuestros labios, zarpamos
hacia el otro lado de la barra del puerto—no existe mapa que indique,
no existe luz para prevenir las rocas que se encuentran debajo,
pero sigamos adelante con valentía.

II

Como colonos que se embarcan en la playa
para buscar fortuna en alguna costa extranjera
bien saben que pierden lo que el tiempo no restaurará,
y cuando se van, entienden rápidamente
que aunque vuelvan a ver a su patria
ya no serán ciudadanos otra vez.

III

Avanzamos; como nubes con alas de relámpago que vuelan
después de una tempestad de verano, cuando algunos se apresuran
hacia el Norte, Sur y Este sobre el desperdicio del agua,
algunos hasta los límites occidentales del cielo
que el sol tiñe con muchos tintes espléndidos,
hasta que su defunción ya no pueda rastrearse.

IV

Aunque el camino sea tortuoso y lento,
aunque esté erizado de mil miedos,
para los ojos esperanzados de la juventud, todavía parece
un camino por el que crecen la rosa y el espino.
Esperamos que sea posible; ¡ojalá lo supiéramos!
¿Podríamos mirar hacia los años futuros?

V

Grandes deberes llaman—el siglo veinte,
el siglo más grandiosamente dotado,
convocatorias—quién sabe qué tiempo puede deparar,
o qué gran hazaña pueden ver los años lejanos,
qué conquista sobre el dolor y la miseria,
¡qué héroes más grandes que los de antaño!

VI

Pero si este siglo ha de ser más grande
que los anteriores, deben sus hijos forjarlo,
y nosotros somos sus hijos, debemos avanzar
con corazones ansiosos para ayudar a moldear bien su destino,
y ver que obtenga tan orgullosa propiedad,
y la conceda en los siglos futuros

VII

Un legado de beneficios—que en los años
venideros nos encontremos con aquellos que intentan
trabajar por el bien hasta su muerte,
y no pidamos otra recompensa que saber
que han ayudado a la causa de la victoria,
que con su ayuda se iza la bandera en lo alto.

VIII

En algún momento lejano, cuando estemos
viejos y canosos, sea cual sea nuestra suerte,
desearemos volver a ver el lugar
que, sea lo que sea que hayamos hecho,
sea cual fuere la tierra a la que hayamos ido,
a lo largo de los años nunca ha sido olvidado.

IX

Porque en los santuarios del alma
te subirán incienso de humo de altar
de fanes inmaculados de lúcida pureza,
¡oh escuela nuestra! Los años que transcurren
entre sí, a medida que avanzamos hacia la meta,
no tendrán poder para apagar la memoria.

X

Volveremos; y será para encontrar una escuela
diferente a la que conocemos ahora;
así será, pero sólo en apariencia.
Lo que la ha hecho grande, no dejado atrás,
la misma escuela en el futuro encontraremos
y de la que ahora partimos como alumnos.

XI

Avanzamos; como rostros revoloteando en un sueño;
fuera de tu cuidado y tutela pasamos
al mundo desconocido—clase tras clase,
Oh reina de las escuelas—un destello momentáneo,
una burbuja en la superficie de la corriente,
una gota de rocío sobre la hierba de la mañana;

XII

No mueres por cada año que transcurre,
tu honor y fama no harán más que aumentar
por siempre, y que palabras más fuertes
proclamen tu gloria para que todos la oigan;
que sean tuyos los hijos más dignos, lejanos y cercanos,
¡para difundir tu nombre sobre tierras y mares distantes!

XIII

Como has sido para tus hijos que se marchan,
no seas menos para los que siguen;
una guía para prevenirlos, un amigo para bendecir
antes que dejen tu cuidado en manos de tierras desconocidas;
y sea tu lema, orgulloso y sereno,
aun a medida de que pasen los años, la palabra “¡Progreso!”

XIV

Así que hemos terminado; no podemos demorarnos más;
éste es el final de cada historia: “Adiós”,
una palabra que resuena como una campana fúnebre
y que siempre somos reacios a pronunciar.
Pero es un llamado que no podemos desobedecer,
Exeunt omnes, con un último “adiós”.

At Graduation 1905

I

Standing upon the shore of all we know
We linger for a moment doubtfully,
Then with a song upon our lips, sail we
Across the harbor bar—no chart to show,
No light to warn of rocks which lie below,
But let us yet put forth courageously.

II

As colonists embarking from the strand
To seek their fortunes on some foreign shore
Well know they lose what time shall not restore,
And when they leave they fully understand
That though again they see their fatherland
They there shall be as citizens no more.

III

We go; as lightning-winged clouds that fly
After a summer tempest, when some haste
North, South, and Eastward o’er the water’s waste,
Some to the western limits of the sky
Which the sun stains with a many splendid dye,
Until their passing may no more be traced.

IV

Although the path be tortuous and slow,
Although it bristle with a thousand fears,
To hopeful eye of youth it still appears
A lane by which the rose and hawthorn grow.
We hope it may be; would that we might know!
Would we might look into future years.

V

Great duties call—the twentieth century
More grandly dowered that those which came before,
Summons—who knows what time may hold in store,
Or what great deed the distant years may see,
What conquest over pain and misery,
What heroes greater than were e’er of yore!

