LAS MANOS
Dos especies de manos se enfrentan en la vida,
brotan del corazón, irrumpen por los brazos,
saltan, y desembocan sobre la luz herida
a golpes, a zarpazos.
La mano es la herramienta del alma, su mensaje,
y el cuerpo tiene en ella su rama combatiente.
Alzad, moved las manos en un gran oleaje,
hombres de mi simiente.
Ante la aurora veo surgir las manos puras
de los trabajadores terrestres y marinos,
como una primavera de alegres dentaduras,
de dedos matutinos.
Endurecidamente pobladas de sudores,
retumbantes las venas desde las uñas rotas,
constelan los espacios de andamios y clamores,
relámpagos y gotas.
Conducen herrerías, azadas y telares,
muerden metales, montes, raptan hachas, encinas,
y construyen, si quieren, hasta en los mismos mares
fábricas, pueblos, minas.
Estas sonoras manos oscuras y lucientes
las reviste una piel de invencible corteza,
y son inagotables y generosas fuentes
de vida y de riqueza.
Como si con los astros el polvo peleara,
como si los planetas lucharan con gusanos,
la especie de las manos trabajadora y clara
lucha con otras manos.
Feroces y reunidas en un bando sangriento
avanzan al hundirse los cielos vespertinos
unas manos de hueso lívido y avariento,
paisaje de asesinos.
No han sonado: no cantan. Sus dedos vagan roncos,
mudamente aletean, se ciernen, se propagan.
Ni tejieron la pana, ni mecieron los troncos,
y blandas de ocio vagan.
Empuñan crucifijos y acaparan tesoros
que a nadie corresponden sino a quien los labora,
y sus mudos crepúsculos absorben los sonoros
caudales de la aurora.
Orgullo de puñales, arma de bombardeos
con un cáliz, un crimen y un muerto en cada uña:
ejecutoras pálidas de los negros deseos
que la avaricia empuña.
¿Quién lavará estas manos fangosas que se extienden
al agua y la deshonran, enrojecen y estragan?
Nadie lavará manos que en el puñal se encienden
y en el amor se apagan.
Las laboriosas manos de los trabajadores
caerán sobre vosotras con dientes y cuchillas.
Y las verán cortadas tantos explotadores
en sus mismas rodillas.
15 de febrero de 1937
Miguel Hernández, Poeta español nacido en Orihuela, Alicante, en 1910.
Hijo de campesinos, desempeñó entre otros oficios, el de pastor de cabras. Guiado por su amigo Ramón Sijé,
se inició en la poesía desde los veinte años; publicó su primer libro «Perito en lunas» en 1933 y posteriormente,
los sonetos agrupados en «El rayo que no cesa», marcaron la experiencia amorosa del poeta.
Durante la guerra civil militó muy activamente en el bando republicano como Comisario de Cultura, siendo encarcelado
y condenado a muerte al terminar el conflicto. Antes de morir, enfermo y detenido, publicó su última obra, «Cancionero
y romancero de ausencias».
Falleció en 1942. ©
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Viento
sábado, 11 de dezembro de 2010
segunda-feira, 15 de novembro de 2010
Love is THE MASTER...Conversemos através da alma...ao Ti Jaquim Xapa e á Ti Mari Rapada!...revelemos o que é secreto aos olhos e ouvidos...Rumi !!!
LOVE IS THE MASTER
Love is the One who masters all things;
I am mastered totally by Love.
By my passion of love for Love
I have ground sweet as sugar.
O furious Wind, I am only a straw before you;
How could I know where I will be blown next?
Whoever claims to have made a pact with Destiny
Reveals himself a liar and a fool;
What is any of us but a straw in a storm?
How could anyone make a pact with a hurricane?
God is working everywhere his massive Resurrection;
How can we pretend to act on our own?
In the hand of Love I am like a cat in a sack;
Sometimes Love hoists me into the air,
Sometimes Love flings me into the air,
Love swings me round and round His head;
I have no peace, in this world or any other.
The lovers of God have fallen in a furious river;
They have surrendered themselves to Love's commands.
Like mill wheels they turn, day and night, day and night,
Constantly turning and turning, and crying out.
