365 traducciones

12 octubre 2005

Sylvia Plath.

Birthday Present.

What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?

I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is what I want.
When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking

'Is this the one I am too appear for,
Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?

Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus,
Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules.

Is this the one for the annunciation?
My god, what a laugh!'

But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me.
I would not mind if it were bones, or a pearl button.

I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year.
After all I am alive only by accident.

I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way.
Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,

The diaphanous satins of a January window
White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory!

It must be a tusk there, a ghost column.
Can you not see I do not mind what it is.

Can you not give it to me?
Do not be ashamed--I do not mind if it is small.

Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity.
Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam,

The glaze, the mirrory variety of it.
Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate.

I know why you will not give it to me,
You are terrified The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it,

Bossed, brazen, an antique shield,
A marvel to your great-grandchildren.

Do not be afraid, it is not so.
I will only take it and go aside quietly.

You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle,
No falling ribbons, no scream at the end.

I do not think you credit me with this discretion.
If you only knew how the veils were killing my days.

To you they are only transparencies, clear air.
But my god, the clouds are like cotton.

Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide.
Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in,

Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million
Probable motes that tick the years off my life.

You are silver-suited for the occasion.
O adding machine-----

Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole?
Must you stamp each piece purple,

Must you kill what you can?
There is one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me.

It stands at my window, big as the sky.
It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center

Where split lives congeal and stiffen to history.
Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger.

Let it not come by word of mouth,
I should be sixty

By the time the whole of it was delivered, and to numb to use it.
Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil.

If it were death
I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes.

I would know you were serious.
There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday.

And the knife not carve, but enter
Pure and clean as the cry of a baby,
And the universe slide from my side.

14 Comments:

  • At 9:34 a. m., Anonymous perro pequeño said…

    Mucho tiempo ya sis Sylvia Plath. Incluso llegaba a extrañar su presencia. Sin embargo rompe con el esquema de la página

     
  • At 10:01 a. m., Blogger hugo said…

    yo la amo y la amare siempre y por echarme la peli ya siempre la vere como gwyneth, pero la amaba desde antes, desde mi lectura de su bell jar. su sencillez y profundidad son la quintaesencia americana de la era dorada ilusa y optimista. tan boston, tan campirana, tan intensa, incomprendida.

     
  • At 1:09 p. m., Anonymous Rodolfo said…

    Hola Justes:

    Felicidades, aunque un poco atrasadas.

    Un abrazo

     
  • At 3:55 p. m., Blogger nor del terror said…

    hola!!!
    oye, una colega quebecoise se integró al proyecto de "el rostro de las letras" ya que nos abandono una de las 4 integrantes originales... hay algun problema para ti? la podemos integrar al proyecto en Ags.?
    gracias! y que bueno leerte de vuelta!

     
  • At 11:24 p. m., Blogger DorisFM said…

    :)

     
  • At 9:47 a. m., Blogger Siren said…

    Que bien que hayas vuelto. Mucho más con ella. Ella, una falta terrible en la Biblioteca Nicolás Salmerón que me había sorprendido tanto.
    ILD

     
  • At 10:06 a. m., Blogger RicardoColunga said…

    :)

     
  • At 10:55 a. m., Anonymous roja said…

    Bien esto de volver con ella, algunas veces uno tiene que volver los ojos al pasado, aunque nos cueste, perdón por lo del viernes, algo inesperado

     
  • At 12:07 p. m., Anonymous R said…

    Pues aprovecho este espacio para hacer extensivo este regalo a mi buen Boiler.

    Un abrazo de corazón.

    R

     
  • At 6:38 a. m., Blogger RicardoColunga said…

    Donde esta Justes? Donde? Donde?

     
  • At 10:54 a. m., Anonymous roja said…

    estás enojado, o únicamente haciéndome esperar?

     
  • At 3:36 p. m., Blogger DorisFM said…

    Postea también desde el exilio, amiguito; se te extraña.

     
  • At 12:52 p. m., Anonymous roja said…

    felíz viaje y más felíz regreso!!!!

     
  • At 11:44 a. m., Blogger DorisFM said…

    Espero que ocurra pronto el extraño retorno del Justecillos al blog.
    Me dio gusto verte, aunque me hayas asustado.

     

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