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The
Man on The Dump
Day creeps down. The moon is creeping up.
The sun is a corbeil of flowers the moon Blanche
Places there, a bouquet. Ho-ho... The dump is full
Of images. Days pass like papers from a press.
The bouquets come here in the papers. So the sun,
And so the moon, both come, and the janitor's poems
Of every day, the wrapper on the can of pears,
The cat in the paper-bag, the corset, the box
From Estonia: the tiger chest, for tea.
The freshness of night has been fresh a long time.
The freshness of morning, the blowing of day, one says
That it puffs as Cornelius Nepos reads, it puffs
More than, less than or it puffs like this or that.
The green smacks in the eye, the dew in the green
Smacks like fresh water in a can, like the sea
On
a cocoanut--how many men have copied dew
For buttons, how
many women have covered themselves
With dew, dew dresses,
stones and chains of dew, heads
Of the floweriest flowers
dewed with the dewiest dew.
One grows to hate these things
except on the dump.
Now in the time of spring (azaleas, trilliums,
Myrtle, viburnums, daffodils, blue phlox),
Between that disgust and this, between the things
That are on the dump (azaleas and so on)
And
those that will be (azaleas and so on),
One feels the
purifying change. One rejects
The trash.
That's the moment when the moon creeps up
To the
bubbling of bassoons. That's the time
One looks at the
elephant-colorings of tires.
Everything is shed; and the
moon comes up as the moon
(All its images are in the dump)
and you see
As a man (not like an image of a man),
You see the moon rise in the empty sky.
One sits and beats an old tin can, lard pail.
One beats and beats for that which one believes.
That's what one wants to get near. Could it after all
Be merely oneself, as superior as the ear
To a
crow's voice? Did the nightingale torture the ear,
Pack the
heart and scratch the mind? And does the ear
Solace itself
in peevish birds? Is it peace,
Is it a philosopher's
honeymoon, one finds
On the dump? Is it to sit among
mattresses of the dead,
Bottles, pots, shoes, and grass and
murmur aptest eve:
Is it to hear the blatter of grackles and
say
Invisible priest; is it to eject, to pull
The day to pieces and cry stanza my stone?
Where
was it one first heard of the truth? The the.
[The
collected poems, Vintage Bokks, New York, 1990]
Δ
Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock
The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None
are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow
rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With
socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream
of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old
sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red
weather.
[The
collected poems, Vintage Bokks, New York, 1990]
Δ [Desilusión a las diez en punto]
Las casas están encantadas
por camisones blancos.
Ninguno es verde,
ni morado con bandas verdes,
ni verde con bandas amarillas,
ni amarillo con bandas azules.
Ninguno es extraño,
con calcetines de encaje
y cintos bordados con cuentas.
Nadie va a soñar
con babuinos y bígaros.
Tan sólo, en algún lugar, un viejo marinero,
borracho, dormido, con las botas puestas,
captura tigres
en un clima rojo.
[Traducció
de Julián Jiménez Heffernan en Wallace Stevens Harmonium. Icaria,
Barcelona 2002]
Δ
[Desilusión
a las diez]
Los camisones blancos
Hechizaron las casas.
Ninguno es verde,
O púrpura con círculos verdosos,
O verdoso con círculos dorados,
O dorado con círculos azules,
Ninguno de ellos es extraño,
Con medias de puntilla
Y cintos con adornos.
No soñará la gente
Con siemprevivas y mandriles.
Tan sólo, a veces, un viejo marino,
Dormido con las botas, y borracho,
Caza tigres
En rojo clima.
[Traducció d'Andrés
Sánchez Robayna en Wallace Stevens De la simple existencia. Antología
poética. Galaxia Gutemberg. Barcelona 2003]
Δ
[Desilução
das dez horas]
As casas são assombradas
Por camisolas brancas.
Nenhuma é verde,
Nem roxa com bainha verde,
Nem verde com bainha amarela,
Nem amarela com bainha azul.
Nenhuma delas é estranha,
Com meias de renda
E faixas de contas.
Ninguém vai sonhar
Com caramujos e orangotangos.
Só um ou outro marinheiro velho
Bêbado dorme de botas
E pega tigres
Em dia vermelho.
[Traducció
de Paulo
Henriques Britto]
Δ |
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