a máscara, w. b. yeats

'Put off that mask of burning gold

With emerald eyes.'

'O no, my dear, you make so bold

To find if hearts be wild and wise,

And yet not cold.'

'I would not find what's there to find,

Love or deceit.'

'It was the mask engaged your mind,

And after set your heart to beat,

Not what's behind.'

'But lest you are my enemy,

I must enquire.'

'O no, my dear, let all that be;

What matter, so there is but fire

In you, in me?'

'ripa esa máscara de ouro ardente

con ollos de esmeralda.'

'non, meu amor, resulta destemido

que averigües se os corazóns son salvaxes e sabios
mais non fríos.'

'non atoparía o que hai para atopar,
amor ou engano.'
'foi a máscara quen de engaiolarte,
e fixo latexar o teu corazón,
non o que hai detrás.'

'pero por temor a que sexas inimig@,
debo pescudar.'
'non, meu amor, déixao estar;
que importa, se non hai máis que lume
en ti, en min?'

1. w. b. yeats (1865-1939) publicou este poema en 1916 (The Green Helmet and Other Poems).

2. trátase, quizás, dunha conversa entre dous 'amantes' que falan de canto de real ten o que sinten unh@ pol@ outro@; é dicir, hai algo baixo a máscara?, ten que haber algo baixo a máscara?, só existe a máscara?, ...

3. yeats tamén usou máscaras e, quizás, foi consciente de facelo: ocultista, senador, Nobel ou vello verde.

por que Marx estaba no certo: conclusión

portada da versión orixinal

logo do século xx e a influencia da obra de Karl Marx e o movemento político que naceu dela nese marco temporal, Terry Eagleton repasa a súa conceptualización a principios do século xxi. Why Marx Was Right (2011) artículase arredor de dez "falsos" mitos ou representacións desta doutrina e a súa refutación; máis unha conclusión.

Marx tiña unha fe desmedida no individuo e unha fonda sospeita acerca dos dogmas abstractos. Non perdía o tempo no concepto dunha sociedade perfecta, receaba da noción de igualdade e non soñaba cun futuro no que todos levaramos posta unha funda cos números da seguridade social estampados nas costas. Era a diversidade, non a uniformidade, o que anhelaba ver. Tampouco ensinou que homes e mulleres foran os xoguetes indefensos da historia. Incluso albergaba máis hostilidade cara ao estado que os conservadores de dereitas, e concibía o socialismo como unha afondamento da democracia, non coma o seu inimigo. O seu modelo para unha vida boa baseábase na idea da expresión artística individual. Cría que algunhas revolucións poderían lograrse por métodos pacíficos e, de ningún xeito, se opuña á reforma social. Non se centrou dun xeito reducionista na clase traballadora manual. Tampouco concibía a sociedade en termos de dúas clases asperamente polarizadas.

para el a produción natural non era un fetiche. Pola contra, cría que deberiamos desfacernos dela tan cedo como fose posible. O seu ideal era o lecer, non o traballo. Se prestou atención de xeito persistente ao económico, foi para diminuír a súa influencia sobre a humanidade. O seu materialismo era totalmente compatible con conviccións morais e espirituais fondamente asentadas. Non aforrou parabéns para a clase media, e concibía o socialismo coma o herdeiro do seu enorme legado de liberdade, dereitos civís e prosperidade material. As súas reflexións sobre a Natureza e o medio-ambiente eran, case sempre, sorprendentemente avanzadas para o seu tempo. Non ten habido un campión máis incondicional da emancipación feminina, a paz mundial, a loita contra o fascismo ou a loita pola liberación das colonias que o movemento político ao que deu lugar a súa obra.

tense noticia dun pensador máis terxiversado?

