I la dona, ui la dona! We just can't cope now with all the leaks to be patched up; and there are twoplaces in the hold where the wood has let me down: Thirty days of torrential rainlNoah was peering through the sky-light: The family, as you well know, don't understand.
My sons turn and snapangrily at me; the daughters-in-law just gossip and won't haul a rope; theyoungsters, without sunshine, grow pale and wan. And the wifeGawd, thewife! If looks could kill I, a ms, el temps pesa qui-sap-lo: Prou mullader, Jahv, repensa't! Que el bastiment, de nyigui-nyogui,poc mariner, sort d'una drassanagaldosa, a fe! No m'ennaveguis ms, estroncales deus de la justciai engega el sol de la misericrdia! Ja fra hora d'estendre la bugada! All this dampness is doing me no good: And how the time drags: We've been drenched enough, Jehovah: Sure, this old tub,hardly fit to put to sea, must have come from a cock-eyed shipyard, and that'sa fact!
It's creaking and coming apart at the ribs. Don't keep me at sea any longer; stop the gushing waters of justice and light upthe sun of mercy! It's about time we could hang out the washing! Noms volia dir-tej s per qu t'ho dicque aquest pas no s per a tanta pluja,i el llot no adoba res: Caldr refer eh conreus i escarrassar-se. Som quatre gats malavingutsi me n'estic veient una muntanya Vingu aleshores un tud tot blanc,per ensutzat de colomassa,i s'atur a l'espatlla dretadel vell senyor almirall,el qual, amb la m plana,ofer quatre veces a l'ocell amansit.
En aquell temps ning no s'estranyavade res. I just wanted to tell youand I've gotmy reasons for speaking outthat this country can't take so much rain, andmud is no good for anything: We'll haveto get the crops going again and put our backs into it. We're a sparse andmotley crew and it'll be an uphill struggle Then came a pure white dove, but soiled from being cooped up for so long,and settled on the right shoulder of the old admiral who stretched out anopen hand to give the meek bird a few grains of vetch.
In those days nobodywas surprised about anything. Just take a look in the Bible. Perqu estn recordant el vell Bruegel i els seusprimaverals blaus que allunyen els campsi l'or polss del blat i dels capells de palla,els ramats indcils com fulles de courei el gla i la neu del poble que pateixl'hivern i la injustcia d'una terrafeta a la mida d'una llei senyorial.
Recordeu que va nixer el a la ciutat de Breda. Homage to Breughel the ElderIn this night of ours it becomes of ever greater interest to speak, all together,of the caress of the clothes that divide man from the world, the flesh from theinstrument of work. Because we are recalling old Breughel and his springlikeblues which distance the fields and the dusty gold of the wheat and of thestraw hats, the stubborn flocks like copper leaves, and the ice and snow of thevillage suffering the winter and the injustice of an earth made to the measureof a feudal law.
Remember, he was born in in the city of Breda. En aquesta nit foscaen un minso pas com el nostre encara s'esmunyenidealistes cabries del que hauria d'sser i no s. I ell, Bruegel el vell, mort en plena verema,agaf uns colors i amb els dits del corens propos la histria de tota l'esttica: On this dark night in a frail country like ours, idealisticworries about what ought to be and isn't still slip through.
And he, Breughelthe Elder, who died at the height of his powers, took up some colours and,with the fingers of his heart, set before us the history of the whole ofaesthetics: Take your hats off to him. No, no ha estat aix tota la vida, perqu, llavors,freqentment, distant i molt discreta, la damade color de turquesa feia ganxet, arrecerada,i Llus, el meu cos, vestit de mariner, corriadarrera la bicicleta del somni, i queia molt sovint. Aix era vers l'any mil nou-cents trenta, l'aromade les coses era una altra, i una taronja teniael gust de sol.
S perfectament el que equival a un home. Per recordo el passeig que anava al misteris pas,les malalties, la joia, el tresor amagat, la ploma groga,els plors, l'aire innocent del meu fabuls, ignot,remot, i per sempre perdut, pas de les meravelles. No, life was not always like that,for then, quite often, the turquoise-coloured lady, so distant and discreet, satwith her crochet well protected, and Llus, my cousin, in his sailor-suit, ranalong behind the dream bicycle, stumbling time and time again. All this wasaround nineteen thirty, things smelled different then, and an orange tasted ofsunshine.
I know perfectly well what is on a par with a man. But I remember the path leading to the mysterious land, the illnesses, thejoy, the hidden treasure, the yellow pen, the tears, the innocent air of myfabulous, unknown, remote wonderland, now gone for good. Els nois estrenyen les noies davant la setmanade por que se'ls ve al damunt. Els nois no parlen. Les noies somriuen i s'abandonen amb mesuraals braos i al ritme del fox.
Les parellesalternen, tristes, i s'evadeixen MIQUEL BAUOn Sunday evenings, in the poor quarter of Santa Marina, on the tinybirdless avenue, with sooty trees and a two-peseta cinema, at the Grapevinebar, the workers' children dance to a hired record-player, beneath the kindlygaze of their fat mothers.
The boys hold the girls tight before the dreadfulweek which is almost on top of them. The boys don't speak. The girls smileand surrender themselves decorously to their arms and to the rhythm of thefox-trot. The couples alternate, sadly, and escape Noms tens els ulls viusi et fas l'absent. Tan sols un lleu cruixirdel teu vestit et fa tornar els recordsamb qu has omplert armaris amb olorde fruita vella. Et voleien les porsi et fan l'ullet. Thas fet gran, potser massaal teu desig. El mn t's un sol baix.
Fan ball a plaa. Els crits els sents davantper no et mous. Els sons t'arriben morts. Els veus passar com veus que passo jopel teu davant: No sc al teu record ni hi s el ball. Tu ja noms tens son. Ets una esttuaque han tret del seu jard i l'han posaten un balc: Only your eyes are alive, the rest of you switches off. Just a slight rustle ofyour clothes brings back the memories with which you have filled wardrobeswith the scent of old fruit. Imperceptibly you turn your hand over. Your fearsflutter up, winking at you.
You have grown old, perhaps too old for your ownliking. The world to you is a sun low down. They are dancing in the square. You can hear loud voices out there but you do not move. The sounds aredead when they reach you. You see them go by as you see me passing beforeyou: I am not in your memory, neither is thedance. You now are just sleepy. You are a statue which has been moved fromits garden and placed on a balcony: Anvem sense cap motiu,desitjant bona nit al matrimoni velli prement nostres cossos calladament, en veureaquella jove mare,donant el pit al fill Viure ens era un regal,un teulad de fang amb dos plomes pintades de fugina,un cavalcar corsers de cart, grocs i verds,com en una sardana de joguet,fent-nos senyals, dient-nos: Delight in the StreetThe sheer joy of the street filled our hands with tender clutches of water, andwe laughed, we mooed with laughter, and in all our muscles we felt the livingwater of delight, sprung from between grasses and hares.
We wandered alongaimlessly, saying goodnight to the old couple and silently pressing our bodiestogether on seeing a young mother with a child at her breast Living was apresent we had been given, a pottery sparrow with two feathers picked out inthe colours of truancy, a charge of horses on a roundabout, yellow and green,as in a toy sardana, when we waved to each other saying, 'Good-bye, good-bye, my love!
I'll think of you always'. I ens tornrem a riure! El temps estava en l'aire. I allargvem les manscercant grapats de temps. Per el temps tampoc no era Noms era la joia del carrer. And we burst outlaughing again! It felt as though time was in the air. And we were reachingout, grasping for handfuls of time. But there was just no such thing astime! All there was was the joy of the street.
