"Mirar las cosas de cara, ser capaces de sorprendernos, tener curiosidad y un poco de coraje; saber preguntar y saber escuchar; evitar los dogmas y las respuestas automáticas; no buscar necesariamente respuestas y aún menos fórmulas magistrales" (Emili Manzano)

viernes, 5 de junio de 2015


Pero si pudieras levantar su mirada entristecida, profunda y pasar
por detrás, te adentrarías en un escenario donde eternamente 
los fantasmas ensayan una tragedia irrepresentable.

Cautivo al aire libre, sumido en la oscuridad a pleno día,
como alguien que está siempre fuera de su elemento
transparentemente envuelto, quien desde su batiscafo
observa, pensativo, sorprendido, pero más temeroso,
las alegres formas de vida que serpentean alrededor, 
y no osa romper la burbuja y morir ahogado.

Si quieres leer el poema completo, lo tienes a continuación en inglés.

"THE NEUROTIC", by C. DAY LEWIS (july, 1947)

The spring came round, and still he was not dead.
Skin of the earth deliciously powdered
With buttercups and daisies-oh, Proserpina
Refreshed by sleep, wild-cherry-garlanded,.
And laughing in the sallies of the willow-wren!
With lambs and lilies spring came round again.

Who would suppose, seeing him walk the meadows,
He walks a treadmill there, grinding himself
To powder, dust to greyer dust, or treads
An invisible causeway lipped by chucklrng shadows ?
Take his arm if you like, you’ll not come near him.
His mouth is an ill-stitihed wound opening: hear him.

‘I will not lift mine eyes unto the hills
For there white lambs nuzzle and creep like maggots.
I will not breathe the lillies of the valley
For through their scent a chambered corpse exhales.
If a petal floats to earth, I am oppressed.
The grass-blades twist, twist deep in my breast.’

The night came on, and he was still alive.
Lighted tanks of streets aswarm with denizens
Darting to trysts, sauntering to parties.
How all the heart-fires twinkle!
Yes, they thrive In the large illusion of freedom, in love’s net
Where even the murderer can act and the judge regret.

This man who turns a phrase and twiddles a glass
Seems far horn that pale muttering magician
Pent in a vicious circle of dilemmas.
But could you lift his blue, thick gaze and pass
Behind, you would walk a stage where endlessly
Phantoms rehearse unactable tragedy.

‘In free air captive, in full day benighted,
I am as one for ever out of his element
Transparently enwombed, who from a bathysphere
Observes, wistful, amazed, but more affrighted,
Gay fluent forms of life weaving around,
And dares not break the bubble and be drowned.’

His doomsdays crawled like lava, till at length
All impulse clogged, the last green lung consumed,
Each onward step required the sweat of nightmare,
Each human act a superhuman strength . . .
And the guillemot, clotted with oil, droops her head.
And the mouse between the elastic paws shams dead.

Death mask of a genius unborn:
Tragic prince of a rejected play:
Soul of suffering that bequeathed no myth :
A dark tower and a never-sounded horn.
Call him what we will, words cannot ennoble
This Atlas who fell down under a bubble.

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