VI

But if this century is to be more great
Than those before, her sons must make her so,
And we are her sons, we must go
With eager hearts to help mold well her fate,
And see that she shall gain such proud estate
And shall on future centuries bestow

VII

A legacy of benefits—may we
In future years be found with those who try
To labor for the good until they die,
And ask no other guerdon than to know
That they have helpt the cause to victory,
That with their aid the flag is raised on high.

VIII

Sometime in distant years when we are grown
Gray-haired and old, whatever be our lot,
We shall desire to see again the spot
Which, whatsoever we have been or done
Or to what distant lands we may have gone,
Through all the years will ne’er have been forgot.

IX

For in the sanctuaries of the soul
Incense of altar-smoke shall rise to thee
From spotless fanes of lucid purity,
O school of ours! The passing years that roll
Between, as we press to the goal,
Shall not have power to quench the memory.

X

We shall return; and it will be to find
A different school from that which now we know;
But only in appearence ’twill be so.
That which has made it great, not left behind,
The same school in the future shall we find
As this from which as pupils now we go.

XI

We go; like flitting faces in a dream;
Out of thy care and tutelage we pass
Into the unknown world—class after class,
O queen of schools—a momentary gleam,
A bubble on the surface of the stream,
A drop of dew upon the morning grass;

XII

Thou dost not die—for eacho succeeding year
Thy honor and thy fame shall but increase
Forever, and may stronger words than these
Proclaim thy glory so that all may hear;
May worthier sons be thine, from far and near
To spread thy name o’er distant lands and seas!

XIII

As thou to thy departing sons hast been
To those that follow may’st thou be no less;
A guide to warn them, and a friend to bless
Before they leave thy care for lands unseen;
And let thy motto be, proud and serene,
Still as the years pass by, the word “Progress!”

XIV

So we are done; we may no more delay;
This is the end of every tale: “Farewell,”
A word that echoes like a funeral bell
And one that we are ever loth to say.
But ’tis a call we cannot disobey,
Exeunt omnes, with a las “farewell.”

T. S. ELIOT, POEMS WRITTEN IN EARLY YOUTH, FARRAR STRAUSS AND GIROUX, NEW YORK, 1967. Valerie Eliot, All rights reserved.
T. S. ELIOT, POEMAS ESCRITOS EN LA PRIMERA JUVENTUD. TRADUCCIÓN Y NOTAS DE JUAN ARABIA, COLECCIÓN ABRACADABRA, BUENOS AIRES POETRY, BUENOS AIRES, 2021.

Extraído de POEMS Written in Early Youth, by T.S. Eliot, Farrar, Straus & Giroux, New York, 1969, p. 26 (original version in The Harvard Advocate, lxxxviii, January 26th, 1919. Signed: “T. S. Eliot.”) | Traducción de Juan Arabia, Buenos Aires Poetry, 2020. 

Spleen

Domingo: esta insatisfecha procesión
de decididos rostros dominicales;
bonetes, sombreros de seda, y gracias conscientes
que de tan repetidas desplazan
tu autocontrol mental
por esta digresión injustificada.

¡La tarde, la luz y el té!
niños y gatos en el callejón;
el abatimiento incapaz de amotinarse
contra esta tediosa conspiración.

Y la vida, algo calva y gris,
lánguida, fastidiosa, insípida,
aguarda con sombrero y guantes,
impecable de traje y corbata
(como impaciente por la demora)
en el umbral del Absoluto.

Spleen

Sunday: this satisfied procession
Of definite Sunday faces;
Bonnets, silk hats, and conscious graces
In repetition that displaces
Your mental self-possession
By this unwarranted digression.

Evening, lights, and tea!
Children and cats in the alley;
Dejection unable to rally
Against this dull conspiracy.

And Life, a little bald and gray,
Languid, fastidious, and bland,
Waits, hat and gloves in hand,
Punctilious of tie and suit
(Somewhat impatient of delay)
On the doorstep of the Absolute.

Texto publicado en Smith Academy Record, Vl. 8. No. 2, febrero de 1905. Firmado: “T. E.”. “A Fable for Feasters”, fue escrito como un ejercicio escolar. Se trata de la primera publicación de T. S. Eliot en forma impresa.

The doors, though barred and bolted most securely,
Gave way—my statement nobody can doubt,
Who knows the well known fact, as you do surely—
That ghosts are fellows whom you can’t keep out

Una fábula para banquetes

En Inglaterra, mucho antes que la realeza mormona,
el rey Enrique VIII descubrió que los monjes eran charlatanes,
y tomó las tierras y el dinero de los pobres,
e hizo que se derrumben sus abadías a sus espaldas,
había un pueblo fundado por algún normando
que cobraba un impuesto a todos los viajeros;
cerca de esta aldea había un monasterio
habitado por una banda de frailes alegres.

Eran poseedores de tierras ricas y amplias,
una huerta, un viñedo y una lechería;
siempre que moría algún viejo barón malvado,
él la añadía a sus tesoros—una hazaña nunca
antes vista—su fortuna se multiplicaba,
como si hubiera sido guardada por una especie de hada.
¡Ay! Ningún hada visitó a su anfitrión,
oh, no; mucho peor que eso, tenían un fantasma.

Un viejo pecador herético y malvado,
quizás, que había sido amurallado por sus crímenes;
de todos modos, a veces se acercaba a cenar,
cuando los monjes se divertían.
Robó las vacas más gordas y dejó las más delgadas
para suministrar toda la leche—alteró las campanadas,
y una vez se sentó en el prior del campanario,
para el asombro de todo el pueblo.