Vora la mar,quasi al sorral,una muni de barracots. L'oreigduia l'aroma de salobrei una lleu humitat. De dins de les barraques,amb teulada de llauna,massa calorforagitava tot vivent. La lluna illuminavaaquella gentque jeien pels carrers. It was around midnight, when the cricket and the stars begin theirdialogue. By the sea, almost on the strand, a collection of shacks. The breeze bore on it the scent of brine and a touch of humidity. The unbearable heat indoors drove every living creature out of the shackswith their tin roofs.
The moon shone on those folk as they lay in the streets. Perqu en la paude mitjanit,fatigats de la lluita i del viurenoms, noms volienaquella trista llibertatde dormir al carrer,lliures de la calori dels insectes. Noms una petita llibertat: For in the midnight calm, worn out by the struggle and just by living, all theywanted was that poor wretched freedom to sleep in the street, released fromthe heat and the insects.
Just a little freedom: No per inflar els meus d'una noble buferaet dic de tu, sin com als companys. Sc vell com la teva mort,sc jove com la teva vida. Un mestre, tu no ho ets. Little Monument to Joan Salvat-PapasseitI invoke your spirit simply with simple words from the poetry that you left uswhen you fell into the grave of your hope.
It's not to swell up my own withany noble airs that I speak familiarly to you, but just to talk to you as afriend. I am old as your death, I am as young as your life. A master you arenot. The erudite due respect please! But you gave a light to thepeople, but you touched their faces with a light which has become real andour city would not really be as it is now, had you not spoken of the street, ofthe brightness of the beautiful day that it is, of the charm of every job.
I ara estic contentdel teu fantasma jove. Aix puc anar amb tu sense cap complimentpels camins i els treballs d'aquesta primaveraque s la vida i la mort eternament. El rovell s'ha menjat l'esfera del cafque l'adroguer voltava, i el foc de Sant Joanels grans cistells de vmet. Passen cotxes enormes com vaixells de platxerii d'altres menudets com esclops d'alumini. Al port hi ha noves llums, de nit, i dues torresde ferro. Ja sn velles, les torres, ja cauen.
Fa tant que tu ets mort, i han passat tantes coses! Per encaraque Pirradiador del port tingui ara radar,sn iguals les gavines,i els vestits lluminosos de les noies d'estiu,i els besos a la gorja,i els colors de les hores que llisquen pels carrers,i el groc de les taronges,i tu que amb nosaltres veuscom s bo tot: And now I'm glad of your young spirit.
In this way, I canwalk with you, without ceremony, through the street and labours of thisspring which is life and death eternally. Rust has eaten away the coffeegrinder that the grocer turned and midsummer night's fire, the great wickerbaskets. Enormous cars go past like pleasure cruisers and smaller ones likealuminium clogs. In the port there are new lights, at night, and two irontowers. They're old now, the towers, and are falling down.
You've been deadfor so long and so many things have happened. Yet even though the port beacon has got radar now, the seagulls are thesame, and the luminous dresses of the girls of summer, and the kisses on thethroat, and the yellow of the oranges, and you who, with us, see how good itall is: Ho sabem de sempre. A cada pas que fem,se'ns oblida l'oficii cada vers ens sobta,tot i tenir-lo dintre.
El secret s saber-ho,talment com quan sentimdes de llocs oposatsel galop dels cavallsper les rieres seques. Aleshores cal prmer dins la vall plena d'ecos el llibre ben obertcontra la pana: We always knew that. With each step we take, we forget our trade and each Une of verse surprisesus, even though we have it inside us. The secret is to know this, as when wehear coming from different directions the sound of horses galloping down thedry river beds. Then's the time to press the book in the echo-filled valley wide open against the corduroy; a flash of lightning has embedded itself inthe scorched heart of the glass Poeta enter, ensenyes el dolorque hi ha en el fons de tota vida humana: Poeta amic, quin secret les paraulesserven avui que ens puguin concitar?
Tens el poder de fer sobresaltarels nostres ulls embadalits pels saules. Poeta aspriu, difcil de tenir,card entre llirs, en el que vagis dirdescobrirem un dia el teu misteri? Per qu hi fa? El que importa s el setgeper tu bastit, Ausis March, heretge,que ha perdurat al mateix encanteri. Dear poet, what secret do words hold today that they can still stir us? Youhave the power to shock our eyes as they gaze distractedly at the willows. Rough-diamond poet, difficult to handle, thorn among the lilies, shall we oneday, in what you said, discover your mystery?
What is important is the siege that you laid, Ausis March,you heretic, which has outlived enchantment itself. Aix em passen els jorns, orfe d'aquell meu cantque posava clarors en l'aspror del cam. Si l'amor fou neguit, m'era dola l'espinai com ocell orbat, el dolor m'era cntic. Ara el feix de l'amor, damunt el cor cansats noms solitudde la flama fero devorant en silencila vida que es consum lluny de tu, lentament,sense un crit d'esperana So do the days pass meby, bereft of my one-time song that cast patches of light on the rough track.
Iflove was frustration, still its thorn was sweet to me and, like a blinded bird,pain led me to sing. But now the burden of love pressing down on a worn-outheart is merely loneliness, a fierce flame which silently devours a lifeconsumed far from you, slowly, without a single cry of hope Morir ben sola,els ulls de bat a bat a l'alegriadel gran despullament. Dol oblidar-sedel dard que m'aterr, misria d'altriper meva tamb.
Morir ben sola,estalviar el meu crit en la tenebra: Certa de la Claror IILike a wounded beast, to die alone, facing nothing but the sky, in theundergrowth it hurt so much to reach, beyond regret for ties now broken,past loathing for the final disappointment, the sorry poison that deathrequires To die alone, eyes open wide on the joy of this great divestment. Sweet forgetfulness of the shaft which felled me, wretchedness for others, butalso for me.
Die alone, sparing my cry in the darkness: Si l'has venut, sempre ms el teu somnien sentir la impossible enyorana. Cor desolat, dins sos ulls qui fos nufragsense records de la ptria llunyana. Timons ardents de les hores encesessense ponents ni desigs de cap alba. Cor desolat, nua roca deserta,presa del vent i del sol i de l'aigua. La llibertat si ara s plor ser cntic,cor desolat, en la vida ms alta.
IIIDesolate heart, a sail billowing in the evening breeze, pass swiftly throughthe siren's strait. If once you sail beyond it, you will evermore dream of itwith impossible nostalgia. Desolate heart, oh to be a shipwrecked sailor in your eyes, free frommemories of the distant homeland.
Ardent helms of the glowing hourswithout sunsets or desire for any dawn. Desolate heart, bare empty rock, the prey of the wind, sun and water. Freedom may be sorrow now but will become a hymn of joy, oh desolateheart, in that higher life. La meva passa immbils'ha arrelat en la fosca. Els ulls vids reclamenla dola claror seva. El mur la defeniai el cor, covard, no gosaemprendre la conquesta.
My motionless passage hastaken root in the darkness. Eager eyes seek to claim its sweet brilliance. Thewall protected it and the cowardly heart does not dare to embark on theconquest. El dia portar corones de mimoses. Potser hi haur perd en la mar que no calla. El sol tindr a la boca la seva semprevivai noves veus diran l'alegria de l'aigua. El vent devastar el fanal i l'esttua. Els estius lluiran les seves bruses groguesi el bast blanc del cec sonar als carrers grisos. Entre les roques aspres i als boscos de les nimes,Orfeu seduir les annimes bsties.
Vindran els plenilunis a fer fremir les vergesque esperaran l'amor entre els grills i l'accia. Jo ja no tindr rostre. A mes odes d'herba,el temps far dringar un cascveu d'estrelles Day will wear mimosa wreathes. Perhaps there will beforgiveness in the never silent sea. The sun will hold in its mouth itseverlasting flower, and new voices will speak of the joy of water. The windwill lay waste the street lamp and the statue.
