And it was then that with a dead and cold tongue in his mouth he sang the song they didn’t let him sing in this world of obscene gardens and of shadows that came at the wrong time to remind him of songs from his boyhood in which he couldn’t sing the song he wanted to sing the song they didn’t let him sing except through his absent mouth through his absent voice. Then from the highest tower of absence his song echoes in the opacity of the hidden in the silent extension full of shifting hollows like the words I write.
Vertaald door Jose Valqui
Alejandra Pizarnik (29 april 1936 – 25 september 1972) Avellaneda, de geboorteplaats van Alejandra Pizarnik
De Amerikaanse dichteres Fannie Stearns Davis
werd geboren in Cleveland, Ohio, op 6 maart 1884. Ze studeerde af aan
het Smith College in 1904. Ze heeft twee dichtbundels gepubliceerd:
“Myself and I”, 1913, en “Crack O ‘Dawn”, 1915. Haar poëzie wordt
gekenmerkt door een gevoelig poëtisch gevoel en delicate
kunstzinnigheid. Davis gaf van 1906-07 Engels les aan de Kemper Hall in
Kenoshay, Wisconsin. In 1910 hielp ze haar broer, William Stearns Davis,
bij het bewerken van zijn klassieke historische boek, “A Day in Old
Athens”. Jessie Bell Rittenhouse was een van de vele mensen die de
lyrische kwaliteit van de poëzie van Davis prezen.
Souls
My Soul goes clad in gorgeous things, Scarlet and gold and blue; And at her shoulder sudden wings Like long flames flicker through.
And she is swallow-fleet, and free From mortal bonds and bars. She laughs, because Eternity Blossoms for her with stars!
O folk who scorn my stiff gray gown, My dull and foolish face,— Can ye not see my Soul flash down, A singing flame through space?
And folk, whose earth-stained looks I hate, Why may I not divine Your Souls, that must be passionate, Shining and swift, as mine!
Home
Home, to the hills and the rough, running water; Home, to the plain folk and cold winds again. Oh, I am only a gray farm’s still daughter, Spite of my wandering passion and pain!
Home, from the city that snares and enthralls me; Home, from the bold light and bold weary crowd. Oh, it’s the blown snow and bare field that calls me; White star and shy dawn and wild lonely cloud!
Home, to the gray house the pine-trees guard, sighing; Home, to the low door that laughts to my touch. How should I know till my wings failed me, flying, Home-nest, – my heart’s nest, – I loved you so much?