Cuando se acercó la Navidad, el abad juró
que ellos comerían su plato libres de espectros,
el demonio debe quedarse en casa—no se permiten fantasmas
en esta fiesta exclusiva. Desde el mar
compró por su cuenta una multitud
de reliquias de un santo español—y dijo:
“Si los fantasmas vienen sin ser invitados, entonces
me veré obligado a mantenerlos alejados por la fuerza”.

Él empapó con agua bendita la túnica que llevaba,
los pavos, capones y jabalíes que iban a comer,
incluso mojó al portero que sin quejarse
permanecía parado fuera de la puerta.
Para acortar una interminable historia,
no dejó inconclusa ninguna precaución sabia;
roció la habitación en la que iban a cenar,
y regó todo menos el vino.

Así, cuando se hicieron los preparativos,
los joviales epicúreos se sentaron a la mesa.
Temo que no sé mucho de los menús
de esa época—pero puedo repasar
la historia: hicieron una incursión
por cada pájaro y bestia en la fábula de Esopo
para completar su comida, pasteles y budines,
jaleas y tortas, entre otras cosas buenas.

Un imponente pavo real de pie sobre ambas patas
sostenido con dificultad para no caerse,
luego vino una vianda hecha con huevos de tortuga,
y después de eso un gran pastel de chorlito,
y jarras que contenían varios barriles
de cerveza, y queso que guardaban encubierto.
Por último, una cabeza de jabalí, que para llevarla les costó cuatro páginas,
su boca sostenía una manzana, su cráneo contenía salchichas.

Durante el brindis de Navidad los monjes cabeceaban,
una buena bebida añeja, aunque ya se había terminado—
Sus pies sobre la mesa se superpusieron
cada uno deseando no haber comido tanto ganso.
El abad, tras proponer cada brindis,
había bebido más jugo de uva del que debía.
Las luces comenzaron a arder en un azul distintivo,
como siempre lo hacen las luces en las historias de fantasmas.

Las puertas, incluso con barrotes y cerrojos seguros,
dio paso—de mi afirmación nadie puede dudar,
nadie como tú conoce mejor este hecho—
que los fantasmas son tipos a los que no se puede excluir,
es una cosa de mucho lamentar
que se permita a gente tan resbaladiza,
porque a menudo llegan en momentos incómodos,
como bien conocen todos aquellos que hayan leído esta historia.

El abad se sentó pegado a su silla,
su ojo se volvió del tamaño de cualquier dólar,
el fantasma lo tomó después bruscamente del pelo
y le pidió que lo acompañara, con acentos huecos.
Los frailes no pudieron hacer otra cosa que quedar boquiabiertos,
el espíritu tiró de él con rudeza por el cuello,
y antes de que alguien pudiera decir “¡Oh, jiminy!”
la pareja se desvaneció rápidamente por la chimenea.

Naturalmente, todos buscaron por todas partes,
pero no se pudo encontrar ni un vestigio del obispo,
los monjes, cuando alguien preguntaba, declaraban
que San Pedro arrebataría al cielo a su señor renombrado,
aunque los malvados dijeron (esos sinvergüenzas no son raros)
que el curso del Abad estaba más cerca del subsuelo;
pero la iglesia enseguida le puso a su nombre la empuñadura
de Santo, reprendiendo así todo ese escándalo.

Aunque después de esto, los monjes se volvieron más devotos,
y vivieron exclusivamente de la comida y leche para el desayuno;
cada mañana, de cuatro a cinco, uno tomaba un puñal
y azotaba a sus compañeros hasta que se volvían frailicos y buenos.
Espíritus que desde ese momento se quedaron sin comarca,
y vivieron de su admiración. Tenemos
el veraz registro de todos estos hechos
de un antiguo manuscrito hallado en las ruinas.

A Fable for Feasters

In England, long before that royal Mormon
King Henry VIII found out that monks were quacks,
And took their lands and money from the poor men,
And brought their abbeys tumbling at their backs,
There was a village founded by some Norman
Who levied on all travelers his tax;
Nearby this hamlet was a monastery
Inhabited by a band of friars merry.

They were possessors of rich lands and wide,
An orchard, and a vineyard, and a dairy;
Whenever some old villainous baron died,
He added to their hoards—a deed which ne’er he
Had done before—their fortune multiplied,
As if they had been kept by a king fairy.
Alas! no fairy visited their host,
Oh, no; much worse than that, they had a ghost.

Some wicked and heretical old sinner
Perhaps, who had been walled up for his crimes;
At any rate, he sometimes came to dinner,
Whene’er the monks were having merry times.
He stole the fatter cows and left the thinner
To furnish all the milk—upset the chimes,
And once he sat the prior on the steeple,
To the astonishment of all the people.

When Christmas time was near the Abbot vowed
They’d eat their meal from ghosts and phantoms free,
The fiend must stay home—no ghosts allowed
At this exclusive feast. From over sea
He purchased at his own expense a crowd
Of relics from a Spanish saint—said he:
“If ghosts come uninvited, then, of course,
I’ll be compelled to keep them off by force.”

He drencht the grown he wore with holy water,
The turkeys, capons, boars, they were to eat,
He even soakt the uncomplainging porter
Who stood outside the door from head to feet.
To make a rather lengthy story shorter,
He left no wise precaution incomplete;
He doused the room in which they were to dine,
And watered everything except the wine.