The summers will show offtheir yellow blouses, and the blind man's white stick will sound on the greystreets. Among the rough rocks and in the woods of the souls Orpheus willseduce the anonymous beasts. The full moons will come to make the virginsshiver as they wait for love among the crickets and acacia. I shall no longerhave a face. Time will make a bell of stars tinkle in my ears of grass. El poeta viu en qui l'admira,quan l'home ja l'han fet servirtots i, com s sabut, nomspols, memries tnues, dolorssilents, en resten. In MemoriamThe clothes do not get moth-ridden; the grief, however, becomes frayed anda dreadful vacuum finds its predatory place when the former finallyceases.
The poet lives on in those who admire him, when everyone has done with theman himself and, as we know, all that remains of him is dust, vaguememories, silent pangs. I Aubrey parlava de Shakespeare. Els llibres d'histria sn un vicique totes les policies accepten. I viure s una manera de combatreles arnes, les recances a la matinada. La veritat, per, s una altra. AndAubrey was speaking of Shakespeare. History books are a form of vice accepted by all police forces.
And living is ameans of fighting off the moths, the regrets that come in the early hours. Thetruth, however, is different. Lent, el canal discorre, quasi immbil,com si volgus quedar-sela imatge pacient del pescador,la trmula frisana del bedoll,o el nvol.
English SpringIt is not that a feeble sunlight filtering through these soft-leaved elms canmake me yearn for brighter springs: Slowly, the canal glidesalong, almost motionless, as if wishing to hold on to the patient image of theangler, the tremulous shimmer of the birch, or the cloud. Que punyent ens semblar el doloramb aire nou i ocells entre els lils. Per el mn va seguint el seu cam. L'estudiantha tancat el seu llibre i es distreusembla que amb un bri d'herba. Per s tot el mn que el distreu,la transparent cortina de sofriments i afectesque li privade llanar-se al somriure esplendorsd'uns instants que sap breus i que, amb tot,sn els nics felios.
How sharply shall we feel the pain when the air is newand there are birds among the lilacs. But the world continues on its same oldway. The student has closed his book and seems distracted by a blade ofgrass. But what distracts him is the whole world, the transparent curtain ofsuffering and feeling that prevents him from breaking through to the radiantsmile of instants which he knows are brief and which, even so, are the onlytime of happiness. Per una herba se't mou sobre les cordes fines. Ara s verda i menuda aquesta arpa, que duual teu cos mineral una trmula sabadel juny assolellat i feli, mentre tuescoltes, i qui sap si una abella et besava.
Ms enlaire que el cedre, entre dos ngels greus,no veus enamorats a la prada, el tord lliureque xiula sobre l'herba dels morts. I vora els teusbrins de msica, lluny, t'endevino el somriure. But aweed brushes across your slender strings. Now it is green and small, this harp that brings into your mineral body thetremulous sap of sunny, happy June, as you listen, and perhaps a bee kissedyou. Higher than the cedar, between two solemn angels, you do not see lovers inthe meadow, the unfettered thrush that sings over the lawns of the dead. Andclose to your wisps of music, in the distance, I sense that you are smiling.
Sovint havem d'enlairar l'esguardfins als vestigis d'un esgrafiatque, calmosos, anvem desxifrantmentre a Santa Maria repicavenles altes campanades que se senten,avui encara, al fons de l'estuc blau. Often we had to raise our eyes to the remains of a carved inscriptionthat we leisurely deciphered while from the church of Santa Maria rang outthe lofty peals of the bells that can still be heard, even today, in the depths ofthe blue stucco, where we piece together the frescoes of the past.
Escoltar la terra, les seves olors,el seu ardent missatge,freturs potser de nosaltres, d'alg tan sols ,Houses with Tall TreesThere are still houses with tall trees where you can wander in the evening, atime for peaceful unhurried withdrawal, a time for nostalgia and dreams; forwatching the calm sea and strolling, either alone or in silence, down somequiet path, where the lights of day and night can be watched as they overlap,and finally lose yourself in the distance.
Listening to the earth with its smellsand its fervent message, which might, perhaps, need us, or anyone atall Sort, sort que encara hi ha cases amb grans arbreson poder dissipar-se els capvespres: LEX SUSANNAI have always thought it was unfair, really unfair, that no-one can enjoy a fullmoon at sea in winter, or that blossoming throbbing night sky of themountains, or the tender cry of bare fields in spring, or yet the overbearingpowerful silence that shrouds an erased track How lucky, how lucky there are still houses with tall trees where you canwhile away the evenings: Una sentor de pa m'obre la ganai els crits dels fillsm'estiren per les mnigues.
Trobo un bes oblidatque em puja als llavis. Somric, i s'obren les finestres. El sol s tot un altre. M'agrada molt de veureels parracs del vestit de soldatque fan de baietai el vell diccionarique serveixperqu el petit s'enfili. Now I'm close to home. A smell of bread makes me feel hungry, and thechildren's shouts tug at my sleeves. I find a forgotten kiss which rises to mylips.
I smile and the windows open. The sun is completely different. I love to see the tatters of the soldier's uniform used as a floorcloth and theold dictionary that serves for the youngest child to climb on. Parlemde coses viroladesque tot seguit s'esfumen,o de coses molt netesque es queden penjades al sostreper sempre. Al carrerm'he deixat,oblidades,les paraules de fora. We talk of many-coloured things that vanish straight away, or of very cleanones that stay hanging from the ceiling for ever.
I have left behind in the street, forgotten, the outdoor words. They arewaiting for me. De mica en mica,l'ampla boirina assolelladase'm beu els ulls i m'obre al temps. En una clariana tbiasi en somni breu o llarg, jo no ho sabriaveig els bous d'un vell novembre d'or. Quan torno en mi, freda buidor, m'adonode la fusta plana i seca, taulade fora on dempeus anava l'home,i fora camp cerco la vila. Little by little, the wide sunlit hazedrinks up my eyes and opens me to time.
In a mild clearingwhether in ashort or a long dream, I wouldn't knowI see the oxen of an old, goldenNovember. When I come to, a cold emptiness, I notice the flat, dry plank, theplatform of force where the man trod at his work, and beyond the fields Iseek the town. I un caador cansat,amb una breu escopetada,trenca a bocins el vidre clar del celi sobre el mn les flors del cel escampa.
Summer is going away. And a tired hunter, with onebrief gunshot, smashes to smithereens the bright glass of the sky and scattersits flowers over the world. Vine i no diguis res, que sigui dolde veure'ns com objectes viusd'alentits moviments, que ens donen l'aireuna mica irreal, com somniant-nos, deslliuratsde l'odiosa i persistent tirania del temps. Deixem parlar la pelltresor ofert als ullstensada per la fora dels paisatges internson cada mscul obeeix les ordresprocedents del desig. Desprs que vinguinles paraules als llavis, que ens passeginpel mn embolcallat de la memria,i aturem-nos als prats dels records ms llunyans,cap als rius clars on ens porti l'atzar.
Convida'mHolidayCome into the shelter of this cove, sit down in the shade of these trees bentover by their very desire for the sea what roots could be so cruel as torestrain them? Come and say nothing, let it be nice to see ourselves asliving objects of slowed motions that make us seem slightly unreal, as ifdreaming of ourselves, freed from the odious and persistent tyranny of time. Let's let our flesh talka treasure offered to the eyes tensed by the force ofinterior landscapes where every muscle obeys the orders issued by desire.
Letwords come later to the lips, let them take us through this world enveloped inmemory and let us halt in the meadows of most distant recollections, besidethe clear river where fate may carry us. Invite me[81]a cada estana dels teus anys passats;entra tu dins els meus, i es mantindr,a cada llavi, la llum del somriure,que fa els rostres ms bells tots els dolorsja l'han perdut, aquest combat, i ho celebremcom soldats que reposen de la guerrafestejant i fent festa.
