Tuesday, January 10, 2017

Thomas Wolfe

Si tuviera que elegir conocer a un poeta, de los muertos, de los vivos en los libros, de entre todos los norteamericanos, elegiría conocer a Thomas Wolfe.

A Stone, A Leaf, A Door
by Thomas Wolfe
…A stone, a leaf, an unfound door;
Of a stone, a leaf, a door.
And of all the forgotten faces.
Naked and alone we came into exile.
In her dark womb
We did not know our mother’s face;
From the prison of her flesh we have come
Into the unspeakable and incommunicable prison
Of this earth.
Which of us has known his brother?
Which of us has looked into his father’s heart?
Which of us has not remained forever prison-pent?
Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone? 
O waste of loss in the hot mazes, lost,
Among the bright stars
On this most weary unbright cinder, lost!
Remembering speechlessly
We seek the great forgotten language,
The lost lane-end into heaven,
A stone, a leaf, an unfound door.

Me parece que tiene tanta pasión como yo, salvo que él no temía desatarla y dejarla arrasar las palabras muertas. Siento que en cada uno de sus poemas estoy rodeado de abejas asesinas, enloquecidas, a las que temo y de las que no puedo apartarme. 
Liban las abejas asesinas las palabras muertas, para fecundar imágenes que siempre han estado ahí, muy escondidas, mirándonos de tan cerca a la cara que uno no sabe si le miraban desde fuera o desde dentro.