So when preparations had been made,
The jovial epicures sat down to table.
The menus of that time I am afraid
I don’t know much about—as well’s I’m able
I’ll go through the account: They made a raid
On every bird and beast in Æsop’s fable
To fill out their repast, and pies and puddings,
And jellies, pasties, cakes among the good things.

A mighty peacock standing on both legs
With difficulty kept from toppling over,
Next came a viand made of turtle eggs,
And after that great pie made of plover,
And flagons which perhaps held several kegs
Of ale, and cheese which they kept under cover.
Last, a boar’s head, which to bring in took four pages,
His mouth an apple held, his skull held sausages.

Over their Christmas wassail the monks dozed,
A fine old drink, though now gone out use—
His feet upon the table superposed
Each wisht he had not eaten so much goose.
The Abbot with proposing every toast
Had drank more than he ought t’have a grape juice.
The lights began to burn distinctly blue,
As in ghost stories lights most always do.

The doors, though barred and bolted most securely,
Gave way—my statement nobody can doubt,
Who knows the well known fact, as you do surely—
That ghosts are fellows whom you can’t keep out;
It is a thing to be lamented sorely
Such slippery folk should be allowed about,
For often they drop in at awkward moments,
As everybody’ll know who read this romance.

The Abbot sat as pasted to his chair,
His eye became the size of any dollar,
The ghost then took him roughly by the hair
And bade him come with him, in accents hollow.
The friars could do nought but gape and stare,
The spirit pulled him rudely by the collar,
And before any one could say “O jiminy!”
The pair had vanisht swiftly up the chimney.

Naturally every one searcht everywhere,
But not a shred of Bishop could be found,
The monks, when anyone questioned, would declare
St. Peter’d snatch to heaven their lord renowned,
Though the wicked said (such rascals are not rare)
That the Abbot’s course lay nearer underground;
But the church straightway put to his name the handle
Of Saint, thereby rebuking all such scandal.

But after this the monks grew most devout,
And lived on milk and breakfast food entirely;
Each morn from four to five one took a knout
And flogged his mates ‘till the grew good and friarly.
Spirits from that time forth they did without,
And lived the admiration of the shire. We
Got the veracious record of these doings
From and old manuscript found in the ruins.

Extraído de POEMS Written in Early Youth, by T.S. Eliot, Farrar, Straus & Giroux, New York, 1969, pp. 3-8 | Traducción de Juan Arabia | Buenos Aires Poetry, 2021 | Imagen: © The Estate of T. S. Eliot.

Extraído de La Piccioletta Barca 2021 | Issue 36 | October, 2021


This novel by Jay Parini, while displaying true events that occurred fifty years ago, can work from various places. First of all, as an autobiographical document, written with a spume similar to the dramatic and amusing stories by John Fante, possible outcome of the mixture of Italian-American blood that unites them. It can also be read as the record of the training of a poet, the difference that lies between the sterile academic world and the real one, that in which the frustrated professors and true writers such as Robert Graves and George Mackay Brown inhabit.

As if the story of the young Parini in the North of Scotland was not enough, escaping from the Vietnam War and shaping his literary career with the excuse of a doctorate in literature, less believable will be the irruption of Borges (the real one, at his seventy years of age) in these pages. And we are not talking about the Borges we know from his literature, his lectures or his interviews. Never the disseminated Borges, magnified or reduced to ideological ashes. Possibly the Borges more similar to the one from Adrogué, the one who by day refuted Frank Raymond Leavis and the theories on Keats by Amy Lowell, and by night lost himself in the limited multitude of the province.

The plausibility of this encounter is Alastair Reid, at that moment translator of Borges and tutor of the young Parini, who entrusts him for a week the care and protection of the Argentine given a familiar emergency in London.

Parini had not read Borges, although the latter was already renowned and had been translated into almost every tongue. To that encounter between two strangers, a car trip to the Scottish Highlands followed (Cairngorm, Aviemore, Inverness), which the Argentine insisted on knowing. Parini’s job was not very encouraging: to describe to a blind poet the landscapes and the results, detail by detail, impression by impression: “He would pay for our expenses, but this naming aloud would be my contribution to the trip. ‘Nothing exists,’ he said, ‘until it has found its way into the language.’”.  

In Borges his systematic alterations persist: everything that exists is literature, and everything has been eternally fixed. It only remains to wait for the angels to land on certain people’s shoulders. This way, a Highland landscape is a verse by Stevenson, the Stirling Bridge is a poem by Blind Harry.

This book, crucial to some extent, reformulates the symbol and myth of Borges, who with his own words, reminds the young apprentice: “Myth is a tear in the fabric of reality, and immense energies pour through these holy fissures. Our stories, our poems, are rips in this fabric as well, however slight”.

Despite all the metaliterature that exists in relation to Borges, few texts remember this fabric of reality, its immense energy.

Two anecdotes by Parini are memorable. The first, Borges’s encounter with the North Sea, since, as a child, he already longed for its presence: “Borges stopped on the brink of a sweeping dune, listening to the water or perhaps the gods.  He lifted his arms with his cane in the air and whirled around, but when he stopped, he was facing us and the Old Course, not the sea.  In a thundering manner, he began to recite The Seafarer in its original Anglo-Saxon: Mæg ic be me sylfum / soðgied wrecan, / siþas secgan”.

