El poeta

Los poemas escritos que están para la posteridad de JFM son muy pocos. La mayoría de los que hay son en inglés y no fueron escritos para ser públicados, como el trabajo oficial de un poeta; sino sólo para compartirlos con sus alumnos.

A Desolate Poem on the Meaning of Life

Sometimes young things,
with trembling or with fear,
ask me:
“My master (or my dear),
do you know what is life?
Is it love?
Is it hate?
Is it peace or strife?”

“The Greeks called it zoe,
psyche, physis, bios . . .
Hegel spoke of it highly
in his early works.
In Nietzsche ‘life’ has many meanings
(He was rather careless
in his vocabulary.)
Dilthey . . .”

Docile note-takers,
they listen, they write down.
But there is scorn and irony
in their clear eyes.

That is why
I will write
what I feel
to be right
about life.
For life is many things.

“The blink of any eye, a speck of dust.
A cry of pain, a pang of lust.
A thrill of pleasure, a scream of delight.
A panting, a howling, a roaring, a bite.
A chill of fear, a sigh of bliss.
A caress on the shoulders, a humid kiss.
A fit of anger, a gust of zest.
A sense of calmness, a taste of rest.
A touch of evil, a hint of good.
A nosegay of flowers, a heap of soot.
A comedy of errors, a glimpse of truth.
An ocean of cruelty, an island of ruth.
A stroke of fortune, an evil spell.
A blessing, a torment, a heaven, a hell.”

Let me now summarize
the meaning of life,
and give it a name:

“A self-consuming flame
In vain.”

Un poema desolat

(A Desolate Poem on the Meaning of Life de Josep Ferrater Mora traducció de l’anglès de Xavier Benguerel)* 

A vegades, nois joves,
amb tremolor o temor
m’interroguen:
“Mestre (o bé caríssim)
sabeu què és la vida?
És amor?
És odi?
És pau o bé combat?”

“Els grecs l’anomenaven zoe
psiquis, physis, bios...
Hegel en parla en to elevat
en obres primigènies.
En Nietzsche ‘vida’ té significats diversos.
(És més aviat meticulós *
en el seu lèxic).
Dilthey...”

Dòcils, escolten amatents
i prenen notes.
Però hi ha un deix d’ironia i desdeny
en els seus límpids ulls.
I vet aquí perquè
voldria escriure,
per ser just,
allò que sento
sobre el sentit
de la vida.

Car, la vida, és tantes coses!
“El parpelleig d’un ull, una mota de pols.
Un gemec de voluptat, un crit de dolor.
Un estremiment de goig, un xiscle de plaer.
Un panteix, un udol, un bramul, un mossec.
Una carícia a les espatlles, un bes humit.
Un calfred de temor, un sospir de felicitat.
Un rapte d’ira, un sabor de repòs.
Un gust de pau, un esclat de delectació.
Un toc del diable, una insinuació divina.
Un ram de flors, un munt de sutge.
Una comèdia d’errors, un fulgor de veritat.
Un oceà de crueltat, una illa de compassió.
Un revés de fortuna, un diabòlic encant.
Una benedicció, un turment, un edèn, un infern.”

Ara recapitulo
el sentit de la vida
i li dono aquest nom:

“Una flama que es consum ella mateixa
inútilment.”

Un poema desolado

A veces, chicos jóvenes, con temblor o temor me interrogan:
Maestro (o bien carísimo)
¿sabes qué es la vida?
¿Es amor? ¿Es odio?
¿Es paz o bien combate?
“Los griegos lo denominaban zoe psiquis, physis, bios...
Hegel habló de ello en tono elevado
en sus primeros trabajos.
En Nietzsche ‘vida’  tiene significados
diversos.
(Es más bien meticuloso 
en su léxico).
Dilthey...
Dóciles, escuchan dispuestos
y toman notas.
Pero hay un dejo de ironía y desdén
en sus límpidos ojos.
Y he aquí porque
querría escribir,
por ser justo, aquello que siento sobre el sentido de la vida. Claro, ¡la vida, es tantas cosas!
“El pestañeo de un ojo, una mota de polvo.
Un germen de voluntad, un grito de dolor.
Un estremecimiento de gozo, un chillido de placer.
Un jadeo, un aullido, un rugido, una mordedura.
Una caricia sobre los hombros, un beso húmedo.
Un escalofrío de temor, un suspiro de felicidad.
Un ataque de cólera, una ráfaga de entusiasmo.
Un gusto de paz, un gusto de resto.
Un toque del diablo, una insinuación divina.
Un ramo de flores, un montón de hollín.
Una comedia de errores, un fulgor de verdad.
Un océano de crueldad, una isla de compasión.
Un golpe de fortuna, un diabólico encanto.
Una bendición, un tormento, un cielo, un
infierno.
Ahora resumo el sentido de la vida y le doy este nombre: “Una llama que se consume ella misma inútilmente.

A Christmas Card Poem

 

I will drop Shakespeare,
and Homer, and Kant.
No quotations
(let the dead bury their dead).
Just plain words,
from a plain man,
a lonely one
(as all men, at bottom, are).

Words that come from nowhere and go nowhere
(exactly like life).
They look sad,
because they are true.
They say that the world is a big thing,
a real labyrinth,
full of traps.
Nice traps they are.
They have human shapes.
We know them well,
because we have built them.
We are the torturers and the victims
(all at once)
and cannot complain to God
(or to the Devil)
who both look at us with amused eyes.

We play our game,
day after day, night after night,
indefatigably.
We break each other's hearts,
sometimes unknowingly,
but always implacably.
A fine game it is.
A God-like game,
but played at a human level.

A fascinating pantomime,
threatened by death and pressed by time.

But don't worry, Priscilla
These are the uncertain thoughts of a philosopher
who has had some inklings of the Truth of life
but who knows that there is another side.
The side of hope,
of happiness,
perhaps even of fun (no matter what some say),
For life is also wonderful;
it is a thing of beauty,
the only beautiful thing, in fact, there is in this world.
It suffices to wait
for wonders to come.
And they come.
They also have human shapes.
The same ones,
but seen from another angle.
There is sometimes love in this world.
It is not here to stay.
But while it does it tastes good.
There is friendship,
and the warmth of the human word.
And the wonderful game of the mind;
and the flow of blood in the veins,
and other things I cannot say
(just for lack of time).
There is the color red, the color yellow,
the green, the blue, the emerald,
and the sparkle of the human eye
(and all those things we cannot buy).

I could go on,
and on, and on.
But this, I hope, suffices.
It is even long for a Christmas card
(maybe I was inspired).