Recalling a Poem by Emily Dickinson & otros poemas | Ignacio Oliden

Ignacio Oliden (Buenos Aires, 1997) publica sus ensayos, poesía, cuentos, y traducciones en la revista literaria La Piccioletta Barca (Cambridge, Reino Unido) de la cual es editor. Es co-fundador y escritor en la revista Espacio Mimesis, y tiene publicaciones en antologías de cuentos y en la revista Todo es Historia.

ON THE ARRIVAL OF SPRING

The blaze of a hummingbird is suggested in sweet shade,
Among brief petals that the year has brought,
Rolling out, like the lover’s smile, to sun’s note.

From the skies a dream of light is boughed;
Crosses over long fields and falls
In the exact point of this garden
In which my book is opened.

I think in delight:
What glorious movement of gears
Has been sketched in those margins,
And has decided such luck?

Birds! Roses! All has come to me!
Dew of the first greeneries
Enlivened the locked-up trees,
And this faraway sunbeam has arrived
To let me read my books outside!

MEDITATIONS ON A ROSE

What is a rose but a verse?
And its art of repeating itself,
Leaf on leaf, petals
That loop without end,
But rhyme, Truth’s dress?

A WILD GUESS ABOUT OLD WRITINGS

Heine says that the skies to the Greeks belonged,
And in extravagancies they rejoiced
Till the Crossed Flag was planted on the heights
Of an Olympian peak. They ran in fright
And kept themselves namelessly in the corners;
Some claim Dionysus, and two more rowers,
Through the fog in Tyrol passed clandestine,
Every six months, to drink their joyous wine
And dance their dance.

In Speyer, they heard, near the Rhine, Hermes
Carried souls for some Dutch coins in commerce;
And that some whale hunters in the South Seas
Came across the very Zeus, who for peace
Had to exchange bronze from Hephaestus the lame,
-Bracelets, rings and chains hammered down in flame-
And hunt his way with wooden spear for food,
At an unnamed island, as lonely as Scrooge,
Repentant and poor.

Heine tells us still, that the fight for heavens
Was acquainted, and written, and hidden
By scholars in perfidious collections.
Is that, then, O treason!!! how these versions
Fell in the dark depths of fiction?

Truth is, these ancient works Man discovered,
And vessels appeared all of a sudden,
And with them, engraved stones and glorious mirths
Were given to us expelled from the earth:
We found dialogues from a Greek teacher,
Who explains blind Homer and his virtues,
Who speaks the outburst of Achilles.

Now, we are often told to study the great,
But whose oeuvre did Homer celebrate?
Who inspired this titanic genius?
These notions remain to me mysterious…

What if He who the Firmament designs,
With a quill as large as the highest pines,
Perhaps the spear of the fallen angel,
A rustic rod when grabbed by the Maker,

The underived hexameters of Man sang,
And laid them down to be picked by the hand,
And be seen by the humble human eye?

I allow myself to think possible
That these marvels, these marmoreal fables,
Were not conceived by an earthly author,
Nor there was any initial thinker;
The inaugural works were put from the start,
So that in unwinding each scroll of art,
They would slowly unfold upon Man’s feet
Like a path of stars, and through this deceit
We can say, the everlasting plot began.

(Publicado en La Piccioletta Barca)

ATARDECER

Suyo es el vestido que hila
En el telar de los caminos,
Y suya es la mortaja
Con que vela la voz del día.

Y en la alquimia de los destinos,
Como Penélope deshace
Y reanuda en la mañana;
Otra vez las sombras
Y luego el alba en las ventanas.

El Oro que es brillo,
El relámpago y el fuego del castigo,
Son actividades de su luz
Que responden a su gusto,
Y resplandecen sin descanso.

Mas no es ley en todos los casos,
Y como Góngora y sus flores,
Hasta en los vestidos del día
Existe la diferencia de suerte:
Hay tardes que embellecen la vida,
Y hay otras que imitan la muerte.

¿Cuál será mi último poniente,
Abrupta pendiente por la cual resbalaré,
Como el sol, hasta mi silencio permanente?

Russel Square, Londres, 2019

QUEJA ANTIGUA

¡Rey del tiempo y Ventura!
Escucha, que ya pierdo la cordura
Al ver que a un rostro tallado
En blanca piedra y hermosura,
Los siglos le han sido prometidos,
Y no el polvo ni la grieta oscura.

Que para mí no hay justicia;
Pues diste a los muros de Babilonia,
Al faro de los egipcios,
Y al alto bronce de Rodas,
El impostergable fin del polvo,
La A y la Z de las cosas todas.

Pero noto luego, ay Dios,
¡Y esto es lo que me apena!
Que una mujer hecha de piedra,
Con sus senos engalanados,
Y sus ojos del todo en vano,
Mezcla del cincel y la humana mano,
Imita las bellezas que a tu genio se atribuyen,
Y cruza los días sin que nada la perturbe.

Que si el tiempo a la mujer nos quita,
Y al mármol luz infinita brinda,
¿Quién ha de vengar el desorden
De mujeres y réplicas
De duraciones indignas?

Dicen que un día delante tuyo son como mil años
Y mil años como un día;
Aquí la ley que sellaste con sabiduría.
No sé si es una injusticia contra tus manos,
O la mujer que con maestría has modelado,
Mas pido perdón por tamaña herejía,
¡Y sufro la injusticia, como si fuera sólo mía!

ON POETIC SUBJECTS

In the middle of a night walk,
A bolt has retrieved the light of the streets;
And out there, in the abysmal strait,
The starry stream increases speed.

I feel the fear and I doubt
Whether this is not a warning coming down,
‘Cause who shall handle the seas?
And the moon and the tides,
And the winds and the forests,
And reduce it all into a single poem?

Shall we be like the willow that reveres in silvering silence?
Or the crickets and toads with their innocent songs?

Perhaps the farmer’s the wisest:
He looks at the sky, yet not in bliss,
To tell or not the coming of the rain,
And resumes his craft in the following day.

CUATRO AMIGOS SE SIENTAN A VER LA PUESTA

Cuatro amigos se sientan a ver la puesta
Entre las moscas y los perros. Los cuatro
En cuatro sillas miran al cielo, y pasan
Del dorado al rojo, al anaranjado, al violeta…

Ya el pincel de luz en su paleta mezcla:
Sugiere, da belleza,
Pero no decide, ni revela nada,
A estos jóvenes de mirada presta.

Al rato, y sin darse cuenta,
La noche borra los rostros… las manos…
Y las siluetas…

“La Taba”, Laboulaye, Córdoba.
2021.

RECALLING A POEM BY EMILY DICKINSON

Beside the Recoleta Cemetery in Buenos Aires stands the city’s oldest planted Ombú.

With time a marble garden sprang
Beside this wooden pillar
(Which counts of life three centuries),
And now tells the nation’s stories:

Generals, poets, and statesmen,
Every name of every book
Lies in these sepulchral rooms
Of blind windows and silent stairs.

But resting in the shade,
And gazing at each cross,
I recall a certain poem
And a certain verse,

And I think about the days,
And the planting here of a tree,
And there, the eradication of a man.

Buenos Aires, 2020.

(Publicado en La Piccioletta Barca)

Otros trabajos de Ignacio Oliden: Fellini’s nightmares and 8 ½ | Three PoemsBy The SeaIce Rails by César Vallejo |  On The Creation Of Biographies


Poesía Argentina | Buenos Aires Poetry, 2021.