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Archive for December, 2012

NATIVITY

Was your first cradle

reflected in the rolling eye

of the blue ox?

Were your white swaddling clothes

stuck through with bits

of golden hay?

What was the first lullaby

mother Mary sang into

the garden of your ear?

When your mouth was milk-wet,

did you breathe

on her leaping heart?

Were her eyes

reflected in your eyes

so the reflections went on for eternity?

A dream under a bright star,

angels, shepherds, Persian magi –

witnesses to a carpenter who midwifed a virgin,

a girl who gave birth to an infant king:

the gray donkey prays when he brays

and kneels down under Joseph’s gentle hand

in worship of the God-made-flesh

sleeping in a stable

with an awakened heart

and a human soul.

Jane Beal

from Epiphany: Birth Poems (2011)

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“Prodigal” by Jane Beal

Prodigal

 

Prodigal

(- today I found something
I thought I’d lost forever – jb) 

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If everything is heart and easy-going and faces shine with noonday light,
if, in a forest of arms, children are playing, and life has captured every street–

you aren’t in Asunción or Buenos Aires, you haven’t arrived at the wrong airport,
your journey’s end is not called Santiago, its name is not Montevideo.

The wind of freedom was your pilot, and the people’s compass marked your North;
how many extended hands await you, how many women, how many children and men

finally building the future together, finally transfigured into themselves,
while the long night of infamy is lost in the neglect of forgetfulness.

You saw it from the air: this is Managua, erect among ruins, beautiful in its wasteland,
poor, like the arms it fought with, rich like the blood of its children.

You see, traveler, this is your open door; the whole country is an enormous house.
No, you didn’t mistake the airport: come right in; you’re in Nicaragua.

Julio Cortázar

más poemas de Julio Cortázar en español

Objectos Perdidos

Por veredas de sueño y habitaciones sordas
tus rendidos veranos me aceleran con sus cantos
Una cifra vigilante y sigilosa
va por los arrabales llamándome y llamándome
pero qué falta, dime, en la tarjeta diminuta
donde están tu nombre, tu calle y tu desvelo
si la cifra se mezcla con las letras del sueño,
si solamente estás donde ya no te busco.
Mendoza, Argentina 1944
La mufa
Vos ves la Cruz del Sur,
respirás el verano con su olor a duraznos,
y caminás de noche
mi pequeño fantasma silencioso
por ese Buenos Aires,
por ese siempre mismo Buenos Aires.
Quizá la más querida

Me diste la intemperie,
la leve sombra de tu mano
pasando por mi cara.
Me diste el frío, la distancia,
el amargo café de medianoche
entre mesas vacías.

Siempre empezó a llover
en la mitad de la película,
la flor que te llevé tenía
una araña esperando entre los pétalos.

Creo que lo sabías
y que favoreciste la desgracia.
Siempre olvidé el paraguas
antes de ir a buscarte,
el restaurante estaba lleno
y voceaban la guerra en las esquinas.

Fui una letra de tango
para tu indiferente melodía.
Una carta de amor
Todo lo que de vos quisiera
es tan poco en el fondo
porque en el fondo es todo

como un perro que pasa, una colina,
esas cosas de nada, cotidianas,
espiga y cabellera y dos terrones,
el olor de tu cuerpo,
lo que decís de cualquier cosa,
conmigo o contra mía,

todo eso es tan poco
yo lo quiero de vos porque te quiero.

Que mires más allá de mí,
que me ames con violenta prescindencia
del mañana, que el grito
de tu entrega se estrelle
en la cara de un jefe de oficina,

y que el placer que juntos inventamos
sea otro signo de la libertad.

Julio Cortázar

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When I first woke, the room was a bell,
with me as the single tongue inside it,
slow to gather strength, to touch the wall
that turned at once into a door, a ghost
tongue scattered over the world as music.
But that was then. I am so much more
mindful now, and I wonder as I drink
my morning black, is there a plural for
the unconscious, as there is for heaven
though we rarely use it. The sun rises.
And we follow, the bronze in our veins
unheard by others, though our tower cries
out with words it cannot understand
alone, each death toll woven, one to one.

Bruce Bond
from http://crr.trevecca.edu/bell/

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Read it and hear it here:

Shake the Dust

*Thanks to Jess Marie

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