E-Book, Spanisch, 264 Seiten
Reihe: Otras Latitudes
Le Guin En busca de mi elegía
1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-84-19735-30-0
Verlag: Nórdica Libros
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
E-Book, Spanisch, 264 Seiten
Reihe: Otras Latitudes
ISBN: 978-84-19735-30-0
Verlag: Nórdica Libros
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark
Autora norteamericana. Nacida en Berkeley (California) en 1929. Ha cultivado diversos géneros, pero su enorme fama se debe a sus libros de ciencia ficción y fantasía. Hija de de un antropólogo y una escritora. Y casada con un historiador, se ha mostrado desde niña muy interesada por los mitos. Fue la primera mujer galardonada con el título de Gran Maestra por la asociación de escritores de ciencia ficción de Estados Unidos. Se define a sí misma como feminista, conservacionista, ecologista, norteamericana y taoísta. En sus novelas aparecen de forma recurrente sus ideas anarquistas.
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I
WILD FORTUNE
SELECTED POEMS, 1960–2005
From Wild Angels (1960–1975)
OFFERING
I made a poem going
to sleep last night, woke
in sunlight, it was clean forgotten.
If it was any good,
gods of the great darkness
where sleep goes and farther
death goes, you not named,
then as true offering
accept it.
A LAMENT FOR RHEGED
Frozen thorn,
grey north, white hill.
Winter binds
reeds, rivers. Everything
holds still.
Who has returned
in the bitter weather
to the place of birth?
The fire burned
here. Under the frozen earth
and the white frost,
this was the hearth.
Of all the lost
children I was chosen
to return. No choice
of mine! I chose to sing.
The lark’s part,
the bard’s. The wing,
the voice, must sink, be still.
Lark to the earth,
I to the hearth
under the cold hill.
I was not born noble
but a bondsman
bound to the land.
Hold still. Hold still.
Winter wind
binds eye, binds hand.
Who will remember?
A place of birth,
a place of marriages,
the household of summer.
Who will praise
the work, the kindness,
the full table,
the hearth of stone?
In the cold days
of the end of December
in dead Rheged
I stand alone.
Winter wind
binds hand, binds tongue.
The songs are sung.
No fires burn.
Yet I return
to the winter land
having chosen
the heavy art,
the bond of thing,
of stone, of earth.
I am bound to stand
under the frozen
thorn, by the cold
hearth, and sing.
THERE
He planted the elms, the eucalyptus,
the little cypress, and watered them
in the long dusk of summer,
so that in the dry land
twilight was a sound of water. Years ago.
The amaryllis stick their stiff
trumpets still blowing blasts of bright pink
up through the wild oats,
unwatered, uncounted, undaunted.
Do you see: there where his absence
stands by each tree waiting for nightfall,
where shadows are his being gone, there
where grey pines that no one planted
grow tall and die, and grain that no one sowed
whitens the August hills with wild ripeness,
and an old house stands empty,
there
the averted face of absence
turns. There silence returns answer. There
the years can go uncounted, seeing
evening rise like water through the leaves,
and as ever over the highest elm Vega
like a wild white poppy, opening.
In the country of pain
truly there only rises
(a white star, a white flower,
an old standpipe running water
to the roots of trees
in a dry land)
the small spring of peace.
ARS LUNGA
I sit here perpetually inventing new people
as if the population boom were not enough
and not enough terror and problems
God knows, but I know too,
that’s the point. Never fear enough
to match delight, nor a deep enough abyss,
nor time enough, and there are always a few
stars missing.
I don’t want a new heaven and new earth,
only the old ones.
Old sky, old dirt, new grass.
Nor life beyond the grave,
God help me, or I’ll help myself
by living all these lives
nine at once or ninety
so that death finds me at all times
and on all sides exposed,
unfortressed, undefended,
inviolable, vulnerable, alive.
SONG
O when I was a dirty little virgin
I’d sit and pick my scabby knees
and dream about some man of thirty
and doing nothing did what I pleased.
A woman gets and is begotten on,
have and receive is feminine for live.
I knew it, I knew it even then:
what after all did I have to give?
A flowing cup, a horn of plenty
fulfilled with more than she can hold,
but the milk and honey will be emptied,
emptied out, as she grows old.
More inward than sex or even womb,
inmost in woman is the girl intact,
the dirty little virgin who sits and dreams
and has nothing to do with fact.
Tao Song
O slow fish
show me the way
O green weed
grow me the way
The way you go
the way you grow
is the way
indeed
O bright Sun
light me the way
the right way
the one
no one can say
If one can choose it
it is wrong
Sing me the way
O song:
No one can lose it
for long
From Hard Words (1975–1980)
INVOCATION
Give me back my language,
let me speak the tongue you taught me.
I will lie the great lies in your honor,
praise you without naming you,
obey the laws of darkness and of metrics.
Only let me speak my language
in your praise, silence of the valleys,
north side of the rivers,
third face averted,
emptiness!
Let me speak my native tongue
and I will sing so loudly
newlyweds and old women
will dance to my singing
and sheep will cease from cropping and machines
will gather round to listen
in cities fallen silent
as a ring of standing stones.
O let me sing the walls down, Mother!
THE MIND IS STILL
The mind is still. The gallant books of lies
are never quite enough.
Ideas are a whirl of mazy flies
over the pigs’ trough.
Words are my matter. I have chipped one stone
for thirty years and still it is not done,
that image of the thing I cannot see.
I cannot finish it and set it free,
transformed to energy.
I chip and stutter but I do not sing
the truth, like any bird.
Daily I come to Judgment stammering
the same half-word.
So what’s the matter? I can understand
that stone is heavy in the hand.
Ideas flit like flies above the swill.
I crowd with other pigs to get my fill.
The mind is still.
THE MARROW
There was a word inside a stone.
I tried to pry it clear,
mallet and chisel, pick and gad,
until the stone was dropping...
