19 Eylül 2021 Pazar

Andábamos sin buscarnos, ... / Julio Cortázar

"Andábamos sin buscarnos, pero sabiendo que andábamos para encontrarnos." ~ Julio Cortázar





"We went around without looking for each other, but knowing we went around to find each other." ~ Julio Cortázar





"Nous nous promenions sans nous chercher mais en sachant que nous nous promenions pour nous retrouver." ~ Julio Cortázar





"Camminavamo senza cercarci, eppure sapendo che camminavamo per incontrarci." ~ Julio Cortázar





"Birbirimizi aramaksızın yürüdük ama birbirimizi bulmak için yürüdüğümüzün farkındaydık." ~ Julio Cortázar





Photo: James Dean in Times Square, New York City, 1955, by Dennis Stock

Photo: Liv Tyler in Times Square, New York City, 1995, by Lara Rossignol

James Dean & Liv Tyler

18 Eylül 2021 Cumartesi

Love and Sleep / Algernon Charles Swinburne

Love and Sleep

Lying asleep between the strokes of night
    I saw my love lean over my sad bed,
    Pale as the duskiest lily’s leaf or head,
Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite,
Too wan for blushing and too warm for white,
    But perfect-coloured without white or red.
    And her lips opened amorously, and said –
I wist not what, saving one word – Delight.

And all her face was honey to my mouth,
    And all her body pasture to mine eyes;
         The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire,
The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south,
    The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs
         And glittering eyelids of my soul’s desire.

Algernon Charles Swinburne ~ (From Poems and Ballads, 1866)





Aime et rêve

Étiré et endormi entre les caresses nocturnes
J'ai vu mon amour s'appuyer sur mon lit triste,
pâle comme le fruit et la feuille du lis le plus foncé,
nu, dénudé et sombre, le cou nu, prêt à être mordu,
trop blanc pour rougir et trop chaud pour être impeccable,
mais de la couleur parfaite, absent de blanc et de rouge.
Et ses lèvres se sont entrouvertes tendrement,
et elle a dit -en un seul mot- plaisir.

Et tout son visage était du miel pour ma bouche,
et tout son corps était la nourriture de mes yeux;
Ses bras longs et aérés et ses mains plus chaudes que le feu
ses membres palpitants, l'odeur de ses cheveux du sud,
ses pieds légers et brillants, ses cuisses élastiques et généreuses
et les couvercles brillants ont donné le désir à mon âme.

Algernon Charles Swinburne





Amor y sueño

Tendida y dormida entre las caricias nocturnas   
vi a mi amor inclinarse sobre mi desconsolada cama,
pálida como la hoja y el fruto del lirio más oscuro,
rasa, despojada y sombría, con la garganta desnuda preparada para ser mordida,
demasiado pálida para ruborizarse y demasiado ardiente para estar inmaculada,
pero del color perfecto ausente del blanco y el rojo.
Y sus labios se entreabrieron amorosamente, y dijo -   
no se más que, ahorrar una palabra - placer.

Y toda su cara era miel para mi boca,
y todo su cuerpo era alimento para mis ojos;
Sus largos y ligeros brazos y sus manos más ardientes que el fuego
sus extremidades palpitando, el olor de su pelo austral,
sus pies ligeros y luminosos, sus muslos elásticos y generosos
y los brillantes párpados daban deseo a mi alma.

Algernon Charles Swinburne





Amore e sogno

Disteso e addormentato tra le carezze notturne
Ho visto il mio amore appoggiarsi al mio triste letto,
pallido come il frutto e la foglia del giglio più scuro,
nudo, spogliato e cupo, con il collo nudo, pronto per essere morso,
troppo bianco per arrossire e troppo caldo per essere immacolato,
ma del colore perfetto, assente di bianco e rosso.
E le sue labbra si aprirono teneramente,
e disse -in una sola parola- piacere.

