LUME

CANCIÓN DEL FUEGO

Verdes nacimos
a este jardín imperfecto,
pero en matorrales moteados, averrugado como un sapo
rencoroso, acecha nuestro guarda,
colocando esa trampa suya en la que caen embaucados
el chivo, el gallo, la trucha, todo lo más hermoso,
hasta desfallecer en un charco de sangre.

Nuestra única tarea consiste en hallar
la silueta de un ángel con la que poder revestirnos
en este intrincado muladar suyo donde todo está
tan torcido que no hay procura recta
capaz de liberar alguna de esas astutas presas, y que cubre con sedimentos
cada uno de nuestros brillantes actos hasta convertirlos de nuevo
en barro deshecho, encapotado por el agrio cielo.

Lo dulce sala los tallos alabeados
de la cizaña que encaramos camino del final grosero;
agostados por el rojo sol, alzamos la esfera de sílex,
torturados en los ligamentos de púas de las venas;
así que, mi valiente amor, no sueñes
con contener una llama tan estricta, sino que ven,
recuéstate en mi herida y sigue ardiendo, ardiendo.

Sylvia Plath

                           Firesong

Born green we were to this flawed garden, but in speckled thickets, warted as a toad, spitefully skulks our warden, fixing his snare which hauls down buck, cock, trout, till all most fair is tricked to faulter in split blood. Now our whole task's to hack some angel-shape worth wearing from his crabbed midden where all's wrought so awry that no straight inquiring could unlock shrewd catch silting our each bright act back to unmade mud cloaked by sour sky. Sweet salts warped stem of weeds we tackle towards way's rank ending; scorched by red sun we heft globed flint, racked in veins' barbed bindings; brave love, dream not of staunching such strict flame, but come, lean to my wound; burn on, burn on.

CONCERTO de 2M13 no MONO de LOGROÑO (Antiguo Brisas).

Parabriseiras/os !! 
O vindeiro sábado ás 22:30h no Bar-Restaurante: O mono de Logroño, sito na praia de Hornanda - Gaviotas, haberá un concerto do dúo 2M13, que andan a cumprir unha década de actividade sobre os escenarios, cunha proposta que difícilmente pode deixar indiferente a ninguén. 
2M13 é unha crónica músico-sensorial sinérxica do Presente Imperfeto que estamos a vivir, onde a batería, saxofóns, globos, menaxe de cociña, tubos de plástico, ondas hertzianas, frautas, espátulas, etc...dan lugar pra xogar có  espazo-tempo e a pescuda da posibilidade da forma ou as formas da posibilidade.

Eles son: LAR Legido: Batería e obxetos sonoros.
              Pablo Sax: Saxofóns, frautas+ eletrónica.

Here comes the sun!

Para Carmen , Gala,  Marcos, Manel, Marian, Morgana, Daría, Melania, Silvina, Pablo, Antonio, Xavi, Manuel, María, Fer, Pepa, Pepiña, Mónica, Carlos
e para tódolos amigos e amigas . 
Con cariño e agradecemento.



ÉRASE UNHA VEZ ...

"Aproa", debuxo de Mónica.

Baixo esta árbore de cartón-pedra comezou todo.

 

Et Tu In Arcadia Vixisti

From Underwoods
(To R. A. M. S.)

In ancient tales, O friend, thy spirit dwelt;
There, from of old, thy childhood passed; and there
High expectation, high delights and deeds,
Thy fluttering heart with hope and terror moved.
And thou hast heard of yore the Blatant Beast,
And Roland's horn, and that war-scattering shout
Of all-unarmed Achilles, aegis-crowned.
And perilous lands thou sawest, sounding shores
And seas and forests drear, island and dale
And mountain dark. For thou with Tristram rod'st
Or Bedevere, in farthest Lyonesse.
Thou hadst a booth in Samarcand, whereat
Side-looking Magians trafficked; thence, by night,
An Afreet snatched thee, and with wings upbore
Beyond the Aral mount; or, hoping gain,
Thou, with a jar of money, didst embark,
For Balsorah, by sea. But chiefly thou
In that clear air took'st life: in Arcady
The haunted, land of song; and by the wells
Where most the gods frequent. There Chiron old,
In the Pelethronian antre, taught thee lore;
The plants, he taught, and by the shining stars
In forests dim to steer. There hast thou seen
Immortal Pan dance secret in a glade,
And, dancing, roll his eyes; these where they fell,
Shed glee, and through the congregated oaks
A flying horror winged; while all the earth
To the god's pregnant footing thrilled within.
Or whiles, besides the sobbing stream, he breathed,
In his clutched pipe, unformed and wizard strains,
Divine yet brutal; wich the forest heard,
And thou, with awe; and far upon the plain
The unthinking ploughman started and gave ear.