But there exists another real fabric, the Loch Ness and its mythologies: Borges facing Grendel, the monster from avernus, reciting the Song of Creation, falling from a boat.

Nothing of this, as well as Parini’s story, seems to be forged in a supernatural manner: the humility is infinite.

And Borges’ path becomes clearer, day after day: “The battle between good and evil persists, and the writer’s work is constantly to reframe the argument”.


Borges and Me: An encounter by Jay Parini is published by Canongate.

This text was originally published in Spanish in Revista Ñ. It is written and translated by Ignacio Oliden

Kennings

Fiestas de águilas muriendo por sombrero
castas y sepulcros de terciopelo
las escandinavas kennings
levantando los cadáveres del alba
el sonido de la imaginación de Arnaut
compatible con la de Eliot

Y dado que ahora solo fluye
lo que asciende lejos del centro
el águila y el mástil en la proa
el mar se convierte en la tierra del cisne
donde las piedras de la cara
buscan las tormentas del suelo

El distribuidor de espadas
permanece lejos del crecimiento 
donde el cuerno de la ola
y el daño de los bosques
borra la luz de las estrellas
en el encuentro de las fuentes

Texto de la versión original en The Harvard Advocate, lxxxviii, 7, 1910. Firmado: “T. S. Eliot”.  El tema de este ejercicio a la manera de Laforgue fue sugerido por la segunda estrofa de su “Locutus de Pierrot, xii”:

Encore un de mes pierrots mort ;
Mort d’un chronique orphelinisme ;
C’était un coeur plein de dandysme
Lunaire, en un drôle de corps.

Humouresque

(A la manera de J. Laforgue)

Una de mis marionetas está muerta,
pero todavía no estoy cansado del juego―
aunque me siento débil de cuerpo y cabeza,
(un títere tiene tal estructura).

Pero esta marioneta muerta
me gustaba bastante: una cara común,
(el tipo de rostro que olvidamos)
pellizcada en una mueca cómica y aburrida;

Mitad intimidación, mitad aire implorante,
boca torcida al ritmo de la última melodía;
su mirada de quién-diablo-eres;
traducida, tal vez, a la luna.

Déjalo ahí, junto a las otras inútiles cosas
del Limbo, arengando espectros;
“la moda más elegante desde la primavera pasada”,
“el estilo más reciente en la Tierra, lo juro”.

“¿Por qué no consiguen algo con más clase?”
(débil desprecio de nariz),
“tu, maldita luz de luna, peor que el gas―”
“ahora en Nueva York”― y así continúa.

Lógica de una marioneta, todas equivocadas
premisas; sin embargo en alguna estrella
¡un héroe!― ¿A dónde pertenecería?
Pero, incluso de esa forma, ¡qué máscara más bizarra!

Humouresque

(After J. Laforgue)

One of my marionettes is dead
Though not yet tired of the game―
But weak in body as in head,
(A jumping-jack has such a frame).

But this deceaséd marionette
I rather liked: a common face,
(The kind of face that we forget)
Pinched in a comic, dull grimace;

Half bullying, half imploring air,
Mouth twisted to the latest tune;
His who-the-devil-are-you stare;
Translated, maybe, to the moon.

With Limbo’s other useless things
Haranguing spectres, set him there;
“The snappiest fashion since last spring’s,
“The newest style, on Earth, I swear.

“Why don’t you people get some class?
(Feebly contemptuous of nose),
“Your damned thin moonlight, worse than gas―
“Now in New York”―and so it goes.

Logic a marionette’s, all wrong
Of premises; yet in some star
A hero!–Where would he belong?
But, even at that, what mask bizarre!


Extraído de POEMS Written in Early Youth, by T.S. Eliot, Farrar, Straus & Giroux, New York, 1969, pp. 24-25 | Traducción de Juan Arabia | Buenos Aires Poetry, 2021. 

Bulmenia

From Bulmenia, to be published in 2022

(translated by Ignacio Oliden)


Yo trabajo de noche, desertando al ogro insaciable
que desfigura a los jóvenes y los deja acéfalos
sin cambiar una bolsa de manzanas por mi cabeza

Trabajo como el mar, como una sombra,
donde unos gorriones saltan sobre las migas del día
y las golondrinas hacen un escándalo por un pedazo de cielo

Bebo cianuro y venenos desconocidos,
           porque esta sed no tiene lámparas
y su cáscara se multiplica como la pobreza

Trabajo como todos trabajan,
sin lograr una estrella, sin saciar una pluma
            perdiendo todos los rumbos
dando pequeñas muertes en partes desiguales sobre mi cuerpo

           Sin alcanzar tan solo uno de mis sueños
dejo embriagar a unos pocos desamparados, restos esclavizados
que han sido y que por siempre serán difamados
           secados en el aire del crimen


Bulmenia


I work at night, forsaking the insatiable ogre
that leaves the young men disfigured and acephalous,
not trading a sack of apples for my head.

I work like the sea, like a shadow,
where sparrows jump on the crumbs of the day,
and the swallows make a fuss for a bite of sky.

I drink cyanide and poisons unknown,
           for this thirst has no lamps
and its crust is multiplied like dearth.

I work as everybody works,
not achieving a star, not satiating a quill
           losing the ways
giving slight uneven deaths on my body.

