The complaint was gently drawn out by a breeze polished by the scales of the dolphins of Baetica, which then sank into a semi-swaying, ascending couplet, dissolved in successive polished eyes, in the midnight shadow of the Generalife, which had heard the music of that water for thirty years. The things I have heard from him, the shadow tells him, as he contemplates the water with melody.
Leave the queja and hundía in the contemplation of las Nymphéas, by Monet. From this incessant contemplation in an adolescence governed by Eros, he would derive his way of seeing the natural elements, the light extending to the only color or dissolving into the inappreciable.............................
........................yellow, already light within the light. In that motionlessly organized blue, the appearance of the flower, to overcome the smiling and diverse games of color in sensation, which isolated itself like a body. In the water lily, the swollen and carnal white flower, similar to a swan's egg, according to Stephan Mallarmé, which rose, a tenacious solitary one amidst the summer mass of blues, the exceptions of a pink, and a central yellow, hidden or eternally visible like a splinter in a smiling star. His exercise must have been continuous and tenacious, to extract from that night of blues the precision of bodies, the resemblance and redemption of each flower, swimming in the ocean of totality and ascending to its solitary and unique snow.
Thus, he always had a special intercession, granted to him, like a gift for his excessive contemplation in adolescence, by the god of extension, the mocker and majestic. The end, heard very faintly, like the breaking of the word, as a fruit does, its separation from a previous detachment, and its constitution as in a fluttering nature, eager to submerge itself in the blocks, in the gusts, in the stellar reverses, from which it was extracted by a concurrent chance and by a will that interpreted the dew of grace.
.............................and the brilliant atom begins to furrow the mist—in very slow motion, such that the abruptness of the start seemed to arrive like a breath. Because of that substitution of meditating facing the wall, which fixes monsters, or of the tenacious pursuit and connection of the clouds, which group mythological banquets with the laughter spreading through Jove's beard and the jug of Ida's waiter, by the variations of the sea's skin. An unreal, magical touch arose from that contemplation perennially summoned by a nocturnal, calm swell, which ended in the ascending consecration of the flower. The tenacity, perhaps a little somber, of the contemplation led him to the supreme formal grace, in whose center the dormant little tubes of the pollen mimicked the conduction of the sun to its favorite nocturnal home of the snail.
The insistent vision created a touch as unreal as it was precise, which made the fruits, supported by the light that cast them, resplendent in gravitation. Each word seems to carry its own landscape. The words within it of fixed irradiation: star, celestial body, spikenard, firmament, nakedness, ocean, acquired an unusual splendor and splendor when placed between vision and touch. Didn't the Eastern mystics, before the Golden Flower, in one of their mandalas, place the white light that irradiates the first circumambulation, the protoplasm of the germinal vesicle, the circular cosmic movements, with their four basic colors? This is the color that makes visible the landscape displaced by each word, seemingly making visible the expanse of the poem up to its contours. There, a dark space is formed, furrowed by long spirals of burning silver and new fire, which returns to the poem, cornering it, ensuring the decisive counsel of its central region. Like a glow of glass, like a supreme, crystalline region among the prolific fish of the center.................. ---------------
Poetry, is it a firefly or a fixed gaze? Love, is it the figure assumed by the mystery that approaches or by the spirit of the vast that recedes? These questions scratch with their twisting teeth, with their keys of...........................................
.....................a curse, when they do not extend or flash forth a center outward, for man is born with his umbilical center already inward, where energy, light, and sympathos lie. But that center outward, which is never the "in you," is the Father acting, officiating in his natural office, whose relationship with us becomes clear in death, which is the vast temporal realm of infinity, nourishment for what is also the bread of life, food for the angels, for everything is silently prepared for God's return and for man's resurrection.
He was thus able to attain pure poetry with a height of natural delight. He always passionately claimed the title of introducer and creator of pure poetry. When this expression had already become extraordinarily complicated, to the point that Valéry discarded it, he still insisted on his original possession of the word "enough," unique and alone. He saw this purity in the being-in-the-act that went to his self, facing infinity. His exercise was rather one of contemplation, of solitude maintained in the face of challenge, of immersion, not of empowerment, facing the carnal shadow in the fleetingness of his instant. Nevertheless, the prolongation of his contemplation was far superior to his being-in-the-act. In the act, he did not seek an undominated exterior, but an aggrandizement of his self. This act did not act in the face of infinity, but upon his self. The act, arising from contemplation, was soon also contemplated by his acting self. For the act, when it goes to the development of its power, cannot decide to seize that whiteness.
