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Este blog NO es el blog del Médico Juan - Ignacio Reculé Rivera. Si usted busca a ese facultativo, puede encontrarlo AQUÍ.

20 de abril de 2011

Beauty Love and Lust



               Jaime y Trinidad iban contándonos de la vez aquella que a Jaime le dio neuritis del vestibular y andaba con vértigo, y no podía moverse para nada así que tenía que quedarse apoltronado en el sillón mientras ella le leía un libro.
              Yo me pregunté si alguna vez tendría algo así. Veníamos de vuelta de la casa de los padres de Jaime a orillas del mar. Allá me preguntaba si alguna vez tendré algo así; pero esa pregunta es indisoluble de la otra: ¿alguna vez tendré con quién tener algo así? Todo parece un poco forzoso, porque en plena sinceridad, SÍ me he enamorado y SÍ me han amado y SÍ he tenido proyectos.
              Pero parecen incapaces de durar. Quizá - a veces me intriga - es un rasgo de mi personalidad. Don't know. Lo que sí sé es que me acordé de este poema (el próximo (quiénsabecuándo en verdad) post, la traduzco, ahora me da flojera. Rifaré un premio al que adivine al autor):



Beauty Love and Lust
O please don’t get me wrong
is not the field of love
where does my search belong,

                                       Nor do i look for lust
                                   that folly four – leaf’d clove
                               which once found, never lasts;

What i want confused can
be with those fit dressings
beauty imposes to man

                                       But soon the sham is caught:
                                   shrivell’d by time’s pressings,
                               that clothing comes to nought
 
No, love’s truly a fake, and certainly lust
though may at some point seem indeed as a must
vanishes in the sea of unforgetful,
relentless, and passion-diminishing time;
beauty as is proudly announced by its soundly chime
starts to decay into an agony as dreadful
as long it takes to finally turn its poor prey
to an unimportant character to the play

Though this new individual may be made a fool
reminiscent as he is, by the old tools
even older love has at its disposal
(For no one is as naked, clueless and lost
than someone unladen of fairness last frost)
And may be tempted by dirty proposal
dirty lust has to offer and be no more free,
It’s self evident that this man is not me

O no, they transit a mostly different field
and go unheralded, the cravings I yield;
for I do prefer what mediators needs not
and truly sustains them both, lust and beauty;
from which love’s not but a minor deputy,
to lovers rage, one of the many in the lot.
Perfection of the Bodies, that’s what I need
To no less – and there can’t be more – may I plead
For its self-contained sweet exact symmetry
holds and keeps its own language and poetry.
Not defined by the will of a few many
like sad beauty is, looks down on lower lust
which often strikes the bar, to be fully cast,
of an approving companion. If any,
it holds alliance solely to Nature
from which it truly excels and She takes venture.

Muscular symphonies whose silence is speech
Sovereign over man’s works that thee can’t reach
You’re not buried or born, but live in full now
thus unlike mortal love, slave to the hour
pay no heed to time’s call, bitter and sour
nor have someone to report ‘bout when or how
because you exist on yourself, on yourself fill’d
uncapturable by eye hunterly skill’d

undisputedly at first try thee get to claim
the sorry gaze that upon you sets its aim
captive the soul on your utter perfection.
Love can be in spite of all its endearment
hurdled by body and its mobile garment;
You, unendowed with the need for affection
to the rhythm of your mean adjust your poise
and to own’s health drink your cup of rejoice
 
Arm, lovely lathed thigh
expressive charming hand
hair billowing out high,

                                       All a secret tongue speak
                                   circumscribing thought-lands
                               that upon my mind leak

that the clockwork divine
mechanic of movement,
subtle poem of the line

                                       is but an impression
                                   of that very moment
                               totalness’ expression

intersects with our plane of life
and with the sharpness of a knife
all this truth struck me;
all eternity can be bound
in an instant so short and sound
when perfection can be,
for this harmony of forces needs no mirror
and its all-sufficience can’t be any clearer
than its simple unobservance of time’s will;
it comes out from nowhere
                that being its grand power
and undisturbed by feel, writes with space’s quill
its one-lined poem. When its magic is done,
returns to eternity it came from, and is gone.


Fuentes para las fotografías:
Beauty
Love
Lust
Casa de Jaime: Trinidad.

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