           Not reaching at least one of my dreams,
I let some helpless drunks proceed, enslaved remains
that have been and forever will be defamed
          dried in the air of the crime.



A NOTE ON BULMENIA


Puis, quand j’ai ravalé mes rêves avec soin,
Je me tourne, ayant bu trente ou quarante chopes,
Et me recueille, pour lâcher l’âcre besoin

RIMBAUD: “Oraison du Soir”


Arabia is configured in this monological song through the trade that has fallen to him, the craft that leads him to a perpetual activity, as the present tense of the intransitive verb “to work” depicts. At his desk, Arabia contours his own work: this is his clay which continually spins in its wheel, and to which he adds “cyanide and poisons unknown” to maintain its plasticity. Arabia “drinks” the cyanide, and its present tense in this case, accounts for the undeath, (maybe the unwanted undeath). We find what Harold Bloom calls “the suicidal version of Whitmanianism”, present in certain poems such as “Walking Around”, by Neruda:

(…)
Yo paseo con calma, con ojos, con zapatos,
con furia, con olvido,
paso, cruzo oficinas y tiendas de ortopedia,
y patios donde hay ropas colgadas de un alambre:
calzoncillos, toallas y camisas que lloran
lentas lágrimas sucias.
[I stride along with calm, with eyes, with shoes,
with fury, with forgetfulness,
I pass, I cross offices and stores full of orthopaedic appliances,
and courtyards hung with clothes hanging from a wire:
underpants, towels and shirts which weep
slow dirty tears.] (W.S. Merwin’s translation)

Certainly, it is Neruda with whom Arabia writes. More particularly, the Neruda of “Entierro en el Este”:

Yo trabajo de noche, rodeado de ciudad,
de pescadores, de alfareros, de difuntos quemados
con azafrán y frutas, envueltos en muselina escarlata (…)
[I work at night, surrounded by city
of fishermen, of potters, of the burned dead
with saffron and fruit, wrapped in scarlet muslin]

But neither Neruda nor Arabia work in the real night, nor the dead are the real dead (in “Entierro en el este” a burial is described), but both inhabit the other night, the night of the conscience of the crowds, the one which is image of death. Arabia hands in his poetry, hands in his tears and his razzle, dirty with cyanide and ink and the corruptive germ of the city of man, and lets them be drank by someone else, a fellow poet perhaps, but indeed a fellow sleepless “drunk”, alienated, freed from the daily order. It is a sacrifice through which, first Arabia, and then his fellow drunks, consume the “poisons unknown”, and experience and cope with language.

It is to work under the light of a lamp, in a room that is an old yellow stamp as seen from a street in Buenos Aires, but that hardly contradicts the darkness of the alley; to obey the basic daily chore to justify one’s existence. Arabia must drink cyanide in order to produce, and must produce poetry in order to exist. I think now of Rimbaud, who works at night too, like Neruda and Arabia; Rimbaud, who begins his “Oraison du Soir” by saying: Je vis assis [I live sitting down], and who, like Arabia, drinks his “fuel” in order to work, and works “holding his chop filled with strong flutes”.

And what about the poet’s clay? What about Arabia’s work which has been nourishing and will continue being continually unsatisfied? The quill is not satiated, the “thirst has no lamps”, just like Rimbaud’s. The poet continues to model it in its perpetual spinning, and with it, he shapes himself. Here, Arabia and Rimbaud remind me of Stephen Crane’s creature in the desert:

(…)
Who, squatting upon the ground,
He held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter–bitter,” he answered;
“But I like it
Because it’s bitter
And because it is my heart.

Juan Arabia & Abhay K. | Buenos Aires, 2019

Poetry Comes to Museum LXI

Venue

Shanghai Minsheng Art Museum

Activity Curator

Wang Yin

Moderator

Hu Xudong

Poet

Juan Arabia

Poet: Juan Arabia
Host: Hu Xudong
Planner: Wang Yan
Interpreter: Wang Longxing
Date: Saturday, October 19, 2019
Time: 14:30-16:30
Venue: Shanghai Minsheng Art Museum (Xinyefang 3, Wenshui Road 210, Jing’an District)
Transportation Tip: Metro Line 1, Wenshui Road Station, Exit 3

Established in 2012, “Poetry Comes to Museum” has been going on for 6 years as a “poetry + art” project developed by Shanghai Minsheng Art Museum. As the museum physically moved from Changning distrcit to Pudong district, and now in 2019, to Jingan district, the project has witnessed the growth of the museum. At this new venue where the industrialized architecture coexists with the art environment, we are going to continue our project, and keep on inviting more famous poets, and young poets, with diverse background and styles. We hope to construct an on-site poetry art conversation platform where more connections can be made between contemporary life and contemporary poetry.

At Art Museum

Poetry will meet you eventually, some hid between the lines, some in the language (Shuntaro Tanikawa).

Poetry makes everyone stay—poets, artists, and listeners—exploring the infinite possibilities in imagination (Beidao).

The 61st Poetry Comes to Museum invites Juan Arabia, an Argentinian poet, translator, literature critic born in the 1980s. For Juan Arabia who puts his own life into poetry, being a writer means living a fuller life in a real and radical way, and having a real commitment to his fellow people and society.