Les mans, sense adonar-nos-en, es trobeni inicien el joc; els ulls s'avenena contemplar la dansa de llurs ombresa la sorra, figures que s'amaguendarrere els tremolors de l'ombra de les fulles. SALVADOR OLIVAto each chamber of your past years and you come into mine, and on each lipwill remain the light of that smile which makes faces more beautiful allpains have now lost the fight and we celebrate like soldiers who rest from warin courtship and merriment.
Our hands, without our realizing it, find each other and begin the game; oureyes combine to gaze at the dance of their shadows on the sand, shapeswhich conceal themselves behind the trembling shadows of the leaves. I ara l'ullno copsar les tenebroses ones,llenol de resplendor lvida. El fences consumeix, talment un llamp que crema,arbre immolat. Sarments, combats sulfurisd'arrels, remor terral.
De tants guerrersquarter d'hivern, oh cor de l'home! L'ardorfebril del temps que el meu passat esquinai ens mostra el sol roent i negre. Fremnosaltres, guardians d'un joc d'escacsinfaust, de torres i peons la llbregacomparsa? Regne del silenci, roures,tardor de l'sser. I els metalls, exsangessota l'empremta, l'alt domini.
Estiu,SolsticeSummer has exiled the stiff corpse of spring. And now the eye will not catchthe dark waves, shroud of livid splendour. The hay is consumed, like aburning lightning-flash, sacrificial tree. Vine shoots, sulphurous conflicts ofroots, murmur of earth. Winter quarters of so many warriors, o heart of man!
Avid summers and springs. The feverish passion of time which tears up mypast and shows us the scorching black sun. Were we, guardians of an ill-fatedgame of chess, the sombre retinue of castles and pawns? Kingdom of silence,oak-trees, autumn of being. And the metals, bloodless beneath the footprint,the high dominion.
El mar, llis, reflecteixel diamant, la lluna soterrada,el senyoriu del sol ocult. Els motscelen un clos pregon, i l'escripturalacera el cos del tigre. Escrit amb foci escrit amb llum, a la lunar contrada,pasturatge dels morts. L'amant albira,enll dels membres enllaats, l'obscur. I les arrels no es mouen. Com els cossos,s'han nodrit de silenci. Llur pasde sequedat i de centelles obreels ulls, esbatanats. El crit del corbsagna al cel moradenc. The frozen sky is a transparency. The sea, smooth,reflects the diamond, the buried moon, the mastery of the hidden sun.
Wordsconceal a deep enclosure, and writing lacerates the body of the tiger. Writtenwith fire and written with light, in the moon's domain, pasture of the dead. The lover glimpses darkness beyond the twisting limbs. And the roots do notmove. Like bodies, they have fed on silence. Their land of dryness and sparksopens its eyes wide. The cry of the raven bleeds in the purple sky. La vida expressa els seus desigs de sempre,Els elements avancen, donen vidai resten brasa de les seves flames.
Entre estels lineals de quatre ratllesles formes es confonen amb els signes,talment una harmonia emesa amb taques. Sestina for Joan Miron his 85th birthdayThe dream touches and gazes full of life, and man arises from a set of lines;his arms are like horns; in paint marks the sun opens the profile of manysigns, and a new night, passed through fire and flames, alludes to the carnavalof today and always. Life expresses its eternal desires, the elements advance, give life and extractembers from 'tis flames. Among linear stars of four lines forms are confusedwith signs, like a harmony transmitted with paint marks.
Espai i aire van units, com sempre. La terra en aquests quadres sn els signesms que tenebres, claredat i vida. El foc esmola l'ungla de les ratllessi dels punts de color sorgeixen flames. Mir camina intacte entre les flames. Una arrel regalima i peten taques,nassos i trompes escarneixen ratlles,i els ulls miren els ulls, miralls de sempre. Voltat de galls, Mir pinta la vidai viu els quadres, hortol de signes. The dream touches and gazes full of life, and man arises Here the element ofwater is the paint marks.
Space and air are united, as always. The earth inthese pictures is signsmore than darkness, clarity and life Fire hones thefinger-nail of the lines if flames arise from the points of colour. Mir walks unharmed among the flames. A root streams with liquid andpaint marks explode, noses and trunks mock at lines, and eyes gaze at eyes,eternal mirrors. Surrounded by roosters, Mir paints life and lives hispictures, gardener of signs.
La llibertat s vista i emet flames. Puja pels peus la fora de la vida;canta i ms canta el blau d'un fons de taquesi broten fulles del cos hum, sempreenll del pensament teixit a ratlles. Deixem el sol a terra sense ratlles. La lluna ve de lluny i parla amb signes,per els seus raigs no es perden perqu sempres'acosten a l'origen quatre flamesamb cresta o barretina. Aix les taquesno ens priven que tornem de mort a vida.
Mir dna la vida amb punts i ratlles;l'al surt de les taques i dels signes,i amor i flames restaran per sempre. Liberty is seen and gives offflames. The power of life mounts through the feet; the blue of a backgroundof paint marks sings and sings and leaves spring from the human body,always beyond thought woven in lines.
We leave the sun on the ground without lines. The moon comes from a longway off and speaks in signs, but its rays are not lost since always four flameswith a cock's crest or a barretina approach the origin. Thus the paint-marksdo not prevent us from returning from death to life. Mir gives life with dots and lines: Envejo nens petits amb uns grans ullsque tot ho descobreixen, vivacssims,que juguen amb el mn amb tanta eufria,que tot ho posseeixen.
I, trist, trec els meus ulls a passejarper places i carrers, com els venspassegen cada vespre el seu gosset,abans que tot s'acabi. DAVID JOUNot even all those eyes, staring as one from the searching self-portraitspainted by Picasso, nor all of Goethe's eyes looking on from the bestportraits painted of him,can catch sight of me in the mirror, invent a fate for me, nor can they shedlight on any path I might take, and slowly they grow dim.
I envy those small children with wide-open eyes, so sharp to catcheverything, who play so rapturously with the world, and own it all. So, sadly, I take my eyes out for a stroll through squares and streets, like myneighbours who walk their puppy each evening, before it all comes to anend. Passing ShotWell installed on a raised stand of sterile dreams that are frayed andpatternless in contrast to the daily game on the rolled red court where, ateach stroke, the furious balls that my adversaries unleash bounce sharply, Ilike a mad thing, now at the base-line, now at the net, try to run, to drive, tobend, to stretch up, never flexible enough, never strong enough, never intime to return the passing shots that come at me every second.
M'installo novamenta la petita plataformadels somnis, cada copms frgil, sempre a puntde caure i despertar-medel tot. JOAN VINYOLII know full well that I have lost the match, that I shall gain nothing from thebrief moments of respite between games, from the damp towel to dab thebrow, the glass of tonic water or teathere is no point in thinking aboutdrugs, it is too late for that now. So now I say: La tempesta a la jungla agita les palmeres. Javelines indgenes dobleguen els jaguars. El meu somni governa canoes i pirages.
Desemboquen en mi afluents navegables. Em divideix el cor la quilla dels vaixellscarregats de productescotons, laques, espciesque tripula el dest vers la ignota metrpolide l'angoixa i la freda tenebra ultramarina. El vent cruix a les veles de lones impollutesi vibren tots els cables i els mstils dels navilismentre s'entela el cel, polint blaus esmerilsi una lquida lmina d'aluminis translcids. PUIGVERTIf the moon of the islands is drawn to my heart, I drown in the atmosphere ofa nebulous delta and the climate of flutes slowly dilates a nucleus of soluble,boreal planets.