E tutto il suo viso era miele per la mia bocca,
e tutto il suo corpo era cibo per i miei occhi;
Le sue braccia lunghe e ariose e le sue mani più calde del fuoco
le sue membra pulsano, l'odore dei suoi capelli del sud,
i suoi piedi leggeri e lucenti, le sue cosce elastiche e generose
e le palpebre luminose davano desiderio alla mia anima.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

Photo by David Bellemere

17 Eylül 2021 Cuma

En la doliente soledad del domingo / Gioconda Belli

En la doliente soledad del domingo

Aquí estoy,
desnuda,
sobre las sábanas solitarias
de esta cama donde te deseo.

Veo mi cuerpo,
liso y rosado en el espejo,
mi cuerpo
que fue ávido territorio de tus besos;
este cuerpo lleno de recuerdos
de tu desbordada pasión
sobre el que peleaste sudorosas batallas
en largas noches de quejidos y risas
y ruidos de mis cuevas interiores.

Veo mis pechos
que acomodabas sonriendo
en la palma de tu mano,
que apretabas como pájaros pequeños
en tus jaulas de cinco barrotes,
mientras una flor se me encendía
y paraba su dura corola
contra tu carne dulce.

Veo mis piernas,
largas y lentas conocedoras de tus caricias,
que giraban rápidas y nerviosas sobre sus goznes
para abrirte el sendero de la perdición
hacia mi mismo centro,
y la suave vegetación del monte
donde urdiste sordos combates
coronados de gozo,
anunciados por descargas de fusilerías
y truenos primitivos.

Me veo y no me estoy viendo,
es un espejo de vos el que se extiende doliente
sobre esta soledad de domingo,
un espejo rosado,
un molde hueco buscando su otro hemisferio.

Llueve copiosamente
sobre mi cara
y sólo pienso en tu lejano amor
mientras cobijo
con todas mis fuerzas,
la esperanza.

Gioconda Belli





On Sunday's Painful Loneliness

Here I am
naked,
lying on the forlorn sheets of this bed
where I yearn for you.

I see my body,
smooth and pink in the mirror,
my body,
once such avid terrain for your kisses,
this body full of memories
of your boundless passion
on which you fought sweat-soaked battles
on long nights of moans and laughter
and noises from my inner hollows.

I see my breasts
which you cocooned with a smile
in the palm of your hand,
which you squeezed like tiny birds
within the five bars of your jail
as a flower burst within me
and held its hard corolla
against your sweet flesh.

I see my legs
long and slow veterans of your caresses,
rotating fast and nervous on their hinges
to open for you the path to damnation
toward my very center,
and the soft vegetation of the mound
where you engaged silent battles
crowned with delight
heralded by volleys of artillery
and primitive thunder.

I see and I don’t see myself
in this mirror of you that stretches painfully
over this Sunday’s loneliness
a flesh-colored mirror,
a hollow mold seeking its other hemisphere.

It is raining heavily
on my face
and I think only of your faraway love
as I shelter,
with all my might,
my hopes.

Gioconda Belli

Translated by Lizabeth Paravisini-Gebert





Nella dolente solitudine della domenica

Sono qui,
nuda,
sulle lenzuola solitarie
di questo letto in cui ti desidero.
Guardo il mio corpo,…
liscio e rosato nello specchio,
il mio corpo
che è stato avido territorio dei tuoi baci,
questo corpo pieno di ricordo
della tua incontenibile passione
sul quale hai combattuto sudate battaglie
nelle lunghe notti di gemiti e di risa
e di sudori dalle mie cavità profonde.
Guardo i miei seni
che sistemavi sorridendo
nel palmo della tua mano,
che stringevi come uccellini nelle tue gabbie di cinque sbarre,
mentre un fiore mi si accendeva
e arrestava la sua dura corolla
contro la tua dolce carne.
Guardo le mie gambe,
lunghe e lente conoscitrici delle tue carezze,
che ruotavano rapide e nervose sui loro cardini
per aprirti il sentiero della perdizione
proprio verso il mio centro
verso la dolce vegetazione del campo
dove hai ordito taciti combattimenti
coronati dal piacere,
annunciati da raffiche di fucile
e da arcaici tuoni.
Mi guardo e mi vedo,
è lo specchio di te che si tende dolente
su questa solitudine domenicale,
uno specchio rosato,
un calco vuoto che cerca l’altro suo emisfero.
Piove a dirotto sul mio volto
e penso soltanto al tuo amore lontano
mentre difendo
con tutte le mie forze,
la speranza.