Juan Arabia (born June 18, 1983 in Buenos Aires, Argentina) is a poet, translator, and literary critic. He is a graduate of the Faculty of Social Sciences of the University of Buenos Aires. He is currently the director of the press and journal Buenos Aires Poetry, which has published works by writers including John Ashbery, Dan Fante, Robert Darnton, Mark Ford, and Alan Jenkins, among others. His translations include Nuevos Versos y Canciones (Arthur Rimbaud, 2014); Un-gin-meando… (Dan Fante, 2015); and Lustra (Ezra Pound, 2016), among the others. His published books include John Fante: Entre la niebla y el polvo (El fin de la noche: Buenos Aires, 2011); Il Nemico dei Thirties (Samuele Editore, 2017); and collana Scilla (Fana, Italia); Desalojo de la naturaleza (Buenos Aires Poetry, 2018). His latest poetry collection will be published by Pre-Textos (Spain) in 2020.

【诗歌来到美术馆No.61回顾】我感觉,所以我在︱胡安·阿拉维亚 (Juan Arabia)

原创 民生现代美术馆 上海民生现代美术馆2020-04-16

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本期活动邀请的80后诗人胡安·阿拉维亚,是当代阿根廷最活跃的诗人之一,同时也是译者、文学评论家和出版家。对阿拉维亚来说,诗人意味着追求真实、激进向前的生活态度,也要有心系社会和公众的胸怀。阿拉维亚的创作灵感多来源于对自然的热爱和敬畏,对生命的理解和体验,以及对先贤的崇拜和敬仰。他的诗歌宣示着“我感觉,所以我在”的个人信条,也是一种个体经历的再现。

我感觉,所以我在

得益于阿根廷——尤其布宜诺斯艾利斯得天独厚的文化多样性,阿拉维亚的诗歌创作更执迷一些非阿根廷本土的东西。除了诗人及作家本身,他的诗歌也深受哲学家、音乐家、戏剧家等人物的影响。另外,诗歌学习及翻译,也是其诗歌创造的驱动力。阿拉维亚乐于接受新事物,无论是写诗还是写作,他都只有一个初衷:看看自己能不能说出点新东西。他认为社会是自然的一部分,一个文明可能会在自然之中随着历史的进程而毁灭。而源于对整个社会体制及体系的不满,他的诗歌饱含愤怒的情绪,这种反抗情绪在诗中扩大为反对一切决定之物及确定的结构,并成为他诗歌写作的重要向度。

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在阿拉维亚看来,诗歌的责任就是打破语言的一维空间,凡是把人变得合群、规范而严肃的,都是诗歌的大敌。阿拉维亚将自我定义为‘30s的敌人’形象,与“近代英国诗坛最知名的诗人W.H.奥登(1907-1973)那一代人深受弗洛伊德、马克思主义的影响、讲求对社会激烈回应”不同,他的诗歌某种意义上如同英国浪漫派诗人狄兰·托马斯(1914-1953),力求打破以往的诗歌范式,将诗歌引向更加个性化的视角当中,“关注更为宏大,直至宇宙。”

诗歌交流环节(部分)

01

我是那个望向天空和大地的人
阿拉维亚朗读.mp3音频:00:00/00:44* 向上滑动阅读全诗👆

我是那个望向天空和大地的人。
我是宇宙。
那个下行到湖岸
并点燃干草的人。
多费口舌不过是下流行径,
竭尽诠释,卑躬屈膝。
因为空气如同他者:
人类的记忆,存于记忆之中。
我是那个倾听树木的人
倾听它们裹挟着无限白日的发冠。
那个在地表的沉默中萌发
并让思想扎根的人。
我是词语做成的;我是歌唱之人。
我是质料做成的;我是创造之人。
我不因真理而感到恐惧:
我是活着的人,我是诗人。

这是一首具有新浪漫主义风格的诗人自谓之诗,诗中包含的许多有趣细节和悖谬构成了一种非常有趣的伴生关系。与20世纪以来非个人化、非客观性的主流诗歌腔调不同,阿拉维亚以预言家的口吻和强有力的抒情气质,刻画了作为创造者和未知世界立法者的诗人形象。 

在这首诗中,阿拉维亚引入了一些经典著作,比如“干草”源自美国诗人沃尔特·惠特曼(1819-1892)的浪漫主义诗集《草叶集》,另外也含有童年的个人经历。“在我小时候,经常和父母一起去布宜诺斯艾利斯的周边小镇去度暑假,小镇很小在里面的生活很艰苦,但是这样一个和自然贴近的生活给我带来灵感,所以把它纳入了里面。”图片

02

荆棘树上的蜂鸟
阿拉维亚朗读.mp3音频:00:00/01:02

* 向上滑动阅读全诗👆

在紫荆树最低的枝杈上
停有海蓝色的黑。
耐受的蜂鸟……绛紫,
如极限的快乐,渴求
如柳树的破坏之根。
蜜水,烈酒,大麻:如
火之源。在美洲,花朵
喂养军团……蝌蚪生出
海藻,蟋蟀摇动旗帜。
做隐士的是太阳,如玉米,
和静默的鸟儿歌唱
之地。比铁,比碳,
比海盗的蒸汽船还要耐受,
在紫荆树最低的枝杈上:
西方奴隶制,老鼠遍地。
在这里狩猎声罹病
而死……反叛的往复中
微风生出潮湿的气息。
在紫荆树最低的枝杈上
停有海蓝色的黑。
耐受的蜂鸟……绛紫,
如极限的快乐,渴求
如柳树的破坏之根。

