Casita de pájaro

Cuando cesa la música solo queda el silencio.

No es lo mismo tocar como tu, que ser tu.

Los momentos perfectos no pueden replicarse.

Es injusto medir el presente con cinta del pasado.

Este traje no me sirve, pero es el único que tengo.

O me lo pongo o me desnudo.

¿Para qué mostrar piel que nadie va a tocar?

¿Para qué tener piel si no puedo sentir?

La casita de pájaro está a la venta.

Creo que la compraré para albergar mi alma.

tuttysan © 2015

For the English version of this poem, click here.

Image by monicore from Pixabay

The Unending Gift – Jorge Luis Borges

Following are Spanish and English versions of “The Unending Gift” by Jose Luis Borges. I find this piece particularly moving, “possibility is the highest gift”.

The Unending Gift – Spanish (English below)

“Un pintor nos prometió un cuadro.

Ahora, en New England, sé que ha muerto. Sentí, como otras veces, la tristeza de comprender que somos como un sueño. Pensé en el hombre y el cuadro perdidos.

(Sólo dioses pueden prometer, porque son inmortales.)

Pensé en el lugar prefijado que la tela no ocupará.

Pensé después: si estuviera ahí, sería con el tiempo una cosa más, una cosa, una de las vanidades o hábitos de la casa; ahora es ilimitada, incesante, capaz de cualquier forma y cualquier color y no atada a ninguno.

Existe de algún modo. Vivirá y crecerá como una música y estará conmigo hasta el fin. Gracias, Jorge Larco.

(También los hombres pueden prometer, porque en la promesa hay algo inmortal”.)

The Unending Gift – English version

“A painter promised us a picture.

Here, in New England, having learned of his death, I felt once again the sadness of recognizing that we are but shapes of a dream. I thought about the man and the picture, both lost.

(Only the gods can make promises, for they are deathless).

I thought about the place, chose in advance, where the canvas will not hang.

Later, I thought: if it were there, wouldn’t it in time become one thing more – an object, another of the vanities or habits of the house? Now the picture is limitless, unending, capable of taking any form or color and bound to none.

In some way, it exists. It will live and grow, like music, and will remain with me to the end. Thank you, Jorge Larco.

(Men can make promises, too, for in a promise there is something that does not die)”.

As translated by Norman Thomas di Giovanni, from the book “In Praise of Darkness” by Jorge Luis Borges.

The Unending Gift – Borges. Photo: Sunset in Bayahibe, La Romana. Dominican Republic

There is a country in the world poem

Following is an excerpt of ¨There is a country in the world poem¨ (original title: Hay un Paìs en el Mundo) by Dominican Poet Pedro Mir. The poem transitions from describing the beautiful land to lamenting its problems, using imagery that is dark and sad and powerful. It is clear to a reader knowledgeable of Dominican history that this poem was written during the Trujillo Era, and that the author most likely got in trouble for writing it. This is what makes it even more interesting to me. That, having forgotten Pedro Mir’s biography from elementary and high school, I can still recognize that old country he writes about, and even the time which inspired his words.

There is a country in the world
situated right in the sun’s path.
A native of the night.
Situated in an improbable archipelago
of sugar and alcohol.
Simply light,
like a bat’s wing leaning on the breeze.
Simply bright,
like the trace of a kiss on an elderly maiden
or daylight on the roof tiles.
Simply fruitful. Fluvial. And material. And yet
simply torrid, abused and kicked
like a young girl’s hips.
Simply sad and oppressed.
Sincerely wild and uninhabited.
In truth.
With three million
life’s sum total
and all the while
four cardinal cordilleras
and an immense bay and another immense bay,
three peninsulas with adjacent isles
and the wonder of vertical rivers
and earth beneath the trees and earth
beneath the rivers and at the edge of the forest
and at the foot of the hill and behind the horizon
and earth from the cock’s crow
and earth beneath the galloping horses
and earth over the day, under the map, around
and underneath all the footprints and in the midst of love…

Click here for the full original version in Spanish.