|
Allá, donde terminan las fronteras, los caminos se borran. Donde empieza el silencio. Avanzo lentamente y pueblo la noche de estrellas, de palabras, de la respiración de un agua remota que me espera donde comienza el alba.
Invento la víspera, la noche, el día siguiente que se levanta en su lecho de piedra y recorre con ojos límpidos un mundo penosamente soñado. Sostengo al árbol, a la nube, a la roca, al mar, presentimiento de dicha, invenciones que desfallecen y vacilan frente a la luz que disgrega. Y luego la sierra árida, el caserío de adobe, la minuciosa realidad de un charco y un pirú estólido, de unos niños idiotas que me apedrean, de un pueblo rencoroso que me señala. Invento el terror, la esperanza, el mediodía -- padre de los delirios solares, de las falacias espejeantes, de las mujeres que castran a sus amantes de una hora. Invento la quemadura y el aullido, la masturbación en las letrinas, las visiones en el muladar, la prisión, el piojo y el chancro, la pelea por la sopa, la delación, los animales viscosos, los contactos innobles, los interrogatorios nocturnos, el examen de conciencia, el juez, la víctima, el testigo. Tú eres esos tres. ¿A quién apelar ahora y con qué argucias destruir al que te acusa? Inútiles los memoriales, los ayes y los alegatos. Inútil tocar a puertas condenadas. No hay puertas, hay espejos. Inútil cerrar los ojos o volver entre los hombres: esta lucidez ya no me abandona. Romperé los espejos, haré trizas mi imagen, que cada mañana rehace piadosamente mi cómplice, mi delator. La soledad de la conciencia y la conciencia de la soledad, el día a pan y agua, la noche sin agua. Sequía, campo arrasado por un sol sin párpados, ojo atroz, oh conciencia, presente puro donde pasado y porvenir arden sin fulgor ni esperanza. Todo desemboca en esta eternidad que no desemboca. Allá, donde los caminos se borran, donde acaba el silencio, invento la desesperación, la mente que me concibe, la mano que me dibuja, el ojo que me descubre. Invento al amigo que me inventa, mi semejante; y a la mujer, mi contrario: torre que corono de banderas, muralla que escalan mis espumas, ciudad devastada que renace lentamente bajo la dominación de mis ojos. Contra el silencio y el bullicio invento la Palabra, libertad que se inventa y me inventa cada día. French translation (by Jean-Clarence Lambert?) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Liberté Sur Parole Là où cessent les frontières, les chemins s'effacent. Là commence le silence. J'avance lentement et je peuple la nuit d'étoiles, de paroles, de la respiration d'une eau lointaine qui m'attend où parait l'aube. J'invente la veille, la nuit, le jour qui se lève de son lit de pierre et parcourt, yeux limpides, un monde péniblement rêvé. Je soutiens l'arbre, le nuage, le rocher, la mer, pressentiment de joie -- inventions qui s'évanouissent et vacillent face à la lumière qui désagrège. Et puis, les arides montagnes, le hameau d'argile séchée, la réalité minutieuse d'un pirú stupide, de quelques enfants idiots qui me lapident, d'un village rancunier qui me dénonce. J'invente la terreur, l'espoir, le midi -- père des délires solaires, des femmes qui châtrent leurs amants d'une heure, des sophismes de la lumière. J'invente la brûlure et le hurlement, la masturbation dans les latrines, les visions dans le fumier, la prison, le pou et le chancre, la bataille pour la soupe, la délation, les animaux visqueux, les frôlements ignobles, les interrogations nocturnes, l'examen de conscience, le juge, la victime, le témoin. Tu es en trois. A qui en appelles-tu maintenant et avec quelles arguties veux-tu détruire celui qui t'accuse? Inutiles, les placets, les plaintes, les alibis. Inutile de frapper aux portes condamnées. Il n'y a pas de portes, mais des miroirs. Inutile de fermer les yeux, ou de retourner parmi les hommes : cette lucidité ne m'abandonne plus. Je briserai les miroirs, je mettrai en morceaux mon image, que mon complice, mon délateur, chaque matin reconstitue pieusement. La solitude de la conscience et la conscience de la solitude, le jour avec pain et eau, la nuit sans eau. Sécheresse, champ ravagé par un soleil sans paupières, œil atroce, ô conscience, présent pur où le passé et l'avenir brûlent sans éclat ni espérance. Tout debouche dans cette éternité qui ne debouche nulle part. Là où s'effacent les chemins, où s'achève le silence, j'invente le désespoir, l'esprit qui me conçoit, la main qui me dessine, l'œil qui me découvre. J'invente l'ami qui m'invente, mon semblable; et la femme, mon contraire, tour que je couronne d'oriflammes, muraille que mon écume assaille, ville dévastée qui renaît lentement sous la domination de mes yeux. Contre le silence et le vacarme, j'invente la Parole, liberté qui s'invente elle-même et m'invente, chaque jour. English translation (by Gilles d'Aymery & Jan Baughman) ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Freedom Through The Word There, where the frontiers end, the roads fade away. There the silence begins. I advance slowly and fill the night with stars, with words, with the breathing of a distant water that awaits me where dawn begins. I invent the eve, the night, the next day that arises in its bedrock and rides with limpid eyes a world painfully dreamt. I sustain the tree, the cloud, the boulder, the sea, presentiment of joy, inventions that wane and flicker before the light that disintegrates. And then the arid sierra, the adobe house, the meticulous reality of a puddle and a stolid pirú, of a few idiotic children who stone me, of a rancorous village that snitches on me. I invent terror, hope, midday -- father of solar deliriums, of sophisms