Terry Eagleton

Marx had a passionate faith in the individual and a deep suspicion of abstract dogma. He had no time for the concept of a perfect society, was wary of the notion of equality, and did not dream of a future in which we would all wear boiler suits with our National Insurance numbers stamped on our backs. It was diversity, not uniformity, that he hoped to see. Nor did he teach that men and women were the helpless playthings of history. He was even more hostile to the state tan right-wing conservatives are, and saw socialism as a deepening of democracy, not as the enemy of it. His model of the good life was based on the idea of artistic self-expression. He believed that some revolutions might be peacefully accomplished, and was in no sense opposed to social reform. He did not focus narrowly on the manual working class. Nor did he see society in terms of two starkly polarized classes.

He did not make a fetish of material production. On the contrary, he thought it should be done away with as far as possible. His ideal was leisure, not labour. If he paid such unflagging attention to the economic, it was in order to diminish its power over humanity. His materialism was fully compatible with deeply held moral and spiritual convinctions. He lavished praise on the middle class, and saw socialism as the inheritor of its great legacies of liberty, civil rights and material prosperity. His view on Nature and the environment were for the most part startingly in advance of his time. There has been no more staunch champion of women’s emancipation, world peace, the fight against fascism or the struggle for colonial freedom than the political movement to which his work gave birth.

Was ever a thinker so travestied?

Terry Eagleton Why Marx Was Right (2011), pp.  238-239

o sorralleiro, william blake

cando miña nai morreu era moi novo,

e meu pai vendeume podendo a miña lingua

apenas berrar "sorralleiro! sorralleiro!"

así que limpo as vosas chemineas e durmo no sorrallo.

aí anda o pequeno Tom Dacre, que chorou cando a cabeza,

rizada coma costas de cordeiro, lle raparon: así que lle dixen

"cala, Tom!, non che importe, pois cando teñas a cabeza rapada

sabes que o sorrallo non che estragará eses cabelos brancos."

e así calou e esa mesma noite
cando durmía, tivo unha visión!
miles de sorralleiros, Dick, Joe, Ned e Jack
todos eles pechados en cadaleitos de negro.

e veu un Anxo cunha chave brillante,
e abriu os cadaleitos e liberounos;
brincan por unha planicie verde abaixo, rin, corren,
e lávanse nun río, e brilan ao Sol.

logo, espidos e brancos, cos sacos por aí,
suben ás nubes e xogan no vento;
e o Anxo díxolle a Tom, que se era un neno bo,
tería a Deus coma pai seu, e nunca lle faltaría ledicia.

e así espertou Tom; e erguémonos na noite,
e fomos traballar coas nosas bolsas e vasoiras.
inda que ía frío na mañá, Tom estaba ledo e non o sentía;
así que, se todos fan o seu traballo escusan temer mal.

nenos da rúa na época na que apareceu o poema

When my mother died I was very young,

And my Father sold me while yet my tongue

Could scarcely cry " 'weep! 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!"

So your chimneys I sweep, & in soot I sleep.

There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,

That curl'd like a lamb's back, was shav'd: so I said

"Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head's bare

You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair."

And so he was quiet, & that very night

As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!

That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, & Jack,

Were all of them lock'd up in coffins of black.

And by came an angel who had a bright key,

And he open'd the coffins & set them all free;

Then down a green plain leaping, laughing, they run,

And wash in a river, and shine in the Sun.

Then naked & white, all their bags left behind,

They rise upon clouds and sport in the wind;

And the Angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,

He'd have God for his father, & never want joy.

And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark,

And got with our bags & our brushes to work.

Tho' the morning was cold, Tom was happy & warm;

So if all do their duty they need not fear harm.

unha pequena cousa negra entre neve,
berrando "sorralleiro!" en clave de penar!
"onde están teu pai e túa nai? dime
"ambos subiron á igrexa a rezar."

"como estaba feliz sobre o páramo,
e sorría entre neve de inverno,
puxéronme roupa de morte
e ensináronme a cantar as notas de penar."

"e como son ledo e bailo e canto
pensan que non me fixeron mal
e foron cumprimentar Deus, o seu Crego e o Rei,
que da nosa miseria fan Ceo."

William Blake

A little black thing among the snow,

Crying " 'weep! 'weep!" in notes of woe!