Gioconda Belli

Emmanuelle Béart, Havana, Cuba, 2008,
by Sylvie Lancrenon

15 Eylül 2021 Çarşamba

Linotte: The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1914–1920 / Anaïs Nin

June 5. Oh! Little Diary, what an adventure—You made the 3- hour trip with me from New York to Sheffield, Massachusetts, in my suitcase with my fairy-queen dress, etc. Now it is nine o’clock in the morning and I am writing in the nicest little room imaginable, in a cottage in the style of the little house at Lake Placid. But let’s tell things in order. The train stopped at. Sheffield about noon. In Stamford, I met Marcus’s aunt, a nice, pleasant lady.
        Marcus was waiting at the station. They brought us here in an automobile, we had lunch, we talked a little together, then Marcus left and the “ladies” dressed for the Declamation. Berkshire School is a long way from here and entirely surrounded by mountains—a most delightful setting.
        Little Diary, I don’t know what Love is, and furthermore, I don’t want to know, so I can’t find a name for my happiness yesterday when Marcus was near me. All the rest meant little to me and the other boys were nice but unimportant, as usual.
        I was very sorry because Marcus was nervous and had to stop a moment in the midst of his eloquent speech—and in that way probably lost 2nd prize. Afterward there was a tea, a walk and dinner—and a dance in the gymnasium. The son of Madame Homer, the famous singer, danced with me often, and many others. But when I danced with Marcus, I was “thrilled”—to the point where I forgot to talk. During the day, his aunt asked him not to give me his arm, because of propriety, and I was so embarrassed—!
        We came back at 11, along dark, dark roads as at Lake Placid—a light rain whipped our faces—quickly, quickly, so quickly that I closed my eyes and again I felt that delicious “thrill” filling me so completely. At moments like that, one wonders how one can sometimes go for years and be happy without that delightful “tingling” in the blood, that sensation in the heart which seems like the last feeling before death.
        At midnight I was in bed, but a real “Sandman” was needed to put me to sleep. I would have liked to begin it all over, except the trip, and I did begin it all over—in my dreams. . . .
        I could write pages and pages more, but I am a little bit frozen, for the weather is nice and cold the way it is in the mountains. I hope that my heart is as cold as my hands. It would be better like that, so that it doesn’t suddenly melt completely and flow away like a little stream into that great Ocean—Love.
        I am not romantic but, as Maman says, I take things so dramatically, tragically. Well! I am too old to reform—let’s just they don’t understand him, Marcus is still the most worthwhile boy I know.
        I shall never forget the way he once told me how my eyes seem to him. Oh! Little Diary, that meant so much—especially that I would be very sorry if I learned that my features, my face, are Me. What do those things matter? If Marcus had never expressed anything except his enthusiasm for my eyes, he came close to the real Me—my emotions, my thoughts, my dreams, the things that don’t die and which are in my eyes as in a mirror—

{June 1920]

Anaïs Nin ~ (Linotte: The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1914–1920)

Photo by Dorota Górecka

13 Eylül 2021 Pazartesi

I am dark and fair to see, / Twelfth Century French Song

I am dark and fair to see,
Young in my virginity,
Rose my colour is and white,
Pretty mouth and green mine eyes...
 
Twelfth Century French Song

The Age Of Innocence series
shot by David Hamilton