Poem
León de Greiff
ODE OF THE HUNTER OF
EPHEMERAL SUNRISES
to Baldomero Sanín Cano
Is it this then the avid life ajar
to all the uncommon winds of fate,
to all the usual, sampled winds?
Is it this?
And here I thought to rest?
Here I thought to cast anchor?
And, forever, to make fast
the wayward vessel?
– For, with the soul fully awake,
and in the saline fume and the impellent, turbulent,
uncanny winds,
(with the subtle ear, with the keen nose – unanimous
acolytes –)
to capture, to seize, to grasp
the science of the bygone sea?
Is it this, is it this,
my soul,
my thirsty heart, my thirsty spirit,
my roving heart, my roving spirit,
frenetic, vagrant,
eager nomads,
– is it this
is it this then the avid life, mistress
of all earthly and sidereal things and of whatever
the dream begat?
The avid life ajar as the piercing, staring
eyes and as the ears – profound shells –
and in the pensive pate,
and the brow, – bell:
And the brow – bell – to harbor the Aladineous spoils
of the piracy and the daring assaults:
the – blue – cutlasses for the boarding red of blood;
the – red – lips blue from the seas and the skies;
the fingers bejeweled from caressing the woman (in whose damp,
moist, downy, scented lairs
I would unearth marvellous El Dorados
and of ebony and murex delightful wonders . . . )
Is it this, is it this,
thirsty soul of mine,
my heart, my spirit – fiery,
insaturable, inextinguishable, indomitable, eternal, insurgent –,
is it this then the avid imperative life,
and mistress of all the earthly and sidereal things, or of
whatever it dreamed – meditative –
The pregnant bell
plethoric of indehiscent fantasies?
The avid life ajar as the piercing,
staring, sleepless and alert eyes
and the ears, shells,
and the brow, bell:
and the mouth, that usurped from the sea its saline breath;
and the hair, desirous of flight with the roving winds;
and the spirit, to the sea and the wind and the golden
sun and the nights of sloe-colored velvet,
– the liberty, the recondite music and the marine spell:
Oh hunter of ephemeral sunrises!
Oh hunter of ephemeral sunrises,
of lips and dreams that desire saturates
with uncanny spell!
Oh hunter of ephemeral sunrises,
of spirits and sexes that the desire exalt
– briefly – and the boredom mitigates;
oh hunter of clouds, navigator of clouds,
follower of shadows, protector of oblivion,
tamer of winds!
Oh hunter of ephemeral sunrises,
argonaut in oceans of songs,
and in seas of rhythms
argonaut, and in passionate nights and sexual
perfumes . . . !
Oh nights of sloe-colored velvet . . . !
Is it this then the avid life ajar
to all the miracles and all the wonders
and marvels?
And to all the daily, sampled harvest?
Or to whatever fate has in stock?
Or to all the prodigies and all the deceptive
mirages, and aladineous delusions and enticements
and indehiscent fantasies?
Is it this, is it this,
my soul,
my heart, my spirit, – never satiated! – ,
my heart, my spirit, – never satisfied! – ,
is it this then the avid life of my dreams,
the avid life mistress
of all earthly and sidereal things of whatever my
cogitation ideated?
Is it this?
Is it this?
And here I thought to rest?
Zuyaxiwevo, February 1931.
Var. August-October 1931. Netupiromba.
© Translation: 2004, Valentin Kielland
TROVA DEL CAZADOR
DE EFÍMEROS ARREBOLES
TROVA DEL CAZADOR
DE EFÍMEROS ARREBOLES
A Baldomero Sanín Cano
¿Es ésta entonces la ávida vida abierta
a todos los insólitos vientos del Azar,
a todos los sólitos vientos
pregustados?
¿Es ésta?
¿Y aquí pensé encallar?
¿Aquí pensé afincar el ancla?
¿y, por siempre fijar
la vagabunda nao?
– Para, con la ánima despierta,
y en el tufo salino y en los vientos insólitos,
desaforados, turbulentos,
(con el sutil oído, con la aguda nariz – unánimes acólitos –)
captar, captar, captar
la ciencia del fugado mar?
¿Es ésta, es ésta,
ánima mía,
corazón mío, espíritu mío, – sitibundos –
corazón mío, espíritu mío – errantes –,
frenéticos, vagabundos,
vaga mundos,
desalados,
¿es ésta
es ésta entonces la ávida vida, soberana
de toda la cosa terrena y de la sideral y de lo que ideó
el ensueño?
La ávida vida abierta como los fijos ojos
horadantes y como los oídos – caracoles profundos –
y el pensieroso ceño,
y la frente, – campana:
y la frente – campana – para albergar los aladíneos despojos
de las piraterías y los asaltos inverecundos:
los sables de abordaje – azules – de sangre rojos;
los labios – rojos – azules de mares y de mundos;
los dedos enjoyados de acariciar la hembra (en cuyos lientos,
madorosos, musgosos refugios perfumados
descubrieran maravillosos Eldorados
y de abenuz y múrice deleitables portentos . . . )
Es ésta, es ésta
ánima mía sitibunda,
corazón mío, espíritu mío – ardientes,
insaturables, inextinguibles, indómitos, eternos, insurgentes
¿es ésta entonces la ávida vida soberana,
y soberana de toda la cosa terrenal y sideral, o que soñó – cogitabunda –
la grávida campana
pletórica de fantasías indehiscentes?
