ahora

Paul Klee- Introducing the miracle (1916)Paul Klee: Vorführung des Wunders (1916)

Pavadas que se dicen: «Si tuviera fuerza suficiente, no permitiría esto o aquello.»
Es posible, si la fuerza te fuera dada ahora, milagrosamente. Pero si hubieras crecido envuelto en tu fuerza, esclavo de tu fuerza, estarías del lado de los que pegan.

Julio Cortázar: Diario de Andrés Fava, RBA, Barcelona, 2006, p. 352

incesantemente

Niño amputado tras un bombardeo del Ejército sirio en Alepo. (Manu Brabo-AP)

Alepo, Siria, 2013  (Manu Brabo-AP)

ÉL.- Tal vez Mario pensó en aquel momento que es preferible no preguntar por nada ni por nadie.

ELLA.- Que es mejor no saber.

ÉL.- Sin embargo, siempre es mejor saber, aunque sea doloroso.

ELLA.- Y aunque el saber nos lleve a nuevas ignorancias.

ÉL.- Pues en efecto: ¿quién es ése? Es la pregunta que seguimos haciéndonos.

ELLA.- La pregunta que invadió el planeta en el siglo veintidós.

ÉL.- Hemos aprendido de niños la causa: las mentiras y las catástrofes de los siglos precedentes la impusieron como una pregunta ineludible.

ELLA.- Quizá fueron numerosas, sin embargo, las personas que, en aquellos siglos atroces, guardaban ya en su corazón… ¿Se decía así?

ÉL.- Igual que decimos ahora: en su corazón.

ELLA.- Las personas que guardaban ya en su corazón la gran pregunta. Pero debieron de ser hombres oscuros, habitantes más o menos alucinados de semisótanos o de otros lugares parecidos.

(La luz se extingue sobre MARIO, cuyo espectro se aleja lentamente.)

ÉL.- Queremos recuperar la historia de esas catacumbas; preguntarnos también quiénes fueron ellos. [Y las historias de todos los demás: de los que nunca sintieron en su corazón la pregunta.]

ELLA.- Nos sabemos ya solidarios, no sólo de quienes viven, sino del pasado entero. Inocentes con quienes lo fueron; culpables con quienes lo fueron.

ÉL.- Durante siglos tuvimos que olvidar, para que el pasado no nos paralizase; ahora tenemos que recordar incesantemente, para que el pasado no nos envenene.

ELLA.- Reasumir el pasado vuelve más lento nuestro avance, pero también más firme.

ÉL.- Compadecer, uno por uno, a cuantos vivieron, es una tarea imposible, loca. Pero esa locura es nuestro orgullo.

ELLA.- Condenados a elegir, nunca recuperaremos la totalidad de los tiempos y las vidas. Pero en esa tarea se esconde la respuesta a la gran pregunta, si es que la tiene.

ÉL.- Quizá cada época tiene una, y quizá no hay ninguna. En el siglo diecinueve, un filósofo aventuró cierta respuesta. Para la tosca lógica del siglo siguiente resultó absurda. Hoy volvemos a hacerla nuestra, pero ignoramos si es verdadera… ¿Quién es ése?

ELLA.- Ése eres tú y tú y tú. Yo soy tú, y tú eres yo. Todos hemos vivido, y viviremos, todas las vidas.

ÉL.- Si todos hubiesen pensado al herir, al atropellar, al torturar, que eran ellos mismos quienes lo padecían, no lo habrían hecho… Pensémoslo así, mientras la verdadera respuesta llega.

ELLA.- Pensémoslo por si no llega.

(Un silencio.)

Antonio Buero Vallejo: El tragaluz (Parte Segunda), Espasa Calpe, Madrid, 1992, pp. 87-89

_______________

(A vos.)

No sé exactamente por qué entre el 93 y 95 recorté imágenes de guerra de los periódicos que llegaban a casa. La única forma que encontré de hacer algo con aquellas fotos fue guardarlas en una caja, una caja plana de medias. Todas eran imágenes de guerra: Bosnia, Angola… Fotos en blanco y negro, de personas con piernas, brazos y sangre en blanco y negro. La sangre en blanco y negro no impresiona tanto como la sangre en color.

Mi aprendizaje de la guerra había comenzado antes, en la Guerra del Golfo. En casa no veíamos la tele a la hora de comer, por ese motivo no había visto demasiadas imágenes de guerra, pero la guerra acabó apareciendo, aún de perfil, en el colegio. Impactada por lo relatado, sin saber bien qué era, una noche comencé a rezar para que se acabase la guerra. La casualidad hizo que dos días más tarde se decretara el alto al fuego. El dios de los niños es el único al que podría uno fiar el destino de la humanidad. Pero también el tiempo hace que los dioses dejen de ser niños.

siempre ahora

Prague, 1977 by Jaroslav Kučera
Jaroslav Kučera: Prague, 1977

T. S. Eliot

(St. Louis, Misuri; 26 de septiembre de 1888 –  Londres; 4 de enero de 1965)

.

Burnt Norton

I

Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
Other echoes
Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?
Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,
Round the corner. Through the first gate,
Into our first world, shall we follow
The deception of the thrush? Into our first world.
There they were, dignified, invisible,
Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves,
In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air,
And the bird called, in response to
The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery,
And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.
So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern,
Along the empty alley, into the box circle,
To look down into the drained pool.
Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
The surface glittered out of heart of light,
And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.
Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.

