El
coraje de callar
¡El
coraje de la boca cerrada a pesar de la artillería!
La
línea rosa y callada, un gusano deleitándose al sol.
Hay
discos negros detrás, los discos del
ultraje,
Y
el ultraje de un cielo, su cerebro arrugado.
Los
discos giran, piden ser escuchados,
Cargados
como están, con historias de bajezas.
Bajezas,
maniobras, abandonos y dobleces,
La
púa viajando por el surco,
Bestia
plateada entre dos oscuros cañones,
Un
gran cirujano, ahora un tatuador,
Tatuando
una y otra vez los mismos tristes agravios,
Las
víboras, los bebés, las tetas
De
las sirenas y las chicas de sus sueños en dos patas.
El
cirujano está callado, no habla.
Ha
visto demasiada muerte, sus manos están llenas de ella.
Entonces
giran los discos del cerebro, como las bocas de los cañones.
Y
allí está esa antigua podadora, la lengua,
Incansable,
púrpura. ¿Debemos cortarla?
Tiene
nueve colas, es peligrosa.
¡Y
el ruido de sus latigazos en el aire una vez que empieza!
No,
la lengua también fue arrancada,
Colgada
en la biblioteca junto a los grabados de Rangoon
Y
las cabezas de zorro, las de nutrias, las cabezas de conejos muertos.
Es
un objeto maravilloso—
Las
cosas que perforó en su momento.
¿Pero
y los ojos, los ojos, los ojos?
Los
espejos pueden matar y hablar, son habitaciones
terribles
En
las que la tortura continua y uno solo puede mirar.
La
cara que vivió en este espejo es la cara de un hombre muerto.
No
te preocupes por los ojos—
Pueden
ser blancos y tímidos, no son soplones,
Sus
rayos mortales doblados como banderas
De
un país del que nadie habla,
Una
obstinada e insolvente
Independencia entre las montañas.Sylvia Plath, Boston, 1932- Primrose Hill, 1963
Versión © Silvia Camerotto
El original del inglés en Sylvia Plath, Poesía Completa, Edición de Ted Hughes, Traducción y notas de Xoán Abeleira, Bartebly Editores, Madrid, 2009
imagen de Francois Benveniste©, Texture of dreams, en Uno de los Nuestros
The
Courage Of Shutting-Up
The courage of the shut
mouth, in spite of artillery!
The line pink and quiet, a worm, basking.
There are black disks behind it, the disks of outrage,
And the outrage of a sky, the lined brain of it.
The disks revolve, they ask to be heard—
Loaded, as they are, with accounts of bastardies.
Bastardies, usages, desertions and doubleness,
The needle journeying in its groove,
Silver beast between two dark canyons,
A great surgeon, now a tattooist,
Tattooing over and over the same blue grievances,
The snakes, the babies, the tits
On mermaids and two-legged dreamgirls.
The surgeon is quiet, he does not speak.
He has seen too much death, his hands are full of it.
So the disks of the brain revolve, like the muzzles of cannon.
Then there is that antique billhook, the tongue,
Indefatigable, purple. Must it be cut out?
It has nine tails, it is dangerous.
And the noise it flays from the air, once it gets going!
No, the tongue, too, has been put by,
Hung up in the library with the engravings of Rangoon
And the fox heads, the otter heads, the heads of dead rabbits.
It is a marvelous object—
The things it has pierced in its time.
But how about the eyes, the eyes, the eyes?
Mirrors can kill and talk, they are terrible rooms
In which a torture goes on one can only watch.
The face that lived in this mirror is the face of a dead man.
Do not worry about the eyes—
They may be white and shy, they are no stool pigeons,
Their death rays folded like flags
Of a country no longer heard of,
An obstinate independency
Insolvent among the mountains.
The line pink and quiet, a worm, basking.
There are black disks behind it, the disks of outrage,
And the outrage of a sky, the lined brain of it.
The disks revolve, they ask to be heard—
Loaded, as they are, with accounts of bastardies.
Bastardies, usages, desertions and doubleness,
The needle journeying in its groove,
Silver beast between two dark canyons,
A great surgeon, now a tattooist,
Tattooing over and over the same blue grievances,
The snakes, the babies, the tits
On mermaids and two-legged dreamgirls.
The surgeon is quiet, he does not speak.
He has seen too much death, his hands are full of it.
So the disks of the brain revolve, like the muzzles of cannon.
Then there is that antique billhook, the tongue,
Indefatigable, purple. Must it be cut out?
It has nine tails, it is dangerous.
And the noise it flays from the air, once it gets going!
No, the tongue, too, has been put by,
Hung up in the library with the engravings of Rangoon
And the fox heads, the otter heads, the heads of dead rabbits.
It is a marvelous object—
The things it has pierced in its time.
But how about the eyes, the eyes, the eyes?
Mirrors can kill and talk, they are terrible rooms
In which a torture goes on one can only watch.
The face that lived in this mirror is the face of a dead man.
Do not worry about the eyes—
They may be white and shy, they are no stool pigeons,
Their death rays folded like flags
Of a country no longer heard of,
An obstinate independency
Insolvent among the mountains.
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