The first night
They approach
And pick a flower from our garden
And we don’t say anything.
The second night,
No longer hiding, they
Stomp on the flowers, kill our dog,
And we don’t say anything.
Until one day
The weakest of them
Enters our house alone
Robs us of light, and,
Knowing our fear,
Robs us of the voice of our throats.
And because we said nothing,
We no longer can say anything.
Vladimir Mayakovsky
The tumult in the heart
keeps asking questions.
And then it stops and undertakes to answer
in the same tone of voice.
No one could tell the difference.
Uninnocent, these conversations start,
and then engage the senses,
only half-meaning to.
And then there is no choice,
and then there is no sense;
until a name
and all its connotation are the same.
Elizabeth Bishop (Worcester, 1911- Boston, 1979)
CLIQUEAR ACÁ PARA ESCUCHAR ESTE POEMA LEÍDO POR MÍ
Misterios
Alguien abre una puerta
y recibe el amor
en carne viva.
Alguien dormido a ciegas,
a sordas, a sabiendas,
encuentra entre su sueño,
centelleante,
un signo rastreado en vano
en la vigilia.
Entre desconocidas calles iba,
bajo cielos de luz inesperada.
Miró, vio el mar
y tuvo a quién mostrarlo.
Esperábamos algo:
y bajó la alegría,
como una escala prevenida.
Ida Vitale (Montevideo, 1923)