Başka Yarınlar
İmrûz cemâl-i tü sîmâ-yı diger dâred
İmrûz leb-î nûşet helvâ-yı diger dâred
Bugün yüzünde bir başka güzellik var senin,
bugün dudağında başka bir tad var,
boyunda başka bir yücelik
Bugün kırmızı gülün bir başka daldan
Ayın gökyüzüne bugün sığmamış
Göklere benzeyen göğsün bugün daha geniş
Hangi yanından kalktın bu sabah, söyle,
bir başka kavga var dünyada senin yüzünden,
dünyada bir başka gidiş
Biz senin gözlerinden gördük
arslanlara meydan okuyan o ceylanı,
Başka bir ovası var o ceylanın bugün
iki cihandan da dışarı
Seven insanın ayağı mı yok,
işte ona ölümsüzlük kapandı
Yukarlarda onunla uçar gider
Gözlerinin denizinde onu arama
Oinci bir başka denizde
Bakarsın bugün sever bu yürek,
yarın sevilir bakarsın
Yüreğimin özünde başka yarınlar var
Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi
Mavlana Rumi, 30.09.1207, Balkh, Persian.
Love is the One who masters all things;
I am mastered totally by Love.
By my passion of love for Love
I have ground sweet as sugar.
O furious Wind, I am only a straw before you;
How could I know where I will be blown next?
Whoever claims to have made a pact with Destiny
Reveals himself a liar and a fool;
What is any of us but a straw in a storm?
How could anyone make a pact with a hurricane?
God is working everywhere his massive Resurrection;
How can we pretend to act on our own?
In the hand of Love I am like a cat in a sack;
Sometimes Love hoists me into the air,
Sometimes Love flings me into the air,
Love swings me round and round His head;
I have no peace, in this world or any other.
The lovers of God have fallen in a furious river;
They have surrendered themselves to Love's commands.
Like mill wheels they turn, day and night, day and night,
Constantly turning and turning, and crying out.
Başka Yarınlar
İmrûz cemâl-i tü sîmâ-yı diger dâred
İmrûz leb-î nûşet helvâ-yı diger dâred
Bugün yüzünde bir başka güzellik var senin,
bugün dudağında başka bir tad var,
boyunda başka bir yücelik
Bugün kırmızı gülün bir başka daldan
Ayın gökyüzüne bugün sığmamış
Göklere benzeyen göğsün bugün daha geniş
Hangi yanından kalktın bu sabah, söyle,
bir başka kavga var dünyada senin yüzünden,
dünyada bir başka gidiş
Biz senin gözlerinden gördük
arslanlara meydan okuyan o ceylanı,
Başka bir ovası var o ceylanın bugün
iki cihandan da dışarı
Seven insanın ayağı mı yok,
işte ona ölümsüzlük kapandı
Yukarlarda onunla uçar gider
Gözlerinin denizinde onu arama
Oinci bir başka denizde
Bakarsın bugün sever bu yürek,
yarın sevilir bakarsın
Yüreğimin özünde başka yarınlar var
Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi
Mavlana Rumi, 30.09.1207, Balkh, Persian.
domingo, 26 de setembro de 2010
"ROSE IS A ROSE IS A ROSE IS A ROSE" SAPPHÓ !!!
Song of the Rose
For Zeus chose us a King of the flowers in his mirth,
He would call to the rose, and would royally crown it;
For the rose, ho, the rose! is the grace of the earth,
Is the light of the plants that are growing upon it!
For the rose, ho, the rose! is the eye of the flowers,
Is the blush of the meadows that feel themselves fair,
Is the lightning of beauty that strikes through the bowers
On pale lovers that sit in the glow unaware.
Ho, the rose breathes of love! ho, the rose lifts the cup
To the red lips of Cypris invoked for a guest!
Ho, the rose having curled its sweet leaves for the world
Takes delight in the motion its petals keep up,
As they laugh to the wind as it laughs from the west.
Poem by Sappho, Lesbo, Ereso, 640 a.c.circ.
For Zeus chose us a King of the flowers in his mirth,
He would call to the rose, and would royally crown it;
For the rose, ho, the rose! is the grace of the earth,
Is the light of the plants that are growing upon it!
For the rose, ho, the rose! is the eye of the flowers,
Is the blush of the meadows that feel themselves fair,
Is the lightning of beauty that strikes through the bowers
On pale lovers that sit in the glow unaware.
