lunes, 22 de diciembre de 2008
Este poema me gustó mucho, siempre me gustó mucho. No lo entendía, bien, porque estaba en un cassette, en una cinta, y yo cada vez que lo escuchaba oía algunas partes, pero lo entendía (en resumen),
Stevie Smith - Not Waving But Drowning
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning: I was much further out than you thought,
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking,
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way, They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
No sé quién es Stevie Smith, de hecho no he leído nada (de él) no sabía que él era el autor, pero yo con este poema siempre me imaginaba a una gente muy feliz en la playa, un grupo, y un chava desde dentro, desde dentro de la orilla (en el mar) y agitando el brazo, y toda la gente creyendo que estaba saludando (es lo que dice el poema) y saludando, a la par, y el chaval "still...lay...mo..."
Enfín, lo voy a traducir para el que lo quiera
No estaba saludando sino ahogándose
Nadie lo oyó, al hombre muerto,
pero todavía yacía gimiendo,Siempre estuve más lejos de lo que pensásteis
y no saludando, sino ahogándome
¡Pobre tipo, siempre le gustó bromear!
Y ahora está muerto
"Hacía demasiado frío para él, su corazón cedió"
Decían
Oh no,no,no, siempre hizo demasiado frío
(Todavía el muerto yacía gimiendo)
Toda mi vida estuve demasiado lejos
Y no saludando, sino ahogándome
Stevie Smith - Not Waving But Drowning
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning: I was much further out than you thought,
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking,
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way, They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
No sé quién es Stevie Smith, de hecho no he leído nada (de él) no sabía que él era el autor, pero yo con este poema siempre me imaginaba a una gente muy feliz en la playa, un grupo, y un chava desde dentro, desde dentro de la orilla (en el mar) y agitando el brazo, y toda la gente creyendo que estaba saludando (es lo que dice el poema) y saludando, a la par, y el chaval "still...lay...mo..."
Enfín, lo voy a traducir para el que lo quiera
No estaba saludando sino ahogándose
Nadie lo oyó, al hombre muerto,
pero todavía yacía gimiendo,Siempre estuve más lejos de lo que pensásteis
y no saludando, sino ahogándome
¡Pobre tipo, siempre le gustó bromear!
Y ahora está muerto
"Hacía demasiado frío para él, su corazón cedió"
Decían
Oh no,no,no, siempre hizo demasiado frío
(Todavía el muerto yacía gimiendo)
Toda mi vida estuve demasiado lejos
Y no saludando, sino ahogándome
viernes, 19 de diciembre de 2008
viernes, 5 de diciembre de 2008
He estado leyendo A Churning Day, un poema, de Seamus Heaney, y un análisis que se hace de dicho poema, en una escuela. Es muy curioso que se menciona el ritual, el ritual de las tareas diarias, o de las tareas caseras temporales, como un ritual sagrado. Esto es acertado en el poema yo no lo había visto. Sin embargo hecho en falta en el comentario del poema la clara división que se hace en estrofas de la tarea y su preparación y terminación. Sí se dice, pero es que éste es un ritmo, también, y como dice el texto, un ritmo que deja la mente"turned crystall of Clean deal churns·" que calma la mente. El golpear de la madre en la mantequera no es "monotonía" como dice el texto que ya copiaré sino el "her rythm was present in the nursery room" de Eliot, es el ritmo de la danza, que después iniciarán los cuajos de mantequilla, es un ritmo sagrado. El poema se divide en cuatro estrofas. En la primera se preparan las cosas. Vemos que aparece dos veces el verbo stood, la segunda en el verso final de la estrofa. Es una estrofa de estado, las cosas están, en su sitio. En la última estrofa las cosas vuelven a su sitio, pero se instaura una nueva paz, hay nuevos olores, nuevas cosas y todo se ordena, la voz que se utiliza es pasiva en contraste con los agitados verbos de las estrofas segunda y tercera que describen el proceso. La estrofa tercera es mucho más rica en adjetivos, se describe el tesoro que se ha "pescado" su maravilla.
Es el ritmo de la casa, de las estaciones, el ritmo rural, el ritmo de la creación (como dice el texto) preparación, acción, producto, tranquilidad: estado, acción, nuevo estado. De hecho en el proceso de creación de la mantequilla, la mantequera se describe al principio como un útero, es estéril (sin la leche) y la leche viene de las ubres, las glándulas....y curiosamente los cuajos de madera se sitúan en un lugar "esterilizado" (ésto lo dice el texto) .
Texto:
Churning Day
A thick crust, coarse-grained as limestone rough-cast,hardened gradually on top of the four crocksthat stood, large pottery bombs, in the small pantry.After the hot brewery of gland, cud and udder,cool porous earthenware fermented the butter milkfor churning day, when the hooped churn was scouredwith plumping kettles and the busy scrubberechoed daintily on the seasoned wood.It stood then, purified, on the flagged kitchen floor.
