Robert Lowell
MARIDO Y MUJER
[Robert Lowell y Elizabeth Hardwick] |
Marido y mujer
Domados por el
Miltown, yacemos en la cama
de mi madre;
nos tiñe de rojo el sol naciente
como a
guerreros; brillan los barrotes dorados
a plena luz,
fervientes, ya casi dionisíacos.
Al fin verdean
los árboles en la calle Malborough,
nuestro
magnolio en flor enciende la mañana
con blancura
asesina, que dura cinco días.
Te tomé de la
mano toda la noche, como
si hubieras
enfrentado por cuarta vez el reino
de los locos
―sus frases repetidas, sus ojos
homicidas― e
ileso me arrastraras a casa…
Oh, mi Petite, de Dios la más clara criatura,
toda aire y
nervio aún: tenías veinte años
y yo, en un
tiempo, el vaso en una mano
y el corazón en
la garganta, había bebido
más que los
Rahv en el calor
de Greenwich
Village, y caí a tus pies―
tan tímido, tan
ebrio, tan con cara
de póquer, como
para dar un paso,
mientras la
lengua aguda
de tu invectiva
traspasaba
las tradiciones
del antiguo Sur.
Doce años han
pasado y ahora me das la espalda.
Insomne,
abrazas
tu almohada
contra el cuerpo igual que cuando niña;
tu diatriba
gastada―
amorosa, veloz
y despiadada―
rompe como el
Océano Atlántico en mis sienes.
[De Life Studies, 1959]
Versión de Pablo Anadón
Córdoba, 9-II-12
*
Man and wife
Tamed by Miltown, we lie on Mother's bed;
the rising sun in war paint dyes us red;
in broad daylight her gilded bed-posts shine,
abandoned, almost Dionysian.
At last the trees are green on Marlborough Street,
blossoms on our magnolia ignite
the morning with their murderous five day's white.
All night I've held your hand,
as if you had
a fourth time faced the kingdom of the mad -
its hackneyed speech, its homicidal eye -
and dragged me home alive. . . . Oh my Petite,
clearest of all God's creatures, still all air and nerve:
you were in your twenties, and I,
once hand on glass
and heart in mouth,
outdrank the Rahvs in the heat
of Greenwich Village, fainting at your feet -
too boiled and shy
and poker-faced to make a pass,
while the shrill verve
of your invective scorched the traditional South.
Now twelve years later, you turn your back.
Sleepless, you hold
your pillow to your hollows like a child,
your old-fashioned tirade -
loving, rapid, merciless -
breaks like the Atlantic Ocean on my head.
the rising sun in war paint dyes us red;
in broad daylight her gilded bed-posts shine,
abandoned, almost Dionysian.
At last the trees are green on Marlborough Street,
blossoms on our magnolia ignite
the morning with their murderous five day's white.
All night I've held your hand,
as if you had
a fourth time faced the kingdom of the mad -
its hackneyed speech, its homicidal eye -
and dragged me home alive. . . . Oh my Petite,
clearest of all God's creatures, still all air and nerve:
you were in your twenties, and I,
once hand on glass
and heart in mouth,
outdrank the Rahvs in the heat
of Greenwich Village, fainting at your feet -
too boiled and shy
and poker-faced to make a pass,
while the shrill verve
of your invective scorched the traditional South.
Now twelve years later, you turn your back.
Sleepless, you hold
your pillow to your hollows like a child,
your old-fashioned tirade -
loving, rapid, merciless -
breaks like the Atlantic Ocean on my head.
[Life Studies, 1959]
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