Ho, the rose breathes of love! ho, the rose lifts the cup
To the red lips of Cypris invoked for a guest!
Ho, the rose having curled its sweet leaves for the world
Takes delight in the motion its petals keep up,
As they laugh to the wind as it laughs from the west.
Poem by Sappho, Lesbo, Ereso, 640 a.c.circ.
segunda-feira, 9 de agosto de 2010
Un immense poéte de l'ámour...SAYAT-NOVA!!!...ao Ti Zé Caratana e á Xá Ana...il fut le rossignol énamouré qui chanta sa rose avec une soif inextinguib
ODE N° 47
Visions de Nazanie
(I753)
J'appelle Anna, mon rubis, (Lalanie)
Importé des mines de Badechkhan.
Peut-être mourrai-je de nostalgie,
Ma langue-rossignol couperont-ils.
Que pleurent les ennemis, restent à l'écart mes amis.
Tu portes la soie pourpre à merveille, Nazanie,
Orne ton front avec un ruban d'or,
Et tiens à la main des ciseaux plaqués or,
Coiffe, coupe, tes cheveux torsadés.
J'appelle Anna, mon Amie, (Yaranie)
Odes, ballades lyriques et vers.
Qui dit qu'en vain ils ouvrirent,
Une plaie dans ta blessure ?
Dans les Écrits l 'homme juste est béni.
Aux nuances dignes de noblesse,
Rosier touffu ; folie du rossignol,
Tes sourcils, arches de tes yeux,
Tes cils furent en or, merveilleux.
J'appelle Anna, ma si douce, (Zayanie)
Ils séparent le N du A,
C'est toi, qui dis : « Ils poignardent
Le cœur de l'amant, sans raison. »
Personne ne supporterait cette perte, même le roi.
Harutyun Sayatyan(Sayat-Nova), 14 juin 1712, Tiflis, - , 22 septembre 1795, Haghpat, Arménie.
Visions de Nazanie
(I753)
J'appelle Anna, mon rubis, (Lalanie)
Importé des mines de Badechkhan.
Peut-être mourrai-je de nostalgie,
Ma langue-rossignol couperont-ils.
Que pleurent les ennemis, restent à l'écart mes amis.
Tu portes la soie pourpre à merveille, Nazanie,
Orne ton front avec un ruban d'or,
Et tiens à la main des ciseaux plaqués or,
Coiffe, coupe, tes cheveux torsadés.
J'appelle Anna, mon Amie, (Yaranie)
Odes, ballades lyriques et vers.
Qui dit qu'en vain ils ouvrirent,
Une plaie dans ta blessure ?
Dans les Écrits l 'homme juste est béni.
Aux nuances dignes de noblesse,
Rosier touffu ; folie du rossignol,
Tes sourcils, arches de tes yeux,
Tes cils furent en or, merveilleux.
J'appelle Anna, ma si douce, (Zayanie)
Ils séparent le N du A,
C'est toi, qui dis : « Ils poignardent
Le cœur de l'amant, sans raison. »
Personne ne supporterait cette perte, même le roi.
Harutyun Sayatyan(Sayat-Nova), 14 juin 1712, Tiflis, - , 22 septembre 1795, Haghpat, Arménie.
sábado, 5 de junho de 2010
IST LIEBEN KEUSCH?...SIBYLLA SCHWARZ!!!...ao Tio Domingos! ..."Quem di diligunt adulescens moritur"
[ISt Lieben keusch? wo kompt denn Ehbruch her?]
ISt Lieben keusch? wo kompt denn Ehbruch her?
Ist Lieben guht
nichts böses drinn zu finden
wie kann sein Feur dan so gahr viel entzünden?
Ist Lieben Lust
wer bringt dan das Beschwär?
Wer Lieben liebt
fährt auff der Wollust Meer
und lässet sich ins Todes Netze binden
das nicht zerreist
er lebet nuhr den Sünden
liebt Eitelkeit
und ist der Tugend leer.
Das ewig lebt
dem stirbt er gäntzlich ab
sieht seine Noht erst
wan er siht sein Grab.
Wer dan nuhn wird in Liebes Brunst gefunden
der fliehe bald
und hasse
die er liebt;
ist Lieb ihm süß? so werd er drümb betrübt;
ist sie sein Brodt? so geb er sie den Hunden.