Out came the four crocks, spilled their heavy lipof cream, their white insides, into the sterile churn.The staff, like a great whiskey muddler fashionedin deal wood, was plunged in, the lid fitted.My mother took first turn, set up rhythmsthat, slugged and thumped for hours. Arms ached.Hands blistered. Cheeks and clothes were spatteredwith flabby milk.
Where finally gold flecksbegan to dance. They poured hot water then,sterilized a birchwood bowland little corrugated butter-spades.Their short stroke quickened, suddenlya yellow curd was weighting the churned-up white,heavy and rich, coagulated sunlightthat they fished, dripping, in a wide tin strainer,heaped up like gilded gravel in the bowl.
The house would stink long after churning day,acrid as a sulphur mine. The empty crockswere ranged along the wall again, the butterin soft printed slabs was piled on pantry shelves.And in the house we moved with gravid ease,our brains turned crystals full of clean deal churns,the plash and gurgle of the sour-breathed milk,the pat and slap of small spades on wet lumps.
Seamus Heaney
Seamus Heaney was brought up in a rural farm in Ireland and many of his poems reflect everyday aspects of life and from his childhood.. In Churning Day, his use of senses to recall exact sights, sounds and smells and feelings of incidents and times in the past is very effective. Churning Day reflects the simple experience of churning cream to make butter - this is something we take for granted as butter is now mostly made in factories. We are reminded of the huge effort which went into the creation of the butter and the way its creation took on an almost ritualistic experience. At the end, it is almost like a miracle when it is produced - there is a huge mental and physical satisfaction in its creation.
At the beginning of the poem there is a graphic description of the four crocks where the buttermilk stood, ready for the churning process. The poet wants the lines to run on without interruption, smoothly from line to line, until there is a natural stopping point - this is why only a few lines begin with capital letters. The idea of the crust being rough and cracked and hard is shown in the simile ‘limestone rough-cast'. The crocks, always made of terracotta on the outside and glazed creamy-white inside contrasts colours, complementing the colour of the buttermilk.
The metaphor of ‘bombs' is used to describe them, giving the reader the feeling of readiness and excitement and suspense as the milk is ready to be churned. The process is described - transferring the milk from the cows ‘hot brewery' to ‘cool earthenware pots'.
The bustle of preparation is then described as the churn, hooped with metal rings, is scoured and scrubbed. Adjectives are unusual ‘plumping' and used almost as if to imitate the sound of the boiling kettle, all adding to the buzz and sounds in the kitchen. The scrubber echoes ‘daintily' making us hear the delicate scratching of the bristles. Finally, the churn is ‘purified' ready for churning, prepared as carefully as a priest might prepare a vessel for communion, and with just as much love and care.
The break in the poem moves the reader to the next step, where the milk is poured from crocks into churn. Crocks are personified, milk coming from their ‘white insides' as if the milk as become a part of them. The churn is set up with the staff which goes through the lid described as a ‘great whisky muddler', as an indication that the process is parallel to, and just as important as the making of whisky.
Every single detail is pointed out, down to the fact that the muddler is made of a hard wood called ‘deal'. The mother, like a priestess takes over and an atmosphere of hard work and monotony is created.
The poet points out that nothing worthwhile is achieved without effort and patience: rhythms' echoes the effort, as does ‘slugged and thumped', which also give us the noise of the staff churning the milk.
Very short sentences communicate concentration and the feeling, as well as the passage of time: ‘Arms ached. Hands blistered.' People are literally and metaphorically immersed In the process as they become splattered with the milk.
As the butter begins to set the miracle happens. The gold flecks of butter begin to ‘dance' almost in celebration. The pace quickens as the prepare the receptacles for forming the butter into pats, using the birchwood-bowl, ...after an almost religious preparation of sterilised water, and the butter-spades which form the pats, leaving lines indented in them ‘corrugated' gives this texture.
The full impact of the transformation is given as the ‘yellow curd' of the butter shows up against the white whey-milk. To the poet it as precious, ‘heavy and rich', beyond any other glory - ‘coagulated sunlight' giving it colour and warmth and glow. As it is fished out in a strainer, its colour ‘gilded' (golden), contrasts with the dull colour of ‘tin - as well as emphasising its richness.
In the last section we see the after-effects of churning day. The house ‘stinks', reminding us of animal origins (milk/cheese). Everything is put away in preparation for the next time and the butter is now in ‘soft printed slabs'. The final four lines communicate a sense of a job well done, very satisfying. People move now with ‘gravid ease' just like the butter in the churn.
Es el ritmo de la casa, de las estaciones, el ritmo rural, el ritmo de la creación (como dice el texto) preparación, acción, producto, tranquilidad: estado, acción, nuevo estado. De hecho en el proceso de creación de la mantequilla, la mantequera se describe al principio como un útero, es estéril (sin la leche) y la leche viene de las ubres, las glándulas....y curiosamente los cuajos de madera se sitúan en un lugar "esterilizado" (ésto lo dice el texto) .