"Where are thy father & mother? say?"

"They are both gone up to the church to pray."

"Because I was happy upon the heath,
And smil'd among the winter's snow,
They clothed me in the clothes of death,
And taught me to sing the notes of woe."

"And because I am happy and dance and sing,
They think they have done me no injury,
And are gone to praise God and his priest and king,
Who make up a heaven of our misery."

1. William Blake (1757-1827) publicou estes poemas (ambos chamados "The Chimney Sweeper") en 1789 (Songs of Innocence) e 1794 (Songs of Experience), respectivamente.

2. "sorralleiro" é unha variante dialectal empregada na provincia de Ourense, onde se preservan cousas xa desaparecidas noutras latitudes galegas. o termo sería "desenfeluxador." aquí non se utiliza porque en Cusanca falaban sempre do "sorrallo", non de "feluxe." ademais acábase antes.

3. os poemas fan referencia a un costume da época (socialmente aceptado) consistente na venda de nenos de catro ou cinco anos para limpar as chimineas. eran pequenos abondo para poder colarse polo oco abaixo e limpar o sorrallo que obturaba os condutos. nin que dicir ten que as súas condicións de traballo e vida eran absolutamente precarias.

4. a forma lírica empregada é o "couplet": pentámetros iámbicos con rima aa bb ... esta tradución non consigue respectar este aspecto do orixinal.

5. en vista da temática claramente social destes dous poemas, chámame a atención que se describa a William Blake coma poeta "romántico" e agora teñamos un concepto tan deturpado do que significa ser tal cousa. xa sabedes, aquelo de "e que eu son moi romántic@." ou o romanticismo era outra cousa ou o deturpamos ata facelo inservible.

6. T. S. Eliot (1888-1965), outro grande, pero noutra póla totalmente distinta, describiu a arte de Blake coma "desacougante." estes dous poemas, cada un por si e os dous conxuntamnete, explican de xeito gráfico como hai momentos e lugares onde se alían a relixión, a clase política dominante, e a "sensatez" para consolidar feitos absolutamente crueis e inxustificados para algúns en beneficio doutros; neste caso, neniños pequenos limpando chimineas para que outr@s poidan estar ao quente no inverno. isto pasou, non foi conto. William Blake.

7. o canto da "experiencia" é explícito e acusatorio mentres que o da "inocencia" é implítico e irónico; por exemplo, a figura do Anxo poría en cuestión a relixión oficial, contribuínte neto á explotación de nenos crédulos en vez de protexelos e rescatalos da inxustiza.

morte, w. b. yeats

placa lembrando o asasinato de Kevin O'Higgins
próximo ao lugar onde lle dispararon

nin temor nin esperanza acuden
ao animal moribundo;
home espera final
temendo e esperando todo;
moitas veces morreu,
moitas veces volveu erguer.
gran home orgulloso
facendo cara aos asasinos
burláse da
interrupción do alento;
coñece morte ata o óso--
home ten creado morte.

Sin miedo ni esperanza

aguarda el animal la muerte;

cuando a su fin se acerca el hombre,

todo lo espera y todo teme.

Muchas veces ha muerto,

y volvió a alzarse muchas veces.

Asentado en su orgullo el hombre grande

frente a los asesinos, escarnece

las amenazas de cortar su vida;

él conoce la muerte,

la conoce hasta el tuétano. Es el hombre mismo

quien la ha creado y la mantiene.

W. B. Yeats

Nor dread nor hope attend

A dying animal;

A man awaits his end

Dreading and hoping all;

Many times he died,

Many times rose again.

A great man in his pride

Confronting murderous men

Casts derision upon

Supersession of breath;

He knows death to the bone--

Man has created death.

1. "Death" publicouse en 1933, no libro The Winding Stair and Other Poems.

2. W. B. Yeats (Dublín, 1865 - Menton, Francia, 1939), recibiu o Nobel en 1923.

3. escribiu este poema en reacción ao asasinato do seu amigo e correlixionario Kevin O'Higgins, que participara, á súa vez, na execución de varios membros do IRA durante a guerra civil (xuño, 1922 - maio, 1923). Kevin comentáralle á súa dona: "alguén que teña feito o que fixen eu non pode esperar vivir moito;" de aí o verso "home creou morte."