II

Garlic and sapphires in the mud
Clot the bedded axle-tree.
The trilling wire in the blood
Sings below inveterate scars
Appeasing long forgotten wars.
The dance along the artery
The circulation of the lymph
Are figured in the drift of stars
Ascend to summer in the tree
We move above the moving tree
In light upon the figured leaf
And hear upon the sodden floor
Below, the boarhound and the boar
Pursue their pattern as before
But reconciled among the stars.

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.

The inner freedom from the practical desire,
The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,
Erhebung without motion, concentration
Without elimination, both a new world
And the old made explicit, understood
In the completion of its partial ecstasy,
The resolution of its partial horror.
Yet the enchantment of past and future
Woven in the weakness of the changing body,
Protects mankind from heaven and damnation
Which flesh cannot endure.
Time past and time future
Allow but a little consciousness.
To be conscious is not to be in time
But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,
The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,
The moment in the draughty church at smokefall
Be remembered; involved with past and future.
Only through time time is conquered.

III

Here is a place of disaffection
Time before and time after
In a dim light: neither daylight
Investing form with lucid stillness
Turning shadow into transient beauty
With slow rotation suggesting permanence
Nor darkness to purify the soul
Emptying the sensual with deprivation
Cleansing affection from the temporal.
Neither plenitude nor vacancy. Only a flicker
Over the strained time-ridden faces
Distracted from distraction by distraction
Filled with fancies and empty of meaning
Tumid apathy with no concentration
Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind
That blows before and after time,
Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs
Time before and time after.
Eructation of unhealthy souls
Into the faded air, the torpid
Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London,
Hampstead and Clerkenwell, Campden and Putney,
Highgate, Primrose and Ludgate. Not here
Not here the darkness, in this twittering world.

Descend lower, descend only
Into the world of perpetual solitude,
World not world, but that which is not world,
Internal darkness, deprivation
And destitution of all property,
Dessication of the world of sense,
Evacuation of the world of fancy,
Inoperancy of the world of spirit;
This is the one way, and the other
Is the same, not in movement
But abstention from movement; while the world moves
In appentency, on its metalled ways
Of time past and time future.

IV

Time and the bell have buried the day,
The black cloud carries the sun away.
Will the sunflower turn to us, will the clematis
Stray down, bend to us; tendril and spray
Clutch and cling?
Chill
Fingers of yew be curled
Down on us? After the kingfisher’s wing
Has answered light to light, and is silent, the light is still
At the still point of the turning world.

V

Words move, music moves
Only in time; but that which is only living
Can only die. Words, after speech, reach
Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern,
Can words or music reach
The stillness, as a Chinese jar still
Moves perpetually in its stillness.
Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts,
Not that only, but the co-existence,
Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
And the end and the beginning were always there
Before the beginning and after the end.
And all is always now. Words strain,
Crack and sometimes break, under the burden,
Under the tension, slip, slide, perish,
Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place,
Will not stay still. Shrieking voices
Scolding, mocking, or merely chattering,
Always assail them. The Word in the desert
Is most attacked by voices of temptation,
The crying shadow in the funeral dance,
The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera.
The detail of the pattern is movement,
As in the figure of the ten stairs.
Desire itself is movement
Not in itself desirable;
Love is itself unmoving,
Only the cause and end of movement,
Timeless, and undesiring
Except in the aspect of time
Caught in the form of limitation
Between un-being and being.
Sudden in a shaft of sunlight
Even while the dust moves
There rises the hidden laughter
Of children in the foliage
Quick now, here, now, always –
Ridiculous the waste sad time
Stretching before and after.

T. S. Eliot: Four Quartets

[traducción en breve]

materia

Joan Miró - Sin_Título (1936)
Joan Miró Sin título (1936)

De la mano

No seré el poeta de un mundo caduco.
Tampoco cantaré el mundo futuro.
Estoy preso a la vida y miro a mis compañeros.
Están taciturnos pero alimentan grandes esperanzas.
Entre ellos, considero la enorme realidad.
El presente es tan grande, no nos separemos.
No nos separemos mucho, vayamos de manos dadas.

No seré el cantor de una mujer, de una historia,
no diré los suspiros al anocheceer, el paisaje visto desde la ventana,
no distribuiré estupefacientes o cartas de suicida,
no huiré a las islas ni seré raptado por serafines.
El tiempo es mi materia, el tiempo presente, los hombres presentes,
la vida presente.

Carlos Drummond de Andrade: De la mano, en Sentimento del mundo, Madrid, Hiperión, trad. Adolfo Montejo Navas, p. 75

*

Mãos dadas

Não serei o poeta de um mundo caduco.
Também não cantarei o mundo futuro.
Estou preso à vida e olho meus companheiros.
Estão taciturnos mas nutrem grandes esperanças.
Entre eles, considero a enorme realidade.
O presente é tão grande, não nos afastemos.
Não nos afastemos muito, vamos de mãos dadas.

Não serei o cantor de uma mulher, de uma história,
não direi os suspiros ao anoitecer, a paisagem vista da janela,
não distribuirei entorpecentes ou cartas de suicida,
não fugirei para as ilhas nem serei raptado por serafins.
O tempo é a minha matéria, o tempo presente, os homens presentes,
a vida presente.