Now things there are that, upon him who sees,
A strong vocation lay; and strains there are
That whoso hears shall hear for evermore.
For everymore thou hear'st immortal Pan
And those melodious godheads, ever young
And ever quiring, on the mountains old,
What was this earth, child of the gods, to thee?
Forth from thy dreamland thou, a dreamer, cam'st,
And in thine ears the olden music rang,
And in thy mind the doings of the dead,
And those heroic ages long forgot.
To a so fallen earth, alas! too late.
Alas! in evil days, thy steps return,
To list at noon for nightingales, to grow
A dweller on the beach till Argo come
That came long since, a lingerer by the pool
Where that desired angel bathes no more.

As when the Indian to Dakota comes,
Or farthest Idaho, and where he dwelt,
He with his clan, a humming city finds;
Thereon awhile, amazed, he stares, and then
To right and leftward, like a questing dog,
Seeks first the ancestral altars, then the hearth
Long cold with rains, and where old terror lodged,
And where the dead. So thee undying Hope,
With all her pack, hunts screaming through the years:
Here, there, thou fleeest; but not here nor there
The pleasant gods abide, the glory dwells.

That, that was not Apollo, not the god.
This was not Venus, though she Venus seemed
A moment. And though fair you river move.
She, all the way, from disenchanted fount
To seas unhallowed runs; the gods forsook
Long since her trembling rushes; from her plains
Disconsolate, long since adventure fled;
And now although the inviting river flows,
And every poplared cape, and every bend
Or willowy islet, win upon thy soul
And to thy hopeful shallop whisper speed;
Yet hope not thou at all; hope is no more;
And O, long since the golden groves are dead,
The faery cities vanished from the land!

 R. L. Stevenson ; De vuelta al mar, Traducc. de Javier Marías, Hiperión 

"Cosas hay que dejan , en aquel que las ve 
una fuerte vocación, y asimismo hay sonidos
que aquel que los escuche seguirá oyendo siempre.
Tú oyes por siempre al inmortal Pan
y a aquellas melodiosas deidades, jovenes eternamente
y que en coro eterno cantan, 
en los montes de la antigüedad."

PASOU O TEMPO , E A ÁRBORE DE CARTÓN- 

PEDRA CONVERTEUSE NA MULLER-ÁRBORE, 

DEUSA DO TEMPLO DA POESÍA, A 

CREATIVIDADE E O AMOR LUMINOSO . 

As sombras  aínda tardarían en chegar. 

En realidade, non chegaron 

de ningures. Sempre estiveron alí, agochadas ,

fuxindo da luz e agardando o seu momento para 

ser. 

Porque non hai luz sen sombra, nen sombra

sen luz.

De árbore á árbore, como os esquíos.

"Bandeira-Libélula" de Marian

O TEMPO SEGUÍA PASANDO e a árbore de cartón foi mudando, como un Pinocho, nunha fermosa, madura e robusta árbore real. 

Pero a árbore real tamén morreu e,  con el , as cidades encantadas.

E colorín colorado, 
este conto xa está rematado . 
(polo momento)

" Y aunque hermoso aquel río avance,
de manantial desencantado a mares que no son sagrado
discurre entero su cauce; los dioses abandonaron
sus juncos temblorosos hace tiempo; de sus llanuras
desconsoladas, la aventura huyó hace tiempo;
y ahora, aunque seductor fluya el río,
y cada cabo con álamos, cada meandro
o islote de sauces gane para si a tu alma
y velocidad susurre a tu chalupa esperanzada;
aún así no esperes nada; la esperanza ya no existe;
¡y hace tiempo que están muertas las arboledas áureas,
que del mundo se esfumaron las ciudades encantadas!