The storm in the jungle shakes the palm trees. Native javelins tame thejaguars. My dream masters canoes and piraguas. Navigable tributaries flowinto me. Tenen un fill notari a la pennsulai una filla amb proms. Sn gent d'all que en diuen respectable. Tornen a casa cap al tard, lentssims,assaborint cansadament la tarda. Amb una punta de frisana, els ullsse'ls perden qualque pic entre les branquesdels arbres del carrer, com si hi sotgessinun reste de verdor o de carcia.
Miren els anys, el cel, les hores seques,el rellotge i la pols. Now they have a son who's a lawyer onthe mainland and a daughter who's engaged. They're what's known asrespectable folk. They come home late, very slowly, wearily relishing the evening. With atouch of impatience their eyes sometimes stray over the branches of the treesin the street, as though looking for some left-over greenness or caress. Theywatch the years, the sky, the dry hours, the clock, the dust.
Ja es nega el pic ms alt de la muntanya. No es veu ni un bri de verd,ni un pam de terra. Senyor, per qu no atures aquest xfec? Minva el gra i el farratgei les bsties es migren a les fosques;toteste'n faig l'apostadeuen pensar el mateix: I mentrestant els peixos se la campen! Jo tampoc no m'explico el privilegi. NoahNoah looks out, sheepishly, through the port-hole. The downpour is notabating. The mountain's highest top is now under water. There is not astrand of green to be seen, nor the smallest bit of ground. Lord, why don't you turn off the tap?
Fa trenta dies que plou massa! No cercava el cel per la lluernai veia la cortina espessa de la pluja. La famlia, ho saps prou, no se'n fa crrec. Els fills em planten cara, rabiosos,les nores xafardegen i no sirguen,els infants, sense sol, s'emmusteeixen. I la dona, ui la dona! We just can't cope now with all the leaks to be patched up; and there are twoplaces in the hold where the wood has let me down: Thirty days of torrential rainlNoah was peering through the sky-light: The family, as you well know, don't understand.
My sons turn and snapangrily at me; the daughters-in-law just gossip and won't haul a rope; theyoungsters, without sunshine, grow pale and wan. And the wifeGawd, thewife! If looks could kill I, a ms, el temps pesa qui-sap-lo: Prou mullader, Jahv, repensa't! Que el bastiment, de nyigui-nyogui,poc mariner, sort d'una drassanagaldosa, a fe! No m'ennaveguis ms, estroncales deus de la justciai engega el sol de la misericrdia! Ja fra hora d'estendre la bugada! All this dampness is doing me no good: And how the time drags: We've been drenched enough, Jehovah: Sure, this old tub,hardly fit to put to sea, must have come from a cock-eyed shipyard, and that'sa fact!
It's creaking and coming apart at the ribs. Don't keep me at sea any longer; stop the gushing waters of justice and light upthe sun of mercy! It's about time we could hang out the washing! Noms volia dir-tej s per qu t'ho dicque aquest pas no s per a tanta pluja,i el llot no adoba res: Caldr refer eh conreus i escarrassar-se. Som quatre gats malavingutsi me n'estic veient una muntanya Vingu aleshores un tud tot blanc,per ensutzat de colomassa,i s'atur a l'espatlla dretadel vell senyor almirall,el qual, amb la m plana,ofer quatre veces a l'ocell amansit.
En aquell temps ning no s'estranyavade res. I just wanted to tell youand I've gotmy reasons for speaking outthat this country can't take so much rain, andmud is no good for anything: We'll haveto get the crops going again and put our backs into it. We're a sparse andmotley crew and it'll be an uphill struggle Then came a pure white dove, but soiled from being cooped up for so long,and settled on the right shoulder of the old admiral who stretched out anopen hand to give the meek bird a few grains of vetch.
In those days nobodywas surprised about anything. Just take a look in the Bible. Perqu estn recordant el vell Bruegel i els seusprimaverals blaus que allunyen els campsi l'or polss del blat i dels capells de palla,els ramats indcils com fulles de courei el gla i la neu del poble que pateixl'hivern i la injustcia d'una terrafeta a la mida d'una llei senyorial.
Recordeu que va nixer el a la ciutat de Breda. Homage to Breughel the ElderIn this night of ours it becomes of ever greater interest to speak, all together,of the caress of the clothes that divide man from the world, the flesh from theinstrument of work. Because we are recalling old Breughel and his springlikeblues which distance the fields and the dusty gold of the wheat and of thestraw hats, the stubborn flocks like copper leaves, and the ice and snow of thevillage suffering the winter and the injustice of an earth made to the measureof a feudal law. Remember, he was born in in the city of Breda.
En aquesta nit foscaen un minso pas com el nostre encara s'esmunyenidealistes cabries del que hauria d'sser i no s. I ell, Bruegel el vell, mort en plena verema,agaf uns colors i amb els dits del corens propos la histria de tota l'esttica: On this dark night in a frail country like ours, idealisticworries about what ought to be and isn't still slip through.
And he, Breughelthe Elder, who died at the height of his powers, took up some colours and,with the fingers of his heart, set before us the history of the whole ofaesthetics: Take your hats off to him. No, no ha estat aix tota la vida, perqu, llavors,freqentment, distant i molt discreta, la damade color de turquesa feia ganxet, arrecerada,i Llus, el meu cos, vestit de mariner, corriadarrera la bicicleta del somni, i queia molt sovint.
Aix era vers l'any mil nou-cents trenta, l'aromade les coses era una altra, i una taronja teniael gust de sol. S perfectament el que equival a un home. Per recordo el passeig que anava al misteris pas,les malalties, la joia, el tresor amagat, la ploma groga,els plors, l'aire innocent del meu fabuls, ignot,remot, i per sempre perdut, pas de les meravelles. No, life was not always like that,for then, quite often, the turquoise-coloured lady, so distant and discreet, satwith her crochet well protected, and Llus, my cousin, in his sailor-suit, ranalong behind the dream bicycle, stumbling time and time again.
All this wasaround nineteen thirty, things smelled different then, and an orange tasted ofsunshine. I know perfectly well what is on a par with a man. But I remember the path leading to the mysterious land, the illnesses, thejoy, the hidden treasure, the yellow pen, the tears, the innocent air of myfabulous, unknown, remote wonderland, now gone for good. Els nois estrenyen les noies davant la setmanade por que se'ls ve al damunt.
Els nois no parlen. Les noies somriuen i s'abandonen amb mesuraals braos i al ritme del fox. Les parellesalternen, tristes, i s'evadeixen MIQUEL BAUOn Sunday evenings, in the poor quarter of Santa Marina, on the tinybirdless avenue, with sooty trees and a two-peseta cinema, at the Grapevinebar, the workers' children dance to a hired record-player, beneath the kindlygaze of their fat mothers. The boys hold the girls tight before the dreadfulweek which is almost on top of them.
The boys don't speak. The girls smileand surrender themselves decorously to their arms and to the rhythm of thefox-trot. The couples alternate, sadly, and escape Noms tens els ulls viusi et fas l'absent. Tan sols un lleu cruixirdel teu vestit et fa tornar els recordsamb qu has omplert armaris amb olorde fruita vella. Et voleien les porsi et fan l'ullet. Thas fet gran, potser massaal teu desig.
El mn t's un sol baix. Fan ball a plaa. Els crits els sents davantper no et mous. Els sons t'arriben morts. Els veus passar com veus que passo jopel teu davant: No sc al teu record ni hi s el ball. Tu ja noms tens son. Ets una esttuaque han tret del seu jard i l'han posaten un balc: Only your eyes are alive, the rest of you switches off. Just a slight rustle ofyour clothes brings back the memories with which you have filled wardrobeswith the scent of old fruit. Imperceptibly you turn your hand over. Your fearsflutter up, winking at you.