of light, of women who castrate their lovers of an instant. I invent the scald and the howl, the masturbation in the latrines, the visions in the dung heap, the prison, the louse and the chancre, the scuffle for the broth, the denouncement, the viscous animals, the ignominious contacts, the nighttime interrogations, the self-examination, the judge, the victim, the witness. You are those three. Who to turn to now and with what sophistry to defeat your accuser? Pointless are the petitions, the pleas, the allegations. Pointless to knock on the sealed doors. There are no doors, only mirrors. Pointless to close the eyes or to return among the men: this lucidity never abandons me. I will shatter the mirrors, I will shred my own image, which each morning my accomplice, my informer, devoutly remakes. The solitude of the conscience and the conscience of the solitude, the day with bread and water, the night without water. Drought, field devastated by a sun without eyelids, cruel eye, oh conscience, pure present where the past and the future burn without glow or hope. Everything runs into this eternity that runs nowhere. There, where the roads fade away, where the silence ends, I invent despair, the mind that conceives me, the hand that draws me, the eye that discovers me. I invent the friend who invents me, my likeness; and the woman, my opposite, tower that I crown with banners, rampart that my foams assail, devastated city that slowly reawakens under the domination of my eyes. Against the silence and the commotion, I invent the Word, freedom that invents itself and invents me, every day. · · · · · ·
Resources Poetry on Swans Octavio Paz, (1914-1998), was a Mexican poet, essayist, and diplomat. During his diplomatic service in France he worked with Pablo Neruda, wrote his famous 1950 El laberinto de la Soledad ("The Labyrinth of Solitude), and collaborated with André Breton and Benjamin Péret in surrealist activities. In 1965, he became Mexican ambassador to India, a position he quit in protest to the Tlatelolco massacre during the Olympic Games. He was a precursor of postmodernism and received the 1990 Nobel Prize in Literature "for impassioned writing with wide horizons, characterized by sensuous intelligence and humanistic integrity." See his biography and list of works on the Nobel Prize Web site; to learn more about his philosophy and political views you can read "In Memoriam" and Octavio Paz & Postmodernism, two essays by Yvon Grenier of St. Francis Xavier University, posted on La Vitrina, the Web site of The Mexican Cultural Institute. The French translation comes from a personal (Gilles d'Aymery's) notebook handwritten in 1977, quite probably from Jean-Clarence Lambert (Gallimard, 1971). English translation: Gilles d'Aymery & Jan Baughman, with the kind help and suggestions from Manuel García, Jr. and Esther Hamm. Note regarding the translation of the title and of the word Palabra in the last sentence: While the poem is generally known in English by the title "Freedom Under Parole" or "Freedom On Parole," we felt it did not represent the meaning of the author. Our sentiment was that Octavio Paz was referring to the "Freedom of Speech," the freedom to invent words, one's own language -- language much like music, when in the midst of duress. Indeed, we debated entitling the poem "Freedom of Speech," or any other combination (Freedom under Speech, Freedom behind Speech, Freedom below Speech, etc. -- Manuel sent many suggestions...). But the last sentence, in which Octavio Paz uses the word Palabra embodies much more than the freedom of speech, which stricto sensu is a legal concept. Paz personified a world of creativity, all by himself. It was liberty...total freedom, he was seeking. Freedom to be, freedom to dissent, freedom to imagine, freedom to invent, freedom to use words to create another reality... To have his poem "on Parole," a cold and bureaucratic Anglo-Saxon meaning, would do him little justice. We decided upon "Word" instead of "Speech" for the same reason... Speech has become increasingly cold and commercialized in the USA... As to the remainder of the translation, we chose to remain as close to the Spanish text as possible -- in particular we decided to keep the repetitious (in English) the that is so particular to Latin idioms -- but took some poetic license on occasions. Poetry is the music of the words, after all... We hope we did not betray Octavio Paz's intent. (a pirú is a tree of the Anacardiaceae family -- a Schinus molle, like the California pepper tree.) Published under the provision of U.S. Code, Title 17, section 107. |
This Week's Internal Links
2004: A Case Study In Forensic Irony - by Phil Rockstroh
2004: Diary Of A Man In Despair - by Michael Doliner
Empire Of Amnesia, 2004 - by John Steppling
2004: Reality in Perspective - by Jan Baughman
2004: Another Best and Worst Year - by Joe Davison
2004: The Lost Year - by Eli Beckerman
2004: Perspectives And Opportunities - by Louis Proyect
2004: The Insurgent Word - by Gerard Donnelly Smith
Retrospective On 2004, Or Why I Need More Sleep - by Joel Wendland
Beyond The Beyond: Reflections on a November Visited Upon us . . . Again - by Milo Clark
2004: We Could Use Some People Power In The U.S. - by Frank Wycoff
2004: The Superpower Kept Sinking - by Philip Greenspan
The Message Of 2004 - by Charles Marowitz
2004: A Year Of Frightening Regression - by Edward S. Herman
2004: The Year Of Disillusion - by Manuel García, Jr.
Death Genes: The Second Coming - Book Excerpt by Walker Percy
Plantation Politics? Mimes, Minstrels And Miscalculation - by S. Jeffrey Jones
Blips #8 - From the Editor's desk