Lectura de poemas de Walt Whitman

Buenas noches y muchas gracias por venir. Empiezo con uno de Rubén Darío dedicado a nuestro protagonista.

SONETO A WALT WHITMAN

En su país de hierro vive el gran viejo,
bello como un patriarca, sereno y santo.
Tiene en la arruga olímpica de su entrecejo
algo que impera y vence con noble encanto.

Su alma del infinito parece espejo;
son sus cansados hombros dignos del manto;
y con arpa labrada de un roble añejo
como un profeta nuevo canta su canto.

Sacerdote, que alienta soplo divino,
anuncia en el futuro, tiempo mejor.
Dice al águila: «¡Vuela!», «¡Boga!», al marino,

y «¡Trabaja!», al robusto trabajador.
¡Así va ese poeta por su camino
con su soberbio rostro de emperador!

     Rubén Darío

En la página de la Wikipedia dedicada a Walt Whitman puede escucharse un fragmento de su voz. Si uno separa mentalmente el ruido del aparato, un giradiscos de cera seguramente, percibe una voz clara, profunda. Voy a intentar leer los dos siguientes con la voz más parecida que pueda poner.

SONG OF MYSELF

I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise,
regardless of others, even regardful of others,
maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man,
stuffed with the stuff that is coarse, and stuffed with the stuff that is fine,
one of the nation of many nations, the smallest the same and the largest the same,
a Southerner soon as a Northerner, a planter nonchalant and hospitable down by
the Oconee I live,
a Yankee bound my own way ready for trade, my joints the limberest joints on
earth and the sternest joints on earth,
a Kentuckian walking the vale of the Elkhorn in my deer skin leggings,
a Lousianian or Georgian,
a boatman over lakes or bays or along coasts, a Hoosier, Badger, Buckeye;
at home on Canadian snow-shoes or up in the bush,
or with fishermen off-Newfoundland,
at home in the fleet of ice-boats, sailing with the rest and tacking,
at home on the hills of Vermont or in the woods of Maine, or the Texan- ranch,
comrade of Californians, comrade of free North-Westeners, (loving their big proportions,)
comrade of raftsmen and coalmen, comrade of all who shake hands and-
welcome to drink and meat,
a learner with the simplest, a teacher of the thoughtfullest,
a novice beginning yet experient of myriads of seasons,
of every hue and caste am I, of every rank and religion,
a farmer, mechanic, artist, gentleman, sailor, quaker,
prisoner, fancy-man, rowdy, lawyer, physician, priest.

I resist anything better than my own diversity,
breathe the air but left plenty after me,
and am not stuck up, and am in my place.

(The moth and the fish eggs are in their place,
the bright sun I see an the dark suns I cannot see are in their place,
the palpable is in its place and the impalpable is in its place)

SONG OF MYSELF

(second part)

Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with perfumes,

I breathe the fragance myself and know it and like it,

the distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorless,

it is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,

I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,

I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath,

echoes, ripples, buzzed whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and wine.

My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing of blood and air through

my lungs,

the sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and dark-colored sea-rocks,

and of  hay in the barn,

the sound of the belched words of my voice loosed to the eddies of wind,

a few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,

the play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,

the delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides,

the feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckoned a thousand acres much? Have you reckoned the earth much?

Have you practised so long to learn to read?

Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems;

you shall possess the good of the earth and sun (there are millions of suns left),

you shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead,

nor feed on the spectres in books,

you shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,

you shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.