You have grown old, perhaps too old for your ownliking. The world to you is a sun low down. They are dancing in the square. You can hear loud voices out there but you do not move.
HOMAGE TO JOAN GILI ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY - [PDF Document]
The sounds aredead when they reach you. You see them go by as you see me passing beforeyou: I am not in your memory, neither is thedance. You now are just sleepy. You are a statue which has been moved fromits garden and placed on a balcony: Anvem sense cap motiu,desitjant bona nit al matrimoni velli prement nostres cossos calladament, en veureaquella jove mare,donant el pit al fill Viure ens era un regal,un teulad de fang amb dos plomes pintades de fugina,un cavalcar corsers de cart, grocs i verds,com en una sardana de joguet,fent-nos senyals, dient-nos: Delight in the StreetThe sheer joy of the street filled our hands with tender clutches of water, andwe laughed, we mooed with laughter, and in all our muscles we felt the livingwater of delight, sprung from between grasses and hares.
We wandered alongaimlessly, saying goodnight to the old couple and silently pressing our bodiestogether on seeing a young mother with a child at her breast Living was apresent we had been given, a pottery sparrow with two feathers picked out inthe colours of truancy, a charge of horses on a roundabout, yellow and green,as in a toy sardana, when we waved to each other saying, 'Good-bye, good-bye, my love! I'll think of you always'. I ens tornrem a riure! El temps estava en l'aire. I allargvem les manscercant grapats de temps.
Per el temps tampoc no era Noms era la joia del carrer. And we burst outlaughing again! It felt as though time was in the air. And we were reachingout, grasping for handfuls of time. But there was just no such thing astime! All there was was the joy of the street. Vora la mar,quasi al sorral,una muni de barracots. L'oreigduia l'aroma de salobrei una lleu humitat.
De dins de les barraques,amb teulada de llauna,massa calorforagitava tot vivent. La lluna illuminavaaquella gentque jeien pels carrers. It was around midnight, when the cricket and the stars begin theirdialogue. By the sea, almost on the strand, a collection of shacks. The breeze bore on it the scent of brine and a touch of humidity. The unbearable heat indoors drove every living creature out of the shackswith their tin roofs. The moon shone on those folk as they lay in the streets. Perqu en la paude mitjanit,fatigats de la lluita i del viurenoms, noms volienaquella trista llibertatde dormir al carrer,lliures de la calori dels insectes.
Noms una petita llibertat: For in the midnight calm, worn out by the struggle and just by living, all theywanted was that poor wretched freedom to sleep in the street, released fromthe heat and the insects. Just a little freedom: No per inflar els meus d'una noble buferaet dic de tu, sin com als companys. Sc vell com la teva mort,sc jove com la teva vida. Un mestre, tu no ho ets. Little Monument to Joan Salvat-PapasseitI invoke your spirit simply with simple words from the poetry that you left uswhen you fell into the grave of your hope.
It's not to swell up my own withany noble airs that I speak familiarly to you, but just to talk to you as afriend. I am old as your death, I am as young as your life. A master you arenot. The erudite due respect please! But you gave a light to thepeople, but you touched their faces with a light which has become real andour city would not really be as it is now, had you not spoken of the street, ofthe brightness of the beautiful day that it is, of the charm of every job.
I ara estic contentdel teu fantasma jove. Aix puc anar amb tu sense cap complimentpels camins i els treballs d'aquesta primaveraque s la vida i la mort eternament. El rovell s'ha menjat l'esfera del cafque l'adroguer voltava, i el foc de Sant Joanels grans cistells de vmet. Passen cotxes enormes com vaixells de platxerii d'altres menudets com esclops d'alumini.
Al port hi ha noves llums, de nit, i dues torresde ferro. Ja sn velles, les torres, ja cauen. Fa tant que tu ets mort, i han passat tantes coses! Per encaraque Pirradiador del port tingui ara radar,sn iguals les gavines,i els vestits lluminosos de les noies d'estiu,i els besos a la gorja,i els colors de les hores que llisquen pels carrers,i el groc de les taronges,i tu que amb nosaltres veuscom s bo tot: And now I'm glad of your young spirit.
In this way, I canwalk with you, without ceremony, through the street and labours of thisspring which is life and death eternally. Rust has eaten away the coffeegrinder that the grocer turned and midsummer night's fire, the great wickerbaskets. Enormous cars go past like pleasure cruisers and smaller ones likealuminium clogs. In the port there are new lights, at night, and two irontowers.
They're old now, the towers, and are falling down. You've been deadfor so long and so many things have happened. Yet even though the port beacon has got radar now, the seagulls are thesame, and the luminous dresses of the girls of summer, and the kisses on thethroat, and the yellow of the oranges, and you who, with us, see how good itall is: Ho sabem de sempre. A cada pas que fem,se'ns oblida l'oficii cada vers ens sobta,tot i tenir-lo dintre.
El secret s saber-ho,talment com quan sentimdes de llocs oposatsel galop dels cavallsper les rieres seques. Aleshores cal prmer dins la vall plena d'ecos el llibre ben obertcontra la pana: We always knew that. With each step we take, we forget our trade and each Une of verse surprisesus, even though we have it inside us. The secret is to know this, as when wehear coming from different directions the sound of horses galloping down thedry river beds. Then's the time to press the book in the echo-filled valley wide open against the corduroy; a flash of lightning has embedded itself inthe scorched heart of the glass Poeta enter, ensenyes el dolorque hi ha en el fons de tota vida humana: Poeta amic, quin secret les paraulesserven avui que ens puguin concitar?
Tens el poder de fer sobresaltarels nostres ulls embadalits pels saules. Poeta aspriu, difcil de tenir,card entre llirs, en el que vagis dirdescobrirem un dia el teu misteri? Per qu hi fa? El que importa s el setgeper tu bastit, Ausis March, heretge,que ha perdurat al mateix encanteri. Dear poet, what secret do words hold today that they can still stir us? Youhave the power to shock our eyes as they gaze distractedly at the willows. Rough-diamond poet, difficult to handle, thorn among the lilies, shall we oneday, in what you said, discover your mystery?
HOMAGE TO JOAN GILI ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY
What is important is the siege that you laid, Ausis March,you heretic, which has outlived enchantment itself. Aix em passen els jorns, orfe d'aquell meu cantque posava clarors en l'aspror del cam. Si l'amor fou neguit, m'era dola l'espinai com ocell orbat, el dolor m'era cntic. Ara el feix de l'amor, damunt el cor cansats noms solitudde la flama fero devorant en silencila vida que es consum lluny de tu, lentament,sense un crit d'esperana So do the days pass meby, bereft of my one-time song that cast patches of light on the rough track.
Iflove was frustration, still its thorn was sweet to me and, like a blinded bird,pain led me to sing. But now the burden of love pressing down on a worn-outheart is merely loneliness, a fierce flame which silently devours a lifeconsumed far from you, slowly, without a single cry of hope Morir ben sola,els ulls de bat a bat a l'alegriadel gran despullament. Dol oblidar-sedel dard que m'aterr, misria d'altriper meva tamb. Morir ben sola,estalviar el meu crit en la tenebra: Certa de la Claror IILike a wounded beast, to die alone, facing nothing but the sky, in theundergrowth it hurt so much to reach, beyond regret for ties now broken,past loathing for the final disappointment, the sorry poison that deathrequires To die alone, eyes open wide on the joy of this great divestment.
