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fóra igual que admetre que et puc oblidar.
William Shakespeare
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Com fer una proposta de matrimoni, segons Samuel Pickwick
PICKWICK PAPERS
PROPOSING: WILL YOU HAVE ME?
‘I beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick; but have you ever done this sort of thing in your time?’ said Mr. Magnus.
‘You mean proposing?’ said Mr. Pickwick.
Yes.’
‘Never,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with great energy, ‘never.
‘You have no idea, then, how it’s best to begin?’ said Mr. Magnus.
‘Why,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘I may have formed some ideas upon the subject, but, as I have never submitted them to the test
of experience, I should be sorry if you were induced to regulate your proceedings by them.’
‘I should feel very much obliged to you, for any advice, Sir,’ said Mr. Magnus, taking another look at the clock, the hand of
which was verging on the five minutes past.
‘Well, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, with the profound solemnity with which that great man could, when he pleased, render his
remarks so deeply impressive. ‘I should commence, sir, with a tribute to the lady’s beauty and excellent qualities; from them,
Sir, I should diverge to my own unworthiness.’
‘Very good,’ said Mr. Magnus.
‘Unworthiness for HER only, mind, sir,’ resumed Mr. Pickwick;’ for to show that I was not wholly unworthy, sir, I should take a
brief review of my past life, and present condition. I should argue, by analogy, that to anybody else, I must be a very desirable
object. I should then expatiate on the warmth of my love, and the depth of my devotion. Perhaps I might then be tempted to
seize her hand.’
‘Yes, I see,’ said Mr. Magnus; ‘that would be a very great point.’
‘I should then, Sir,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, growing warmer as the subject presented itself in more glowing colours before
him–‘I should then, Sir, come to the plain and simple question, “Will you have me?” I think I am justified in assuming that
upon this, she would turn away her head.’
‘You think that may be taken for granted?’ said Mr. Magnus; ‘because, if she did not do that at the right place, it would
be embarrassing.’
‘I think she would,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Upon this, sir, I should squeeze her hand, and I think–I think, Mr. Magnus–
that after I had done that, supposing there was no refusal, I should gently draw away the handkerchief, which my slight
knowledge of human nature leads me to suppose the lady would be applying to her eyes at the moment, and steal a respectful kiss.
I think I should kiss her, Mr. Magnus; and at this particular point, I am decidedly of opinion that if the lady were going to
take me at all, she would murmur into my ears a bashful acceptance.’
¿Estás en las nubes?
En el reino de la paradoja
Corre, dijo la 
tortuga
Corre dijo la tortuga
atrévete dijo el cobarde
estoy de vuelta dijo un tipo
que nunca fue a ninguna parte
sálvame dijo el verdugo
se que has sido tú
dijo el culpable
no me grites dijo el sordo
hoy es jueves dijo el martes
tú no te perfumes
con palabras para consolarme
déjame solo conmigo
con el íntimo enemigo
que malvive de pensión
en mi corazón
el receloso, el fugitivo
el más oscuro de los dos
el pariente pobre de la duda
el que nunca se desnuda
si no me desnudo yo
el caprichoso
el orgulloso
el otro, el cómplice, el traidor
a ti te estoy hablando a ti
que nunca sigues mis consejos
a ti te estoy gritando a ti
que estás metido en mi pellejo
a ti que estás llorando ahí
al otro lado del espejo
a ti que no te debo
más que el empujón que anoche
me llevó a escribir esta canción
no mientas dijo el mentiroso
buena suerte dijo el gafe
ocúpate del alma dijo
el gordo vendedor de carne
pruébame dijo el veneno
ámame como odian los amantes
drogas no dijo el camello
cuánto vales dijo el gánster
a punto de rendirme estaba
a un paso de quemar las naves
cuando al borde del camino
por dos veces el destino
me hizo un guiño en forma de
labios de mujer
nos invitas a una copa
yo te secaré el sudor
y te abrazaré bajo la ropa
hoy quién va a dormir conmigo
ni lo sueñes contestó
una indignada
y otra encantada
no dijo nada y sonrió
a ti te estoy hablando a ti
que nunca sigues mis consejos
a ti te estoy gritando a ti
que estás metido en mi pellejo
a ti que estás llorando ahí
al otro lado del espejo
a ti que no te debo
más que el empujón que anoche
me llevó a escribir esta canción.
