charles bukowski:
los placeres del condenado:
algo llama a la puerta
poemas, 1951-1993
traducción y prólogo de ciro arbós
visor libros
volumen dccxcvi de la colección visor de poesía
madrid
the pleasures of the damned
poems1951-1993
3ª edición 2020
charles bukowski poem and letter manuscripts
something’s knocking at the door
appeared in Slouching toward nirvana – pg. 212 – 2005
appeared in The pleasures of the damned – pg. 2 – 2007
something’s knocking at the door
a great white light dawns across the
continent
as we fawn over our failed traditions,
often kill to preserve them
or sometimes kill just to kill.
it doesn’t seem to matter: the answers dangle just
out of reach,
out of hand, out of mind.
the leaders of the past were insufficient,
the leaders of the present are unprepared.
we curl up tightly in our beds at night and wait.
it is a waiting without hope,
more like a prayer for unmerited grace.
it all looks more and more like the same old
movie.
the actors are different but the plot’s the same:
senseless.
we should have known, watching our fathers.
we should have known, watching our mothers.
they did not know, they too were not prepared to teach.
we were too naive to ignore their
counsel
and now we have embraced
their ignorance
as our own.
we are them, multiplied.
we are their unpaid debts.
we are bankrupt in money
and in spirit.
there are a few exceptions, of course,
but these teeter on the
edge
and will
at any moment
tumble down to join the rest
of us,
the raving, the battered, the blind and the sadly
corrupt.
a great white light dawns across the
continent,
the flowers open blindly in the stinking wind,
as grotesque and ultimately
unlivable
our 21st century
struggles to be born.
algo llama a la puerta
una gran luz blanca alborea por todo el
continente
mientras ensalzamos nuestras fallidas tradiciones,
matamos a menudo por preservarlas
o a veces matamos sólo por matar.
no parece que importe: las respuestas gravitan
fuera de nuestro alcance,
fuera de control, fuera de si.
los líderes del pasado eran insuficientes,
los líderes del presente son incapaces.
nos acurrucamos en la cama por las noches y esperamos.
es una espera sin fe, más bien
una oración por la gracia inmerecida.
todo se parece cada vez más a la misma película
de siempre.
los actores son distintos pero el argumento es el mismo:
absurdo.
era de esperar, viendo a nuestros padres.
era de esperar, viendo a nuestras madres.
y es que no sabían, tampoco ellos estaban capacitados para
enseñar.
fuimos demasiado inocentes para desoír sus
consejos
y ahora hemos hecho nuestra
su propia
ignorancia.
somos ellos, multiplicados.
somos sus deudas impagadas.
estamos en bancarrota
monetaria
y espiritual.
hay algunas excepciones, por supuesto,
pero están al borde del
precipicio
y
en cualquier momento
se desplomarán para unirse al resto
de nosotros,
los locos de atar, los maltrechos, los ciegos y los tristemente
corruptos.
una gran luz blanca alborea por todo el
continente,
las flores se abren ciegas al viento apestoso,
mientras grotesco y a la larga
inhabitable nuestro siglo XXI
lucha
por nacer.
otra versión
something’s knocking at the door
a great white light of nothingness draws across the
continents
as we fawn over our unworthy moves,
often kill to back them,
sometimes just kill to kill.
it doesn’t seem to matter: the solution dangles
out of hand.
out of hand, out of mind.
out of mind, out of luck.
out of luck?
hello, there.
the leaders of the past seemed insufficient,
the leaders of the present seem unreal.
we curl in our beds of night and wait.
it is a waiting without wonder, more like
a prayer for luck.
it all seems more and more like the same old
movie.
the players are different but the plot’s the same:
senseless to a vengeance.
we should have known, watching our fathers.
we should have known, watching our mothers.
they did not know, they were not prepared to
know.
we were too kind to dump them as bad
baggage
and now we have inherited their
debilities as our
own.
we are them, multiplied.
we are in their debt.
we overpaid for what we received and we
received nothing.
we are bankrupt.
in money.
in spirit,
in chance.
there are minor survivors
but these teeter upon the most precarious of
edges
and can
overnight
tumble down to and with the
rest,
the raving, the battered, the bartered and
the mad.
a great white light of nothingness draws across the
continents,
the flowers open blindly in the stinking wind,
as deformed, grotesque and
unendurable
the 21 st. Century
enters.
•
0 comentarios