Ariel estaba contento de haber escrito sus poemas
eran de una época que anhelaba
o de algo que vio y que le gustó.
Las demás inventos del sol
eran desperdicio y revoltijo
y el arbusto maduro flaqueaba.
Él y el sol eran uno
y sus poemas, o sea, sus inventos
no fueron nada menos que los del sol.
No era importante que sobrevivieran.
Lo que importaba era que ellos tuvieran
algún destino o característica
algún valor, ojalá atisbado
en la pobreza de sus palabras,
las del planeta del que fueron parte.
Wallace Stevens (Reading, 1879-Hartford, 1955)
Versión de Nicolás López-Pérez
/
The Planet On The Table
*
Ariel was glad he had written his poems.
They were of a remembered time
Or of something seen that he liked.
Other makings of the sun
Were waste and welter
And the ripe shrub writhed.
His self and the sun were one
And his poems, although makings of his self,
Were no less makings of the sun.
It was not important that they survive.
What mattered was that they should bear
Some lineament or character,
Some affluence, if only half-perceived,
In the poverty of their words,
Of the planet of which they were part.
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