The act, which in poetry must remain within the possibilities of the ineffable ray, acts upon the impure diversity, the somber incompleteness, the unusual that surpasses us, to obtain, upon the extinction of its burning gold, a word that has traversed all mansions, or a sentence always oscillating between its unfulfilled poetic veracity and its settled half-shadow or groaning body. This ineffable in the realm of poetry depends on an impure incompleteness, not on the abstraction of a single color bestowed by contemplation. In theology, this unitive path only delivers us the contemplation of the supreme essence, which poetry cannot attempt to reflect.
This search for the hieratic umbilical, for the block as the repose of earthly divinity, was quickly rectified by the most violent antithesis, for in reality, whoever works on a loom or crafts a tanager feels a terrifying complementary fabric, which magnifies the minuteness until it feels the breath of total music. A fervor similar to that of one seeking the center of the block, detached from a concentric material, where the titans seem to struggle with the prophecies of invading floods. The eyes revolve around the immensity of the block, until they nail a center, like the hands that persist on the small body, eager for a detachment, toward the ambivalent darkness, which challenges us like a partridge in the rain.
The confused torrent of blood is overcome by the rising voice of water, a bowl that dismisses and conjures once again the games of a liquid dawn. In the cursed fountain, the nymphs flock to forget a submerged and somber passion. In each of the veins of anxious Biblis, a fountain opens, concealing her desire to flee like a shadow, to camp in a body of glory and grace. In the fountain, as the afternoon surrenders, the still shadow leaps like a hummingbird, dyeing the waters with arches of flowers. The clouds unload their invisible cargo in the fountain, and the deck of uncreated conspirators ascends the spire, a ball of sand detached from the world of Hylas and Philonous, which exists as an archetype, but which disdains the verifiable phenomenal.
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The complaint was gently drawn out by a breeze polished by the scales of the dolphins of Baetica, which then sank into a semi-swaying, ascending couplet, dissolved in successive polished eyes, in the midnight shadow of the Generalife, which had heard the music of that water for thirty years. The things I have heard from him, the shadow tells him, as he contemplates the water with melody.
ResponderExcluirLEZAMA LIMA
BACK THE TWILIGHTS AND FLUTES
From "Return the twilights and flutes" by Lezama Lima
ExcluirLeave the queja and hundía in the contemplation of las Nymphéas, by Monet. From this incessant contemplation in an adolescence governed by Eros, he would derive his way of seeing the natural elements, the light extending to the only color or dissolving into the inappreciable.............................
Excluir........................yellow, already light within the light. In that motionlessly organized blue, the appearance of the flower, to overcome the smiling and diverse games of color in sensation, which isolated itself like a body. In the water lily, the swollen and carnal white flower, similar to a swan's egg, according to Stephan Mallarmé, which rose, a tenacious solitary one amidst the summer mass of blues, the exceptions of a pink, and a central yellow, hidden or eternally visible like a splinter in a smiling star. His exercise must have been continuous and tenacious, to extract from that night of blues the precision of bodies, the resemblance and redemption of each flower, swimming in the ocean of totality and ascending to its solitary and unique snow.
ExcluirThus, he always had a special intercession, granted to him, like a gift for his excessive contemplation in adolescence, by the god of extension, the mocker and majestic. The end, heard very faintly, like the breaking of the word, as a fruit does, its separation from a previous detachment, and its constitution as in a fluttering nature, eager to submerge itself in the blocks, in the gusts, in the stellar reverses, from which it was extracted by a concurrent chance and by a will that interpreted the dew of grace.
Excluir.............................and the brilliant atom begins to furrow the mist—in very slow motion, such that the abruptness of the start seemed to arrive like a breath. Because of that substitution of meditating facing the wall, which fixes monsters, or of the tenacious pursuit and connection of the clouds, which group mythological banquets with the laughter spreading through Jove's beard and the jug of Ida's waiter, by the variations of the sea's skin. An unreal, magical touch arose from that contemplation perennially summoned by a nocturnal, calm swell, which ended in the ascending consecration of the flower. The tenacity, perhaps a little somber, of the contemplation led him to the supreme formal grace, in whose center the dormant little tubes of the pollen mimicked the conduction of the sun to its favorite nocturnal home of the snail.
