Termina mayo, "mes de las flores", en la expresión popular. No quise que finalizara sin compartir un poema inédito, escrito en diciembre de 2019, al volver a pasar por mis manos la obra poética de la poeta estadounidense Emily Dickinson, quien naciera en diciembre de 1830 y muriera el 15 de mayo de 1886.
Emily Dickinson es de esas poetas que marcan la vida, que se incorporan a la "educación sentimental" (como dijera Flaubert), de los que somos lectores de poesía y literatura en general, como lo hizo en mí. Al releerla quise dedicarle esta modesta "rosa", usando el título del también recordado cuento de William Faulkner, que entrego ahora a ustedes, apreciados lectores.
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It ends May, "month of flowers", in the popular expression. I didn't want it to end without sharing an unpublished poem, written in December 2019, when the poetic work of the American poet Emily Dickinson, who was born in December 1830 and died on May 15, 1886, came back to me.
Emily Dickinson is one of those poets who make a mark on life, who are incorporated into "sentimental education" (as Flaubert said), of whom we are readers of poetry and literature in general, as she did in me. When I reread it, I wanted to dedicate this modest "rose" to it, using the title of the also remembered story by William Faulkner, which I now hand over to you, dear readers.
Una rosa para Emily
Amplio haced este lecho
hacedlo con temor y reverencia.
Emily Dickinson
Te quiero con tu tristeza y tu angustia;
para sufrir contigo y no para llevarte
a ningún falso reino de la alegría.
Antonio Buero Vallejo
Emily, en tus versos
siempre moraré,
como si tu lecho
fuera el mío,
o el de todos.
Seremos tu fracaso
o tu muerte,
remontando
a destiempo
nuestro ocaso.
Seremos quizás
una Sofía*
como en días juveniles
de premonitoria tristeza.
Tú, estarás, recordándonos
lo que somos:
esta frágil materia
ahíta de amor y comprensión.
Cynthia Nixon as Emily Dickinson in a scene from Terence Davies' History of a Passion. Fuente
A rose for Emily
Broad make this bed
do it with fear and reverence
Emily Dickinson
I love you with your sadness and your anguish;
to suffer with you and not to take you
to any false realm of joy.
Antonio Buero Vallejo
Emily, in your verses
I will always dwell,
as if your bed
were mine,
or everyone's.
We will be your failure
or your death,
going back to
misadventure
our sunset.
We will be perhaps
a Sofia*
as in youthful days
of premonitory sadness.
You'll be, reminding us
who we are
this fragile matter:
needy of love and understanding.