Friday, March 11, 2005
today
perhaps this perfect minimalistic-metaphysical composition with its youthful grace is the best spanish poem of the argentinian J. L. B. (you read english but you must mean the echoes of a patio in buenos aires):
- Plainness -
«The garden's grillwork gate
opens with the ease of a page
in a much thumbed book
and, once inside, our eyes
have no need to dwell on objects
already fixed and exact in memory.
Here habits and minds and the private language
all families invent
are everyday things to me.
What necessity is there to speak
or pretend to be someone else?
The whole house knows me,
they're aware of my worries and weakness.
This is the best that can happen –
what Heaven perhaps will grant us:
not to be wondered at or required to succed
but simply to be let in
as part of an undeniable Reality,
like stones of the road, like trees».
- Plainness -
«The garden's grillwork gate
opens with the ease of a page
in a much thumbed book
and, once inside, our eyes
have no need to dwell on objects
already fixed and exact in memory.
Here habits and minds and the private language
all families invent
are everyday things to me.
What necessity is there to speak
or pretend to be someone else?
The whole house knows me,
they're aware of my worries and weakness.
This is the best that can happen –
what Heaven perhaps will grant us:
not to be wondered at or required to succed
but simply to be let in
as part of an undeniable Reality,
like stones of the road, like trees».
