Domingo, 29 de julio de 2007

Estados Unidos, Nueva York (1819-1892)


Oh Capit?n, mi Capit?n:
nuestro azaroso viaje ha terminado.
Al fin venci? la nave y el premio fue ganado.
Ya el puerto se halla pr?ximo,
ya se oye la campana
y ver se puede el pueblo que entre v?tores,
con la mirada sigue la nao soberana.

Mas ?no ves, coraz?n, oh coraz?n,
c?mo los hilos rojos van rodando
sobre el puente en el cual mi Capit?n
permanece extendido, helado y muerto?

Oh Capit?n, mi Capit?n:
lev?ntate aguerrido y escucha cual te llaman
tropeles de campanas.
Por ti se izan banderas y los clarines claman.
Son para ti los ramos, las coronas, las cintas.

Por ti la multitud se arremolina,
por ti llora, por ti su alma llamea
y la mirada ansiosa, con verte, se recrea.

Oh Capit?n, ?mi Padre amado!
Voy mi brazo a poner sobre tu cuello.
Es s?lo una ilusi?n que en este puente
te encuentres extendido, helado y muerto.

Mi padre no responde.
Sus labios no se mueven.
Est? p?lido, p?lido. Casi sin pulso, inerte.
No puede ya animarle mi ansioso brazo fuerte.
Anclada est? la nave: su ruta ha concluido.
Feliz entra en el puerto de vuelta de su viaje.
La nave ya ha vencido la furia del oleaje.
Oh playas, alegraos; sonad, claras campanas
en tanto que camino con paso triste, incierto,
por el puente do est? mi Capit?n
para siempre extendido, helado y muerto.


I have heard what the talkers were talking....
Walt Whitman (EEUU, 1819-1892)

I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end;
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now;
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

Urge, and urge, and urge;
Always the procreant urge of the world.

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance?always substance and increase, always sex;
Always a knit of identity?always distinction?always a breed of life.
To elaborate is no avail?learn?d and unlearn?d feel that it is so.

Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entretied, braced in the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,
I and this mystery, here we stand.

Clear and sweet is my Soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my Soul.

Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,
Till that becomes unseen, and receives proof in its turn.

Showing the best, and dividing it from the worst, age vexes age;
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.

Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and clean;
Not an inch, nor a particle of an inch, is vile, and none shall be less familiar than the rest.

I am satisfied?I see, dance, laugh, sing:

As the hugging and loving Bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the night, and withdraws at the peep of the day, with stealthy tread,
Leaving me baskets cover?d with white towels, swelling the house with their plenty,
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization, and scream at my eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me a cent,
Exactly the contents of one, and exactly the contents of two, and which is ahead?

Tags: Whitman

Publicado por gala2 @ 4:40  | POEMAS
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