When I heard the learned astronomer - W. Whitman

WHEN I heard the learn’d astronomer;
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;         
Till rising and gliding out, I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

The Lake Isle of Innisfree - W. B. Yeats

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping
     slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket
     sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven - W.B. Yeats

HAD I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

When you are old... - W.B. Yeats

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Radio Waves - Raymond Carver

for Antonio Machado

This rain has stopped, and the moon has come out.
I don't understand the first thing about radio
waves. But I think they travel better just after
a rain, when the air is damp. Anyway, I can reach out
now and pick up Ottawa, if I want to, or Toronto.
Lately, at night, I've found myself
becoming slightly interested in Canadian politics
and domestic affairs. It's true. But mostly it was their
music stations I was after. I could sit here in the chair
and listen, without having to do anything, or think.
I don't have a TV, and I'd quit reading
the papers. At night I turned on the radio.

When I came out here I was trying to get away
from everything. Especially literature.
What that entails, and what comes after.
There is in the soul a desire for not thinking.
For being still. Coupled with this
a desire to be strict, yes, and rigorous.
But the soul is also a smooth son of a bitch,
not always trustworthy. And I forgot that.
I listened when it said, Better to sing that which is gone
and will not return than that which is still
with us and will be with us tomorrow. Or not.
And if not, that's all right too.
It didn't much matter, it said, if a man sang at all.
That's the voice I listened to.
Can you imagine somebody thinking like this?
That it's really all one and the same?
What nonsense!
But I'd think these stupid thoughts at night
as I sat in the chair and listened to my radio.

Then, Machado, your poetry!
It was a little like a middle-aged man falling
in love again. A remarkable thing to witness,
and embarrassing, too.
Silly things like putting your picture up.
And I took your book to bed with me
and slept with it near at hand. A train went by
in my dreams one night and woke me up.
And the first thing I thought, heart racing
there in the dark bedroom, was this -
It's all right, Machado is here.
Then I could fall back to sleep again.

Today I took your book with me when I went
for my walk. "Pay attention!" you said,
when anyone asked what to do with their lives.
So I looked around and made note of everything.
Then sat down with it in the sun, in my place
beside the river where I could see the mountains.
And I closed my eyes and listened to the sound
of the water. Then I opened them and began to read
"Abel Martin's Last Lamentations."
This morning I thought about you hard, Machado.
And I hope, even in the face of what I know about death,
that you got the message I intended.
But it's okay even if you didn't. Sleep well. Rest.
Sooner or later I hope we'll meet.
And then I can tell you these things myself.

Las relaciones peligrosas - Carlos Marzal

El excesivo trato de optimistas,
mujeres cariñosas y escritores
acaba siendo malo para el cuerpo,
aunque mucho peor para el espíritu.
Caigo en la cuenta de que me he creído,
y por más tiempo del aconsejable,
que la única tarea de la vida
es ser feliz o al menos pretenderlo.
Todos sabemos la naturaleza
de la felicidad, porque la infunden
los optimistas y ciertas mujeres
y porque los poetas nos la explican;
sabemos que es un bien perecedero,
que está hecha de materia fugitiva,
que su tiempo no siempre es razonable,
sabemos todo eso y no sabemos
que la única tarea es preservarnos
de cualquier destrucción, sobrevivir
al curso de los días y hasta incluso
sobrevivir a la felicidad.

Hoy fundo mi esperanza más cercana:
sea leve la tierra que pisamos
y que el próximo instante sea leve.

Cálculos infinitesimales - Carlos Marzal

La luz de esas estrellas ya ha ocurrido.

En una lejanía inapropiada 

para nuestra penosa sensatez,

ya han muerto las estrellas que miramos.

Millones de millones de años luz,

agujeros del tiempo inconcebibles,

la confabulación de la energía,

más allá de cuanto nos resulta soportable,

en una aterradora fiesta sin nosotros. 

Todo el escrupuloso asombro de la ciencia

parece que conduce hasta este asombro 

con que contempla el cielo un ignorante.

Según nos dicen, hay que seguir viviendo

cercados de preguntas sin respuestas.

Nuestras lentes exploran las galaxias

y nuestra pequeñez sólo es tangible 

en el inmaculado abismo de los números,

en el sagrado horror 

de cálculos infinitesimales. 

¿Hacia dónde conducen estas cavilaciones

de aturdido astrofísico? Estas cavilaciones

no conducen. Estas cavilaciones ya han estado,

ya han sido desde mí en otro yo que ha muerto 

en la distancia. Todo lo que refulge es luz marchita.

Ser es un fui que un no soy yo contempla

desconcertado desde un planeta ajeno. 

La Historia y el futuro han sido para siempre

y acosan desde lejos, ya ocurridos.

La vida es la nostalgia incorregible 

de habitar un rincón del firmamento

que sólo se ha erigido en el pasado

y cuyo planisferio hemos perdido.

Así que cuando te amo ya te he amado.

El dolor que te causo y que me causas

es un dolor tan viejo que no duele, 

aunque puedas pensar que está doliéndonos, 

y ese fuego eucarístico en el que me consumo

es un simple capricho de las cronologías,

un voluntario error de apreciación 

con respecto al pasmoso suceder de las cosas.

Nuestra felicidad ya no nos pertenece,

vivimos de prestado en lontananza, 

que es el inconcebible tiempo de las constelaciones.

La perpetua ordalía de tu cuerpo

es el altar de una ciudad hundida 

en donde los ahogados de mí mismo 

aún mantienen un culto que ha perdido a sus fieles.

El temblor de quererte, el estremecimiento

de coincidir contigo en esta nada 

quizá es una ilusión de mi memoria astral.

Y el caso es que no importa. 

No importa que no podamos ser, porque hemos sido; 

no importa que en ti no pueda estar, porque ya estuve,

no importa si lo que ya ha acabado nunca nace.

Me incumbe la conciencia del álgebra celeste 

y en lugar de alejarme de ti los números me acercan.

No puedo comprender esas distancias 

y aunque las comprendiera no las vivo.

Hay una plenitud crepuscular 

en la conspiración del universo 

para que no nos encontremos tú y yo. 

Ya no concibo una embriaguez más grande

que ese convencimiento con que irradias

la falsa luz de las estrellas muertas.

En I: Entusiasmo de la Decepción, de Metales Pesados (2001).