Texto:
Churning Day
A thick crust, coarse-grained as limestone rough-cast,hardened gradually on top of the four crocksthat stood, large pottery bombs, in the small pantry.After the hot brewery of gland, cud and udder,cool porous earthenware fermented the butter milkfor churning day, when the hooped churn was scouredwith plumping kettles and the busy scrubberechoed daintily on the seasoned wood.It stood then, purified, on the flagged kitchen floor.
Out came the four crocks, spilled their heavy lipof cream, their white insides, into the sterile churn.The staff, like a great whiskey muddler fashionedin deal wood, was plunged in, the lid fitted.My mother took first turn, set up rhythmsthat, slugged and thumped for hours. Arms ached.Hands blistered. Cheeks and clothes were spatteredwith flabby milk.
Where finally gold flecksbegan to dance. They poured hot water then,sterilized a birchwood bowland little corrugated butter-spades.Their short stroke quickened, suddenlya yellow curd was weighting the churned-up white,heavy and rich, coagulated sunlightthat they fished, dripping, in a wide tin strainer,heaped up like gilded gravel in the bowl.
The house would stink long after churning day,acrid as a sulphur mine. The empty crockswere ranged along the wall again, the butterin soft printed slabs was piled on pantry shelves.And in the house we moved with gravid ease,our brains turned crystals full of clean deal churns,the plash and gurgle of the sour-breathed milk,the pat and slap of small spades on wet lumps.
Seamus Heaney
Seamus Heaney was brought up in a rural farm in Ireland and many of his poems reflect everyday aspects of life and from his childhood.. In Churning Day, his use of senses to recall exact sights, sounds and smells and feelings of incidents and times in the past is very effective. Churning Day reflects the simple experience of churning cream to make butter - this is something we take for granted as butter is now mostly made in factories. We are reminded of the huge effort which went into the creation of the butter and the way its creation took on an almost ritualistic experience. At the end, it is almost like a miracle when it is produced - there is a huge mental and physical satisfaction in its creation.
At the beginning of the poem there is a graphic description of the four crocks where the buttermilk stood, ready for the churning process. The poet wants the lines to run on without interruption, smoothly from line to line, until there is a natural stopping point - this is why only a few lines begin with capital letters. The idea of the crust being rough and cracked and hard is shown in the simile ‘limestone rough-cast'. The crocks, always made of terracotta on the outside and glazed creamy-white inside contrasts colours, complementing the colour of the buttermilk.
The metaphor of ‘bombs' is used to describe them, giving the reader the feeling of readiness and excitement and suspense as the milk is ready to be churned. The process is described - transferring the milk from the cows ‘hot brewery' to ‘cool earthenware pots'.
The bustle of preparation is then described as the churn, hooped with metal rings, is scoured and scrubbed. Adjectives are unusual ‘plumping' and used almost as if to imitate the sound of the boiling kettle, all adding to the buzz and sounds in the kitchen. The scrubber echoes ‘daintily' making us hear the delicate scratching of the bristles. Finally, the churn is ‘purified' ready for churning, prepared as carefully as a priest might prepare a vessel for communion, and with just as much love and care.
The break in the poem moves the reader to the next step, where the milk is poured from crocks into churn. Crocks are personified, milk coming from their ‘white insides' as if the milk as become a part of them. The churn is set up with the staff which goes through the lid described as a ‘great whisky muddler', as an indication that the process is parallel to, and just as important as the making of whisky.
Every single detail is pointed out, down to the fact that the muddler is made of a hard wood called ‘deal'. The mother, like a priestess takes over and an atmosphere of hard work and monotony is created.
The poet points out that nothing worthwhile is achieved without effort and patience: rhythms' echoes the effort, as does ‘slugged and thumped', which also give us the noise of the staff churning the milk.
Very short sentences communicate concentration and the feeling, as well as the passage of time: ‘Arms ached. Hands blistered.' People are literally and metaphorically immersed In the process as they become splattered with the milk.
As the butter begins to set the miracle happens. The gold flecks of butter begin to ‘dance' almost in celebration. The pace quickens as the prepare the receptacles for forming the butter into pats, using the birchwood-bowl, ...after an almost religious preparation of sterilised water, and the butter-spades which form the pats, leaving lines indented in them ‘corrugated' gives this texture.
The full impact of the transformation is given as the ‘yellow curd' of the butter shows up against the white whey-milk. To the poet it as precious, ‘heavy and rich', beyond any other glory - ‘coagulated sunlight' giving it colour and warmth and glow. As it is fished out in a strainer, its colour ‘gilded' (golden), contrasts with the dull colour of ‘tin - as well as emphasising its richness.
In the last section we see the after-effects of churning day. The house ‘stinks', reminding us of animal origins (milk/cheese). Everything is put away in preparation for the next time and the butter is now in ‘soft printed slabs'. The final four lines communicate a sense of a job well done, very satisfying. People move now with ‘gravid ease' just like the butter in the churn.
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