Uvas
marinas
Aquella vela que se reclina en la luz,
cansada de las islas,
una carabela luchando contra el Caribe
para llegar a casa, podría ser Odiseo,
al Egeo confinado;
aquel anhelo de padre y marido bajo
agrias uvas enmarañados, es como
el adúltero que escucha el nombre de
Nausícaa
en cada graznido de gaviota.
Esto no trae paz a nadie. La antigua
guerra
entre obsesión y responsabilidad nunca
terminará y ha sido siempre la misma
para el navegante o para el hombre de la
costa
que ahora camina a casa con sus incómodas
sandalias,
desde que Troya expiró su última llama,
y la roca del gigante ciego volcó el
bebedero
de cuyo fondo los grandes hexámetros llegan
a las conclusiones de un oleaje exhausto.
Los clásicos pueden servir de consuelo.
Pero no lo suficiente.
Sea
Grapes
That sail which leans on light,
Tired of islands
A schooner beating up the Caribbean
For home, could be Odysseus,
Home bound on the Aegean;
That father and husband’s
Longing, under gnarled sour grapes, is
like the adulterer hearing Nausicaa’s name
In every gull’s outcry.
This brings nobody peace. The ancient war
Between obsession and responsibility
Will never finish and has been the same
For the sea wanderer or the one on shore
Now wriggling on his sandals to walk home,
Since Try sighed its last flame,
And the blind giant’s boulder heaved the trough
From whose groundswell the great hexameters come
To the conclusions of exhausted surf.
The classics can console. But not enough.
Tired of islands
A schooner beating up the Caribbean
For home, could be Odysseus,
Home bound on the Aegean;
That father and husband’s
Longing, under gnarled sour grapes, is
like the adulterer hearing Nausicaa’s name
In every gull’s outcry.
This brings nobody peace. The ancient war
Between obsession and responsibility
Will never finish and has been the same
For the sea wanderer or the one on shore
Now wriggling on his sandals to walk home,
Since Try sighed its last flame,
And the blind giant’s boulder heaved the trough
From whose groundswell the great hexameters come
To the conclusions of exhausted surf.
The classics can console. But not enough.
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