在这首诗里,阿拉维亚将目光集中在阿根廷自然中常见的动物——蜂鸟之上,并通过诸如首尾强调、色彩及比喻延伸的诸多手法倾注其中,引发世界各国评论家的广泛关注和评论。在阿拉维亚看来,对于蜂鸟大家可以有自己的理解。他在诗中将蜂鸟和紫荆树提到一起,一方面因为小时候观察发现到的自然现象,更有他对现代文明的思考,“我认为和欧美不同,拉丁美洲正在孕育着一些新的动能。”

03

布城潘蓉(优秀朗读者)朗读.mp3音频:00:00/00:51* 向上滑动阅读全诗👆

我出生的城市,
肮脏像女奴,听着:
我离开你的街道就像我的
先辈离开欧洲;
愕然,因为你那一间间仓库
因为你崭新的街区……
但我看起来不像农民:
如今我明白自己想要摧毁一切:
内陆以你的醉舟为食。
仅此一个目标,仅此一种决心:
恢复自然被驱逐的一切。

好与坏,从根开始。

与文学大师博尔赫斯一样,阿拉维亚出生于阿根廷首都布宜诺斯艾利斯这一诗人聂鲁达称之为“天堂的名字”的城市。但是他对布城含有更复杂的感情,这首诗撕碎了它在很多人心中悠闲浪漫的美好印象。阿拉维亚承认它是一座美丽的城市,但在诗中暗喻着自然和城市这一二元对立的关系。

在阿拉维亚看来,自然不是被动的客体,在很多时候会给人类带来一些报复。“我觉得布宜诺斯艾利斯像一个墓园,缺少树缺少绿色。我喜欢自然,但阿根廷的现实就是这样,90%的人口都集中在布宜诺斯艾利斯,整个国家都以它为食。”


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04

自然的迁离

* 向上滑动阅读全诗👆  

让我们都下去感受迁离。
听风在麦田
上空掠过:
尖锐的金属之战。
一阵银的喧嚣
将生灵腐蚀,
分割世间
万事万物。
最早的几滴雨落下来了。
可怖的风暴聚成一团
永久扎根在
城市的围墙里。
这首诗的主题是“迁移”,也是阿拉维亚在衡量“自然与社会”的重要性中做出的选择。在多首诗中,阿拉维亚都使用了“迁离”一词,也是因为他对于自然的偏爱与敬畏。他认为,社会只是自然当中的一个部分,自然是高于社会的,一个文明可能会在自然之中随着历史的进程而毁灭。
在某种意义上,这首诗为读者提供了一种写诗的“速成法”。阿拉维亚以朋友的口吻邀请读者们一同去体验风吹过麦田,并通过自己的想象,将这个声音比喻成“尖锐的金属之战”、“银的喧嚣”,并将可怖的风暴聚成一团,浇筑在城市的围墙里。

05

沙勒维尔的日子

傍晚时分,飞鸟
在林间筑成一座
洋溢着歌声的城堡。
它们成群结队地藏在枝桠间
用自己的歌声模仿
红,绿,黄的曲调
这曲调属于在秋天掉落的叶子
那些在夏天给我们
荫庇的叶子。

阿拉维亚早年即受法国象征主义流派代表诗人亚瑟·兰波(1854-1891)的影响极深。这首诗是诗人游走在兰波的故乡沙勒维尔,全方位打通视觉、色彩和声音之间的通感,在心灵上与其产生共鸣而进行的创作。阿拉维亚认为,旅行能使人逃离常识,并带来新奇的生活体验和诗意。也正因为去了这里,他才决定要翻译兰波的诗。

在阿拉维亚看来,放弃自己的过去并不断面对新事物是兰波最伟大的地方。“我跟兰波在精神上有天然的联系,兰波在我的心中是神一样的存在。兰波在近现代诗歌中带给我们很多的财富,我认为他是不可超越的。”

提问环节

提问者 | 感觉您的诗含有愤怒的情绪,想问一下您的童年是怎么样的?

阿拉维亚 | 诗歌是生命的一种形式,它与一切确定之物是相反的。我的这种愤怒情绪来源于对整个社会体制、体系的不满。我的童年很幸福,但由于不喜欢学校的各种规章制度转过四次学,父亲总是按照自己的方式培养我,所以内心充满反抗情绪。

提问者 | 阿根廷盛产球星和作家,它的文学的有机生成能力非常强大。阿根廷政府是否有侧重的在推进哪一类作家?

阿拉维亚 | 在我看来,作家推广更重要的是由市场决定,没有市场的话就没有生存空间,但市场热点或文化结构的纠缠是真正的文化评论及诗歌的大敌。我的同龄人中写诗的人并不多,他们大多更倾向于安逸舒适的生活,并不像我一样投入到诗歌的写作中来。

提问者 | 您好像不喜欢本土的文学家?

阿拉维亚 | 阿根廷也有我喜欢的作家,我也喜欢豪尔赫·路易斯·博尔赫斯(1899-1986),但我只把他当作散文家看的比较多。但因为市场的原因,大家只知道阿根廷卖的最好的作家,但是我喜欢的并不一定是这些人。

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关于「诗歌来到美术馆No.61 | 胡安·阿拉维亚」

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