ExcluirThe insistent vision created a touch as unreal as it was precise, which made the fruits, supported by the light that cast them, resplendent in gravitation. Each word seems to carry its own landscape. The words within it of fixed irradiation: star, celestial body, spikenard, firmament, nakedness, ocean, acquired an unusual splendor and splendor when placed between vision and touch. Didn't the Eastern mystics, before the Golden Flower, in one of their mandalas, place the white light that irradiates the first circumambulation, the protoplasm of the germinal vesicle, the circular cosmic movements, with their four basic colors? This is the color that makes visible the landscape displaced by each word, seemingly making visible the expanse of the poem up to its contours. There, a dark space is formed, furrowed by long spirals of burning silver and new fire, which returns to the poem, cornering it, ensuring the decisive counsel of its central region. Like a glow of glass, like a supreme, crystalline region among the prolific fish of the center..................
Excluir---------------
Post script
ExcluirPoetry, is it a firefly or a fixed gaze? Love, is it the figure assumed by the mystery that approaches or by the spirit of the vast that recedes? These questions scratch with their twisting teeth, with their keys of...........................................
.....................a curse, when they do not extend or flash forth a center outward, for man is born with his umbilical center already inward, where energy, light, and sympathos lie. But that center outward, which is never the "in you," is the Father acting, officiating in his natural office, whose relationship with us becomes clear in death, which is the vast temporal realm of infinity, nourishment for what is also the bread of life, food for the angels, for everything is silently prepared for God's return and for man's resurrection.
ExcluirHe was thus able to attain pure poetry with a height of natural delight. He always passionately claimed the title of introducer and creator of pure poetry. When this expression had already become extraordinarily complicated, to the point that Valéry discarded it, he still insisted on his original possession of the word "enough," unique and alone. He saw this purity in the being-in-the-act that went to his self, facing infinity. His exercise was rather one of contemplation, of solitude maintained in the face of challenge, of immersion, not of empowerment, facing the carnal shadow in the fleetingness of his instant. Nevertheless, the prolongation of his contemplation was far superior to his being-in-the-act. In the act, he did not seek an undominated exterior, but an aggrandizement of his self. This act did not act in the face of infinity, but upon his self. The act, arising from contemplation, was soon also contemplated by his acting self. For the act, when it goes to the development of its power, cannot decide to seize that whiteness.
ExcluirThe act, which in poetry must remain within the possibilities of the ineffable ray, acts upon the impure diversity, the somber incompleteness, the unusual that surpasses us, to obtain, upon the extinction of its burning gold, a word that has traversed all mansions, or a sentence always oscillating between its unfulfilled poetic veracity and its settled half-shadow or groaning body. This ineffable in the realm of poetry depends on an impure incompleteness, not on the abstraction of a single color bestowed by contemplation. In theology, this unitive path only delivers us the contemplation of the supreme essence, which poetry cannot attempt to reflect.
ExcluirPost script
ExcluirThis search for the hieratic umbilical, for the block as the repose of earthly divinity, was quickly rectified by the most violent antithesis, for in reality, whoever works on a loom or crafts a tanager feels a terrifying complementary fabric, which magnifies the minuteness until it feels the breath of total music. A fervor similar to that of one seeking the center of the block, detached from a concentric material, where the titans seem to struggle with the prophecies of invading floods. The eyes revolve around the immensity of the block, until they nail a center, like the hands that persist on the small body, eager for a detachment, toward the ambivalent darkness, which challenges us like a partridge in the rain.
Post script
ExcluirThe confused torrent of blood is overcome by the rising voice of water, a bowl that dismisses and conjures once again the games of a liquid dawn. In the cursed fountain, the nymphs flock to forget a submerged and somber passion. In each of the veins of anxious Biblis, a fountain opens, concealing her desire to flee like a shadow, to camp in a body of glory and grace. In the fountain, as the afternoon surrenders, the still shadow leaps like a hummingbird, dyeing the waters with arches of flowers. The clouds unload their invisible cargo in the fountain, and the deck of uncreated conspirators ascends the spire, a ball of sand detached from the world of Hylas and Philonous, which exists as an archetype, but which disdains the verifiable phenomenal.