Sweet forgetfulness of the shaft which felled me, wretchedness for others, butalso for me. Die alone, sparing my cry in the darkness: Si l'has venut, sempre ms el teu somnien sentir la impossible enyorana. Cor desolat, dins sos ulls qui fos nufragsense records de la ptria llunyana. Timons ardents de les hores encesessense ponents ni desigs de cap alba. Cor desolat, nua roca deserta,presa del vent i del sol i de l'aigua. La llibertat si ara s plor ser cntic,cor desolat, en la vida ms alta.
HOMAGE TO JOAN GILI ON HIS EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY
IIIDesolate heart, a sail billowing in the evening breeze, pass swiftly throughthe siren's strait. If once you sail beyond it, you will evermore dream of itwith impossible nostalgia. Desolate heart, oh to be a shipwrecked sailor in your eyes, free frommemories of the distant homeland. Ardent helms of the glowing hourswithout sunsets or desire for any dawn. Desolate heart, bare empty rock, the prey of the wind, sun and water. Freedom may be sorrow now but will become a hymn of joy, oh desolateheart, in that higher life. La meva passa immbils'ha arrelat en la fosca.
Els ulls vids reclamenla dola claror seva. El mur la defeniai el cor, covard, no gosaemprendre la conquesta. My motionless passage hastaken root in the darkness. Eager eyes seek to claim its sweet brilliance. Thewall protected it and the cowardly heart does not dare to embark on theconquest. El dia portar corones de mimoses. Potser hi haur perd en la mar que no calla. El sol tindr a la boca la seva semprevivai noves veus diran l'alegria de l'aigua. El vent devastar el fanal i l'esttua.
Els estius lluiran les seves bruses groguesi el bast blanc del cec sonar als carrers grisos. Entre les roques aspres i als boscos de les nimes,Orfeu seduir les annimes bsties. Vindran els plenilunis a fer fremir les vergesque esperaran l'amor entre els grills i l'accia.
Jo ja no tindr rostre. A mes odes d'herba,el temps far dringar un cascveu d'estrelles Day will wear mimosa wreathes. Perhaps there will beforgiveness in the never silent sea. The sun will hold in its mouth itseverlasting flower, and new voices will speak of the joy of water. The windwill lay waste the street lamp and the statue.
The summers will show offtheir yellow blouses, and the blind man's white stick will sound on the greystreets. Among the rough rocks and in the woods of the souls Orpheus willseduce the anonymous beasts. The full moons will come to make the virginsshiver as they wait for love among the crickets and acacia. I shall no longerhave a face. Time will make a bell of stars tinkle in my ears of grass. El poeta viu en qui l'admira,quan l'home ja l'han fet servirtots i, com s sabut, nomspols, memries tnues, dolorssilents, en resten.
In MemoriamThe clothes do not get moth-ridden; the grief, however, becomes frayed anda dreadful vacuum finds its predatory place when the former finallyceases. The poet lives on in those who admire him, when everyone has done with theman himself and, as we know, all that remains of him is dust, vaguememories, silent pangs.
I Aubrey parlava de Shakespeare. Els llibres d'histria sn un vicique totes les policies accepten. I viure s una manera de combatreles arnes, les recances a la matinada. La veritat, per, s una altra. AndAubrey was speaking of Shakespeare. History books are a form of vice accepted by all police forces. And living is ameans of fighting off the moths, the regrets that come in the early hours. Thetruth, however, is different. Lent, el canal discorre, quasi immbil,com si volgus quedar-sela imatge pacient del pescador,la trmula frisana del bedoll,o el nvol.
English SpringIt is not that a feeble sunlight filtering through these soft-leaved elms canmake me yearn for brighter springs: Slowly, the canal glidesalong, almost motionless, as if wishing to hold on to the patient image of theangler, the tremulous shimmer of the birch, or the cloud.
Que punyent ens semblar el doloramb aire nou i ocells entre els lils. Per el mn va seguint el seu cam. L'estudiantha tancat el seu llibre i es distreusembla que amb un bri d'herba. Per s tot el mn que el distreu,la transparent cortina de sofriments i afectesque li privade llanar-se al somriure esplendorsd'uns instants que sap breus i que, amb tot,sn els nics felios. How sharply shall we feel the pain when the air is newand there are birds among the lilacs. But the world continues on its same oldway. The student has closed his book and seems distracted by a blade ofgrass.
But what distracts him is the whole world, the transparent curtain ofsuffering and feeling that prevents him from breaking through to the radiantsmile of instants which he knows are brief and which, even so, are the onlytime of happiness. Per una herba se't mou sobre les cordes fines.
Ara s verda i menuda aquesta arpa, que duual teu cos mineral una trmula sabadel juny assolellat i feli, mentre tuescoltes, i qui sap si una abella et besava. Ms enlaire que el cedre, entre dos ngels greus,no veus enamorats a la prada, el tord lliureque xiula sobre l'herba dels morts. I vora els teusbrins de msica, lluny, t'endevino el somriure.
But aweed brushes across your slender strings. Now it is green and small, this harp that brings into your mineral body thetremulous sap of sunny, happy June, as you listen, and perhaps a bee kissedyou. Higher than the cedar, between two solemn angels, you do not see lovers inthe meadow, the unfettered thrush that sings over the lawns of the dead. Andclose to your wisps of music, in the distance, I sense that you are smiling. Sovint havem d'enlairar l'esguardfins als vestigis d'un esgrafiatque, calmosos, anvem desxifrantmentre a Santa Maria repicavenles altes campanades que se senten,avui encara, al fons de l'estuc blau.
Often we had to raise our eyes to the remains of a carved inscriptionthat we leisurely deciphered while from the church of Santa Maria rang outthe lofty peals of the bells that can still be heard, even today, in the depths ofthe blue stucco, where we piece together the frescoes of the past. Escoltar la terra, les seves olors,el seu ardent missatge,freturs potser de nosaltres, d'alg tan sols ,Houses with Tall TreesThere are still houses with tall trees where you can wander in the evening, atime for peaceful unhurried withdrawal, a time for nostalgia and dreams; forwatching the calm sea and strolling, either alone or in silence, down somequiet path, where the lights of day and night can be watched as they overlap,and finally lose yourself in the distance.
Listening to the earth with its smellsand its fervent message, which might, perhaps, need us, or anyone atall Sort, sort que encara hi ha cases amb grans arbreson poder dissipar-se els capvespres: LEX SUSANNAI have always thought it was unfair, really unfair, that no-one can enjoy a fullmoon at sea in winter, or that blossoming throbbing night sky of themountains, or the tender cry of bare fields in spring, or yet the overbearingpowerful silence that shrouds an erased track How lucky, how lucky there are still houses with tall trees where you canwhile away the evenings: Una sentor de pa m'obre la ganai els crits dels fillsm'estiren per les mnigues.
Trobo un bes oblidatque em puja als llavis. Somric, i s'obren les finestres. El sol s tot un altre. M'agrada molt de veureels parracs del vestit de soldatque fan de baietai el vell diccionarique serveixperqu el petit s'enfili. Now I'm close to home. A smell of bread makes me feel hungry, and thechildren's shouts tug at my sleeves. I find a forgotten kiss which rises to mylips.
I smile and the windows open. The sun is completely different. I love to see the tatters of the soldier's uniform used as a floorcloth and theold dictionary that serves for the youngest child to climb on. Parlemde coses viroladesque tot seguit s'esfumen,o de coses molt netesque es queden penjades al sostreper sempre. Al carrerm'he deixat,oblidades,les paraules de fora. We talk of many-coloured things that vanish straight away, or of very cleanones that stay hanging from the ceiling for ever. I have left behind in the street, forgotten, the outdoor words. They arewaiting for me.