Joaquín Sabina
Twelfth Night or What You Will
Si l’amor es nodreix de música, continua tocant,
doneu-me’n un excés, i així la passió
anirà emmalaltint i, assadollada, en morirà.
Es torna a repetir després de la cadència final;
ah, venia a l’oïda com el so melós
respirant a un voral de violetes,
robant i regalant olors. No toqueu més!
Ara no és pas tan dolça com abans.
Esperit de l’amor, que n’ets d’ardent
i assedegat! Malgrat que el teu poder
sigui tan ample com el mar, no accepta res
-per elevat i valuós que sigui-
que als pocs minuts no minvi en força i en valor.
Són tantes les figures que el desig sap crear
que ell sol és la suprema fantasia.
(William Shakespeare: Nit de Reis. Traducció de Salvador Oliva.)
Tower of Song
Tower of Song
Well my friends are gone and my hair is grey
I ache in the places where I used to play
And I’m crazy for love but I’m not coming on
I’m just paying my rent every day
Oh in the Tower of Song
I said to Hank Williams: how lonely does it get?
Hank Williams hasn’t answered yet
But I hear him coughing all night long
A hundred floors above me
In the Tower of Song
I was born like this, I had no choice
I was born with the gift of a golden voice
And twenty-seven angels from the Great Beyond
They tied me to this table right here
In the Tower of Song
So you can stick your little pins in that voodoo doll
I’m very sorry, baby, doesn’t look like me at all
I’m standing by the window where the light is strong
Ah they don’t let a woman kill you
Not in the Tower of Song
Now you can say that I’ve grown bitter but of this you may be sure
The rich have got their channels in the bedrooms of the poor
And there’s a mighty judgement coming, but I may be wrong
You see, you hear these funny voices
In the Tower of Song
I see you standing on the other side
I don’t know how the river got so wide
I loved you baby, way back when
And all the bridges are burning that we might have crossed
But I feel so close to everything that we lost
We’ll never have to lose it again
Now I bid you farewell, I don’t know when I’ll be back
There moving us tomorrow to that tower down the track
But you’ll be hearing from me baby, long after I’m gone
I’ll be speaking to you sweetly
From a window in the Tower of Song
Yeah my friends are gone and my hair is grey
I ache in the places where I used to play
And I’m crazy for love but I’m not coming on
I’m just paying my rent every day
Oh in the Tower of Song.
Leonard Cohen
Memorable interpretación de esteb “poema póstumo” junto a U2.
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¿Qué busca Rosalía?
Yo no sé lo que busco eternamente
en la tierra, en el aire y en el cielo;
yo no sé lo que busco, pero es algo
que perdí no sé cuándo y que no encuentro,
aun cuando sueñe que invisible habita
en todo cuanto toco y cuanto veo.
Felicidad, no he de volver a hallarte
en la tierra, en el aire, ni en el cielo,
¡aun cuando sé que existes
y no eres vano sueño!
* * *
En los ecos del órgano o en el rumor del viento,
en el fulgor de un astro o en la gota de lluvia,
te adivinaba en todo y en todo te buscaba,
sin encontrarte nunca.
Quizá después te ha hallado, te ha hallado y te ha perdido
otra vez, de la vida en la batalla ruda,
ya que sigue buscándote y te adivina en todo,
sin encontrarte nunca.
Pero sabe que existes y no eres vano sueño,
hermosura sin nombre, pero perfecta y única:
por eso vive triste, porque te busca siempre,
sin encontrarte nunca.
Rosalía de Castro
Robert Graves: Imatges trencades
In Broken Images
He is quick, thinking in clear images;
I am slow, thinking in broken images.
He becomes dull, trusting to his clear images;
I become sharp, mistrusting my broken images.
Trusting his images, he assumes their relevance;
Mistrusting my images, I question their relevance.
Assuming their relevance, he assumes the fact;
Questioning their relevances, I question the fact.
When the fact fails him, he questions his senses;
When the facts fails me, I approve my senses.
He continues quick and dull in his clear images;
I continue slow and clear in my broken images.
He, in a new confusion of his understanding;
I, in a new understanding of my confusion.
Robert Graves és, amés de l’autor de Jo Claudi i d’altres novel.les històriques, un excel.lent poeta, especialment eròtic. Cerqueu els seus poemes i comproveu-lo.
Funeral blues, una elegia de W.H. Auden
Atureu els rellotges, talleu els telèfons…
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public
doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Fragment de Quatre bodes i un funeral on es recita aquest poema:
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