SIBYLLA SCHWARZ, auch: SIBYLLE SCHWARTZ (* 14.Februar 1621 in Greifswald/Pommern; 31.Juli 1638)
"Is love a fire? Can love melt iron?
Am I like fire and full of the pain of love?
Out of what is the heart of my lover?
If it were made of iron then I could melt it with my fire.
If it were made of gold I could bend it
with my glow, should it made of flesh
so I see : it is a stone made of flesh.
However, a stone cannot betray me like she does.
But if her heart were like frost , as cold as snow and ice
Then how can she make me hot with love?
I think: her heart is like laurel leaves
Which are not touched by any thunderstorm
She laughs about you, Cupid, and your arrow
She is immune to your thunderstorm"
ISt Lieben keusch? wo kompt denn Ehbruch her?
Ist Lieben guht
nichts böses drinn zu finden
wie kann sein Feur dan so gahr viel entzünden?
Ist Lieben Lust
wer bringt dan das Beschwär?
Wer Lieben liebt
fährt auff der Wollust Meer
und lässet sich ins Todes Netze binden
das nicht zerreist
er lebet nuhr den Sünden
liebt Eitelkeit
und ist der Tugend leer.
Das ewig lebt
dem stirbt er gäntzlich ab
sieht seine Noht erst
wan er siht sein Grab.
Wer dan nuhn wird in Liebes Brunst gefunden
der fliehe bald
und hasse
die er liebt;
ist Lieb ihm süß? so werd er drümb betrübt;
ist sie sein Brodt? so geb er sie den Hunden.
SIBYLLA SCHWARZ, auch: SIBYLLE SCHWARTZ (* 14.Februar 1621 in Greifswald/Pommern; 31.Juli 1638)
"Is love a fire? Can love melt iron?
Am I like fire and full of the pain of love?
Out of what is the heart of my lover?
If it were made of iron then I could melt it with my fire.
If it were made of gold I could bend it
with my glow, should it made of flesh
so I see : it is a stone made of flesh.
However, a stone cannot betray me like she does.
But if her heart were like frost , as cold as snow and ice
Then how can she make me hot with love?
I think: her heart is like laurel leaves
Which are not touched by any thunderstorm
She laughs about you, Cupid, and your arrow
She is immune to your thunderstorm"
domingo, 21 de março de 2010
Qué es poesia?...y tú me lo preguntas?...poesia ...eres TÚ.
RIMA XXI
—¿Qué es poesía?, dices, mientras clavas
en mi pupila tu pupila azul,
¡Qué es poesía! ¿Y tú me lo preguntas?
Poesía... eres tú.
Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer,nació en Sevilla el 17 de febrero de 1836.
—¿Qué es poesía?, dices, mientras clavas
en mi pupila tu pupila azul,
¡Qué es poesía! ¿Y tú me lo preguntas?
Poesía... eres tú.
Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer,nació en Sevilla el 17 de febrero de 1836.
quarta-feira, 27 de janeiro de 2010
PHILLIS WHEATLEY ! POET POETESS ! ...SET THE CAPTIVES FREE...
ON BEING BROUGHT FROM AFRICA TO AMERICA
Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land,
Taught my benighted soul to understand
That there's a God, that there's a Saviour too:
Once I redemption neither sought not knew.
Some view our sable race with scornful eye,
"Their colour is a diabolic dye."
Remenber, Christians, Negroes, black as Cain,
May be refin'd and join th' angelic train.
Phillis Wheatley, born about 1753 in West Africa, she was kidnapped in 1761 and taken to America on a slave ship called "Phillis"...She was purchased in Boston...died from complications of childbirth at age of 31...(OS PREFERIDOS DOS DEUSES...MORREM NOVOS!)
Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land,
Taught my benighted soul to understand
That there's a God, that there's a Saviour too:
Once I redemption neither sought not knew.
Some view our sable race with scornful eye,
"Their colour is a diabolic dye."
Remenber, Christians, Negroes, black as Cain,
May be refin'd and join th' angelic train.
Phillis Wheatley, born about 1753 in West Africa, she was kidnapped in 1761 and taken to America on a slave ship called "Phillis"...She was purchased in Boston...died from complications of childbirth at age of 31...(OS PREFERIDOS DOS DEUSES...MORREM NOVOS!)
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