De mica en mica,l'ampla boirina assolelladase'm beu els ulls i m'obre al temps. En una clariana tbiasi en somni breu o llarg, jo no ho sabriaveig els bous d'un vell novembre d'or. Quan torno en mi, freda buidor, m'adonode la fusta plana i seca, taulade fora on dempeus anava l'home,i fora camp cerco la vila. Little by little, the wide sunlit hazedrinks up my eyes and opens me to time. In a mild clearingwhether in ashort or a long dream, I wouldn't knowI see the oxen of an old, goldenNovember. When I come to, a cold emptiness, I notice the flat, dry plank, theplatform of force where the man trod at his work, and beyond the fields Iseek the town.
I un caador cansat,amb una breu escopetada,trenca a bocins el vidre clar del celi sobre el mn les flors del cel escampa. Summer is going away. And a tired hunter, with onebrief gunshot, smashes to smithereens the bright glass of the sky and scattersits flowers over the world. Vine i no diguis res, que sigui dolde veure'ns com objectes viusd'alentits moviments, que ens donen l'aireuna mica irreal, com somniant-nos, deslliuratsde l'odiosa i persistent tirania del temps.
Deixem parlar la pelltresor ofert als ullstensada per la fora dels paisatges internson cada mscul obeeix les ordresprocedents del desig. Desprs que vinguinles paraules als llavis, que ens passeginpel mn embolcallat de la memria,i aturem-nos als prats dels records ms llunyans,cap als rius clars on ens porti l'atzar.
Convida'mHolidayCome into the shelter of this cove, sit down in the shade of these trees bentover by their very desire for the sea what roots could be so cruel as torestrain them? Come and say nothing, let it be nice to see ourselves asliving objects of slowed motions that make us seem slightly unreal, as ifdreaming of ourselves, freed from the odious and persistent tyranny of time. Let's let our flesh talka treasure offered to the eyes tensed by the force ofinterior landscapes where every muscle obeys the orders issued by desire.
Letwords come later to the lips, let them take us through this world enveloped inmemory and let us halt in the meadows of most distant recollections, besidethe clear river where fate may carry us. Invite me[81]a cada estana dels teus anys passats;entra tu dins els meus, i es mantindr,a cada llavi, la llum del somriure,que fa els rostres ms bells tots els dolorsja l'han perdut, aquest combat, i ho celebremcom soldats que reposen de la guerrafestejant i fent festa. Les mans, sense adonar-nos-en, es trobeni inicien el joc; els ulls s'avenena contemplar la dansa de llurs ombresa la sorra, figures que s'amaguendarrere els tremolors de l'ombra de les fulles.
SALVADOR OLIVAto each chamber of your past years and you come into mine, and on each lipwill remain the light of that smile which makes faces more beautiful allpains have now lost the fight and we celebrate like soldiers who rest from warin courtship and merriment. Our hands, without our realizing it, find each other and begin the game; oureyes combine to gaze at the dance of their shadows on the sand, shapeswhich conceal themselves behind the trembling shadows of the leaves.
I ara l'ullno copsar les tenebroses ones,llenol de resplendor lvida. El fences consumeix, talment un llamp que crema,arbre immolat. Sarments, combats sulfurisd'arrels, remor terral. De tants guerrersquarter d'hivern, oh cor de l'home! L'ardorfebril del temps que el meu passat esquinai ens mostra el sol roent i negre.
Fremnosaltres, guardians d'un joc d'escacsinfaust, de torres i peons la llbregacomparsa? Regne del silenci, roures,tardor de l'sser. I els metalls, exsangessota l'empremta, l'alt domini. Estiu,SolsticeSummer has exiled the stiff corpse of spring. And now the eye will not catchthe dark waves, shroud of livid splendour. The hay is consumed, like aburning lightning-flash, sacrificial tree. Vine shoots, sulphurous conflicts ofroots, murmur of earth. Winter quarters of so many warriors, o heart of man! Avid summers and springs. The feverish passion of time which tears up mypast and shows us the scorching black sun.
Were we, guardians of an ill-fatedgame of chess, the sombre retinue of castles and pawns? Kingdom of silence,oak-trees, autumn of being. And the metals, bloodless beneath the footprint,the high dominion. El mar, llis, reflecteixel diamant, la lluna soterrada,el senyoriu del sol ocult. Els motscelen un clos pregon, i l'escripturalacera el cos del tigre. Escrit amb foci escrit amb llum, a la lunar contrada,pasturatge dels morts. L'amant albira,enll dels membres enllaats, l'obscur.
I les arrels no es mouen. Com els cossos,s'han nodrit de silenci. Llur pasde sequedat i de centelles obreels ulls, esbatanats. El crit del corbsagna al cel moradenc. The frozen sky is a transparency. The sea, smooth,reflects the diamond, the buried moon, the mastery of the hidden sun. Wordsconceal a deep enclosure, and writing lacerates the body of the tiger. Writtenwith fire and written with light, in the moon's domain, pasture of the dead. The lover glimpses darkness beyond the twisting limbs.
And the roots do notmove. Like bodies, they have fed on silence. Their land of dryness and sparksopens its eyes wide. The cry of the raven bleeds in the purple sky. La vida expressa els seus desigs de sempre,Els elements avancen, donen vidai resten brasa de les seves flames. Entre estels lineals de quatre ratllesles formes es confonen amb els signes,talment una harmonia emesa amb taques.
Sestina for Joan Miron his 85th birthdayThe dream touches and gazes full of life, and man arises from a set of lines;his arms are like horns; in paint marks the sun opens the profile of manysigns, and a new night, passed through fire and flames, alludes to the carnavalof today and always. Life expresses its eternal desires, the elements advance, give life and extractembers from 'tis flames. Among linear stars of four lines forms are confusedwith signs, like a harmony transmitted with paint marks.
Espai i aire van units, com sempre. La terra en aquests quadres sn els signesms que tenebres, claredat i vida. El foc esmola l'ungla de les ratllessi dels punts de color sorgeixen flames. Mir camina intacte entre les flames. Una arrel regalima i peten taques,nassos i trompes escarneixen ratlles,i els ulls miren els ulls, miralls de sempre. Voltat de galls, Mir pinta la vidai viu els quadres, hortol de signes. The dream touches and gazes full of life, and man arises Here the element ofwater is the paint marks. Space and air are united, as always.
The earth inthese pictures is signsmore than darkness, clarity and life Fire hones thefinger-nail of the lines if flames arise from the points of colour. Mir walks unharmed among the flames. A root streams with liquid andpaint marks explode, noses and trunks mock at lines, and eyes gaze at eyes,eternal mirrors. Surrounded by roosters, Mir paints life and lives hispictures, gardener of signs. La llibertat s vista i emet flames. Puja pels peus la fora de la vida;canta i ms canta el blau d'un fons de taquesi broten fulles del cos hum, sempreenll del pensament teixit a ratlles.
Editorial Reviews
Deixem el sol a terra sense ratlles. La lluna ve de lluny i parla amb signes,per els seus raigs no es perden perqu sempres'acosten a l'origen quatre flamesamb cresta o barretina. Aix les taquesno ens priven que tornem de mort a vida. Mir dna la vida amb punts i ratlles;l'al surt de les taques i dels signes,i amor i flames restaran per sempre. Liberty is seen and gives offflames. The power of life mounts through the feet; the blue of a backgroundof paint marks sings and sings and leaves spring from the human body,always beyond thought woven in lines.
We leave the sun on the ground without lines. The moon comes from a longway off and speaks in signs, but its rays are not lost since always four flameswith a cock's crest or a barretina approach the origin. Thus the paint-marksdo not prevent us from returning from death to life. Mir gives life with dots and lines: Envejo nens petits amb uns grans ullsque tot ho descobreixen, vivacssims,que juguen amb el mn amb tanta eufria,que tot ho posseeixen.
I, trist, trec els meus ulls a passejarper places i carrers, com els venspassegen cada vespre el seu gosset,abans que tot s'acabi.