Hay golpes en la vida... - César Vallejo

Federico Luppi recita a César Vallejo: Los Heraldos Negros

Here's the original text:

Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes … ¡Yo no sé!
Golpes como del odio de Dios; como si ante ellos,
la resaca de todo lo sufrido
se empozara en el alma… Yo no sé!

Son pocos; pero son… Abren zanjas obscuras
en el rostro más fiero y en el lomo más fuerte.
Serán talvez los potros de bárbaros atilas;
o los heraldos negros que nos manda la Muerte.

Son las caídas hondas de los Cristos del alma,
de alguna fe adorable que el Destino blasfema.
Esos golpes sangrientos son las crepitaciones
de algún pan que en la puerta del horno se nos quema.

Y el hombre… Pobre… pobre! Vuelve los ojos, como
cuando por sobre el hombro nos llama una palmada;
vuelve los ojos locos, y todo lo vivido
se empoza, como charco de culpa, en la mirada.

Hay golpes en la vida, tan fuertes… Yo no sé!

Maybe one morning

Maybe one morning, walking in a dry air of glass

I’ll look back and see the miracle happen:

Blank, the void behind,

Like a drunkard’s terror


Then, like on a screen, houses, hills, trees will rush

And cram together to stage the usual trick.

But too late, and I’ll leave and walk on silent

Amid men who turn not back, with my secret

Telamin! Telamin!

Telamin! Telamin!

O Fashioned by Zoos,

Mad as a Wolf,

Weeniest of Childe

keenest insight

king in itself

He knows no rest

His peace is a fumble

at war. He wishes to portray

dishes on a tray, flinging a staircase.

Sother: the father of nather,

how it mexes the words,

enthusing old shards,

fills - how amazing he is -

the beautiful stars

It gathers the mothers

musical tits appear on sunrise

it brothers decaders,

decoders’s dicasters

All ship it

but no one uses it, the plenty

of words decreases of world this

crisis of world’s decreases of words

it’s crisis.

When was it done in the premises’

den: so the acorns

become oaks and a cornish bell

reminds it us all.

How it mexes with the words

enthusing all shards

so gentle

gentle to walk, under a summery sky,

in the cynnamon mazes

How it mexes the words

enthusing all shards

so gentle

gentle to walk, under a summery sky,

in the cynnamon mazes

Halvhari

Belarusian I - by Valzhyna Mort

translated by Franz Wright and Elizabeth Oehlkers Wright. I read today this piece for the first time. Love the first stanza. even our mothers have no idea how we were born how we parted their legs and crawled out into the world the way you crawl from the ruins after a bombing we couldn't tell which of us was a girl or a boy we gorged on dirt thinking it was bread and our future a gymnast on a thin thread of the horizon was performing there at the highest pitch bitch we grew up in a country where first your door is stroked with chalk then at dark a chariot arrives and no one sees you anymore but riding in those cars were neither armed men nor a wanderer with a scythe this is how love loved to visit us and snatch us veiled completely free only in public toilets where for a little change nobody cared what we were doing we fought the summer heat the winter snow when we discovered we ourselves were the language and our tongues were removed we started talking with our eyes when our eyes were poked out we talked with our hands when our hands were cut off we conversed with our toes when we were shot in the legs we nodded our heads for yes and shook our heads for no and when they ate our heads alive we crawled back into the bellies of our sleeping mothers as if into bomb shelters to be born again and there on the horizon the gymnast of our future was leaping through the fiery hoop of the sun

I Like Thee Much More Than You

This is a little and humble experiment at writing in a Middle English fashion. I only know a few words...just for the fun of trying to find a mixture of old and new.

For the love of thee or me collide/
And as the stars did see not
sucha spectacle tonight for an age's nights/
Leave to me
explaining the facts/ that the things
I dare see thee call thine and beloved/
Are certainly the same I will for me.

Apart from the fact that noone reads my blog yet, if anyone wishes to correct and add shakespearean flavour to this, please do. Oh, also, sorry William. I can't help trying.

what is it

I'm going to publish here the stuff I write. It is mainly poems. Comments are open. I've never kept a blog before, I tried but got bored after a while, or ran out of inspiration.
i've always been jealous of my poems, and did not like the idea of being stolen, reused and soon, but lately I do not really care anymore.

Very rarely my poems are good-mooded, my inspiration is familiar with jadedness and being upset about something, although all in all, it's more like i feel overcome by a dilemma: the fact that on a large scale things make sense and it is futile to suffer, but denying sufference is not healthy. This is all I could say about why I write like this if you asked me.

hope you enjoy the sound and the wordplay, which are one great fun to me when i write.

For a start, I think I'll begin posting my previous poems published on lastFM, in the journals section of my profile, halvhari.

if you send me comments and poems i will very much enjoy reading them.

take care.