| Pablo Neruda -Oda al maíz- |
| lunes, 21 de marzo de 2005 |
Oda al maíz
América, de un grano
de maíz te elevaste
hasta llenar
de tierras espaciosas
el espumoso
océano.
Fue un grano de maíz
tu geografía.
El grano
adelantó una lanza
verde,
la lanza verde se cubrió
de oro
y engalanó la altura
del Perú con su
pámpano amarillo.
Pero, poeta, deja
la historia en su
mortaja
y alaba con tu lira
al grano en sus
graneros;
canta al simple maíz de
las cocinas.
Primero suave barba
agitada en el huerto
sobre los tiernos
dientes .
de la joven mazorca.
Luego se abrió el
estuche
y la fecundidad rompió
sus velos
de pálido papiro .
para que se desgrane
la risa del maíz sobre la
tierra.
A la piedra
en tu viaje, regresabas.
No a la piedra terrible,
al sanguinario
triángulo de la muerte
mexicana,
sino a la piedra de
moler,
sagrada
piedra de nuestras
cocinas.
Allí leche y materia,
poderosa y nutricia
pulpa de los pasteles
llegaste a ser movida
por milagrosas manos
de mujeres morenas.
Donde caigas, maíz,
en la olla ilustre
de las perdices o entre
los fréjoles
campestres, iluminas
la comida y le acercas
el virginal sabor de tu
substancia.
Morderte,
panocha de maíz, junco
al océano
de cantara remota y
vals profundo.
Hervirte
y que tu aroma
por las sierras azules
se despliegue.
Pero, dónde
no llega
tu tesoro?
En las tierras marinas
y calcáreas,
peladas, en las rocas
del litoral chileno,
a la mesa desnuda
del minero
a veces sólo llega
la claridad de tu
mercadería.
Puebla tu luz, tu harina,
tu esperanza
la soledad de América,
y el hambre
considera tus lanzas
legiones enemigas.
Entre tus hojas como
suave guiso
crecieron nuestros
graves corazones
de niños provincianos
y comenzó la vida
Ode to maize
America, from a grain
of maize you grew
to crown
with spacious lands
the ocean foam.
A grain of maize was your geography.
From the grain
a green lance rose,
was covered with gold,
to grace the heights
of Peru with its yellow tassels.
But, poet, let
history rest in its shroud;
praise with your lyre
the grain in its granaries:
sing to the simple maize in the kitchen.
First, a fine beard
fluttered in the field
above the tender teeth
of the young ear.
Then the husks parted
and fruitfulness burst its veils
of pale papyrus
that grains of laughter
might fall upon the earth.
To the stone,
in your journey,
you returned.
Not to the terrible stone,
the bloody
triangle of Mexican death,
but to the grinding stone,
sacred
stone of your kitchens.
There, milk and matter,
strength-giving, nutritious
cornmeal pulp,
you were worked and patted
by the wondrous hands
of dark-skinned women.
Wherever you fall, maize,
whether into the
splendid pot of partridge, or among
country beans, you light up
the meal and lend it
your virginal flavor.
Oh, to bite into
the steaming ear beside the sea
of distant song and deepest waltz.
To boil you
as your aroma
spreads through
blue sierras.
But is there
no end
to your treasure?
In chalky, barren lands
bordered
by the sea, along
the rocky Chilean coast,
at times
only your radiance
reaches the empty
table of the miner.
Your light, your cornmeal, your hope
pervades America's solitudes,
and to hunger
your lances
are enemy legions.
Within your husks,
like gentle kernels,
our sober provincial
children's hearts were nurtured,
until life began
to shuck us from the ear.Etiquetas: Pablo Neruda |
posted by Bishop @ 21:05  |
|
| 1 Comments: |
-
Ode to corn
America, you grew
from a kernel of corn
until filling
the foamy ocean
with ample earth.
Your geography was a kernel of corn.
The kernel
gave birth to a green lance;
the green lance covered itself with gold
and adorned the heights
of Peru
with honeyed tassels.
But, poet, leave
the story in its shroud,
and with your lyre,
praise the grain in silos:
sing about the simple corn in kitchens.
First, a soft beard
trembles in the field
over the tender teeth
of the young tower of maize.
Then the sheath opens,
and fertility splits
its pale papyrus
sails
corn's laughter
shakes over the earth.
In the course of your journey,
you turned to stone,
not the terrible,
bloodthirsty
triangle of Mexican death,
but the grinding stone,
sacred
stone of our kitchens.
There milk and raw matter,
powerful and life-sustaining
pulp of cakes,
you arrived to be shaped
by the miraculous hands
of sun-golden women.
Corn, wherever you may fall,
into the patridge's stew-spot,
or among rustic neans,
you illuminate
the feast, and the innocent savor
of your essence unites us.
Oh to bite into you,
ear of corn, near the ocean
of distant song and deep waltzes!
To boil you,
so that your aroma
extends throughout
in the blue sierras!
Where
does your treasure
reach?
Into oceanic and calcareous
lands,
along the rough and thorny rocks
of the chilean coast,
and on the miner's naked
table mountain,
sometimes only your bright
abundance arrives.
Increase your light, your cereal, your hope,
America's solitude.
Hunger considers
our lances
enemy battalions.
Among your leaves,
like tender spice,
our hearts,
the serious hearts
of provincial children grew,
and life began
to shake us apart.
Translated by Maria Jacketti
|
| |
| << Home |
| |
|
|
Ode to corn
America, you grew
from a kernel of corn
until filling
the foamy ocean
with ample earth.
Your geography was a kernel of corn.
The kernel
gave birth to a green lance;
the green lance covered itself with gold
and adorned the heights
of Peru
with honeyed tassels.
But, poet, leave
the story in its shroud,
and with your lyre,
praise the grain in silos:
sing about the simple corn in kitchens.
First, a soft beard
trembles in the field
over the tender teeth
of the young tower of maize.
Then the sheath opens,
and fertility splits
its pale papyrus
sails
corn's laughter
shakes over the earth.
In the course of your journey,
you turned to stone,
not the terrible,
bloodthirsty
triangle of Mexican death,
but the grinding stone,
sacred
stone of our kitchens.
There milk and raw matter,
powerful and life-sustaining
pulp of cakes,
you arrived to be shaped
by the miraculous hands
of sun-golden women.
Corn, wherever you may fall,
into the patridge's stew-spot,
or among rustic neans,
you illuminate
the feast, and the innocent savor
of your essence unites us.
Oh to bite into you,
ear of corn, near the ocean
of distant song and deep waltzes!
To boil you,
so that your aroma
extends throughout
in the blue sierras!
Where
does your treasure
reach?
Into oceanic and calcareous
lands,
along the rough and thorny rocks
of the chilean coast,
and on the miner's naked
table mountain,
sometimes only your bright
abundance arrives.
Increase your light, your cereal, your hope,
America's solitude.
Hunger considers
our lances
enemy battalions.
Among your leaves,
like tender spice,
our hearts,
the serious hearts
of provincial children grew,
and life began
to shake us apart.
Translated by Maria Jacketti