4. sen embargo, o poema ten sido lido, quizás lexitimamente, sen ter en conta estas circunstancias. tense lido como falando da condición humana, o camiño ineludible cara a morte.

5. esta tradución (versión galega) é terriblemente mala porque, entre outras cousas,

- a. non respecta nin busca a rima do poema orixinal;

- b. nin os esquema de acentos: unha combinación de versos iámbicos (alternancia breve-longa ou tónica-átona) e versos trocaicos (alternancia longa-breve ou átona-tónica):

3 iámbicos - 3 trocaicos - 2 iámbicos - 2 trocaicos - 1 iámbico - 1 trocaico

exemplo de verso iámbico - nor dread nor hope att end (x-x-x-)

e de verso trocaico - dread ing+and hop ing all (-x-x-x);

- c. nin as dúas estruturas son - silencio (ou silencio - son) que se solapan no poema (a/ 6+4+2 versos) e (b/ 6+6 versos).

6. quizás Philip Roth lembraba o segundo verso deste poema cando decidiu o título dunha das súas novelas The Dying Animal. quizás non.

el gadudelborgador

la entrevió en un mágico bosque, criatura

sensible que de nadie precisaba

y soñó con cómo se reuniría

allí, su compañero pronto sería

la atrajo al lugar que

conocía, mundo de jerarquía y poder

y allí comenzó ella a morir, tan

cierto como flor que marchita

su corazón comenzó a resquebrajarse dentro, el

sólo sabía una cosa que regalarle

devolverla a su mundo sensible

para que encontrase las ganas de vivir

y allí comenzó a florecer, vió

algo que nunca había visto

que tampoco era el de aquel mundo,

un gadudelborgador había sido.

que caminaba entre dos mundos,

finalmente había comprendido

y así fijaron su hogar en ningún mundo,

en frontera del mágico bosque.

Gadoodleborger

He spied her in a magic wood, a

sensing creature in need of none

And dreamed of how he’d join her

there, his partner she would soon become

He lured her back to the place he

knew, a world of hierarchy and of power

And there she then began to die, as

surely as a wilting flower

His heart began to break inside, he

knew only one thing to give

Return her to her sensing world,

that she might find the will to live

And there as she began to bloom, she

saw something he’d never seen

That he was not of that world either,

a Gadoodleborger, he had been.

That he walked between two worlds,

he now had finally understood

And so they made their home in

neither world, at the edges of the

magic wood.

NOTA FINAL

traducción a dos cabezas - Olga Lalín y xindiriz, por orden de Esther Medraño, alias "a xefa"

"gadoodleborger," enlace al blog de Donna Williams 

proposta de traballo "the tell-tale heart"

Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849), moito tempo un maldito, escribiu, entre outras cousas, numerosas historias curtas ou contos, precursor da literatura de terror e das historias de detectives.

"The Tell-Tale Heart" é unha desas historias que ten inspirado, á súa vez, outras historias, películas, obras de teatro, adaptacións de teatro e na radio ...

temos o texto completo desta historia ... comeza así:

TRUE! nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why WILL you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How then am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily, how calmly, I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture -- a pale blue eye with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me my blood ran cold, and so by degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye for ever.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded -- with what caution -- with what foresight, with what dissimulation, I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night about midnight I turned the latch of his door and opened it oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern all closed, closed so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly, very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this? And then when my head was well in the room I undid the lantern cautiously - oh, so cautiously - cautiously (for the hinges creaked), I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights, every night just at midnight, but I found the eye always closed, and so it was impossible to do the work, for it was not the old man who vexed me but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers, of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was opening the door little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea, and perhaps he heard me, for he moved on the bed suddenly as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back - but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close fastened through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

un "postre" ... unha curta animada de 1953