La ávida vida abierta como los horadantes
fijos ojos insomnes y vigías
y los oídos, caracoles,
y la frente, campana:
y la boca, que al mar hurtó salobre aliento;
y la melena, ansia de fugas a los vientos errantes;
y el espíritu, al mar y al viento y a los soles
de oro y a las noches de terciopelo endrino,
– la libertad, la música recóndita y el encanto marino:
¡Oh cazador de efímeros arreboles!
Oh cazador de efímeros arreboles,
de bocas y de ensueños que el deseo satura
de nó sabido hechizo!
Oh cazador de arreboles efímeros
de espíritus y sexos que el deseo enaltece
– transitorio – y que abaja el hastío;
oh cazador de nubes, navegador de nubes,
cabalgador de sombras, propugnador de olvido,
domeñador de vientos!
Oh cazador de arreboles efímeros,
argonauta en océanos de sones,
y en piélago de ritmos
argonauta, y en noches de pasión y de perfumes . . .
sexuales . . . !
¡oh noches de terciopelo endrino . . . !
¿Es ésta entonces la ávida vida abierta
y a todos los milagros y a todos los portentos
y maravillas?
¿y a toda la cotidiana cosecha pregustada?
¿o a lo que sembró el Azar?
¿o a todos los prodigios y a todos los mirajes
embaidores, y espejismos aladinescos, y señuelos,
e indehiscentes fantasías?
¿Es ésta, es ésta,
ánima mía,
corazón mío, espíritu mío – ¡jamás, jamás saciados! –,
corazón mío, espíritu mío – ¡satisfechos nunca! –
es ésta entonces la ávida vida de mis sueños,
la ávida vida soberana
de toda la cosa terrenal y sideral
o que ideó mi cogitar?
¿Es ésta?
¿Es ésta?
¿Y aquí pensé encallar?
Zuyaxiwevo, febrero 1931.
Var. Agosto-Octubre 1931. Netupiromba.
© 1995, heirs of Léon de Greiff
From: Antología Multilingüe
Publisher: Colcultura, Bogotá
From: Antología Multilingüe
Publisher: Colcultura, Bogotá
Poems
Poems of León de Greiff
Close
ODE OF THE HUNTER OF
EPHEMERAL SUNRISES
to Baldomero Sanín Cano
Is it this then the avid life ajar
to all the uncommon winds of fate,
to all the usual, sampled winds?
Is it this?
And here I thought to rest?
Here I thought to cast anchor?
And, forever, to make fast
the wayward vessel?
– For, with the soul fully awake,
and in the saline fume and the impellent, turbulent,
uncanny winds,
(with the subtle ear, with the keen nose – unanimous
acolytes –)
to capture, to seize, to grasp
the science of the bygone sea?
Is it this, is it this,
my soul,
my thirsty heart, my thirsty spirit,
my roving heart, my roving spirit,
frenetic, vagrant,
eager nomads,
– is it this
is it this then the avid life, mistress
of all earthly and sidereal things and of whatever
the dream begat?
The avid life ajar as the piercing, staring
eyes and as the ears – profound shells –
and in the pensive pate,
and the brow, – bell:
And the brow – bell – to harbor the Aladineous spoils
of the piracy and the daring assaults:
the – blue – cutlasses for the boarding red of blood;
the – red – lips blue from the seas and the skies;
the fingers bejeweled from caressing the woman (in whose damp,
moist, downy, scented lairs
I would unearth marvellous El Dorados
and of ebony and murex delightful wonders . . . )
Is it this, is it this,
thirsty soul of mine,
my heart, my spirit – fiery,
insaturable, inextinguishable, indomitable, eternal, insurgent –,
is it this then the avid imperative life,
and mistress of all the earthly and sidereal things, or of
whatever it dreamed – meditative –
The pregnant bell
plethoric of indehiscent fantasies?
The avid life ajar as the piercing,
staring, sleepless and alert eyes
and the ears, shells,
and the brow, bell:
and the mouth, that usurped from the sea its saline breath;
and the hair, desirous of flight with the roving winds;
and the spirit, to the sea and the wind and the golden
sun and the nights of sloe-colored velvet,
– the liberty, the recondite music and the marine spell:
Oh hunter of ephemeral sunrises!
Oh hunter of ephemeral sunrises,
of lips and dreams that desire saturates
with uncanny spell!
Oh hunter of ephemeral sunrises,
of spirits and sexes that the desire exalt
– briefly – and the boredom mitigates;
oh hunter of clouds, navigator of clouds,
follower of shadows, protector of oblivion,
tamer of winds!
Oh hunter of ephemeral sunrises,
argonaut in oceans of songs,
and in seas of rhythms
argonaut, and in passionate nights and sexual
perfumes . . . !
Oh nights of sloe-colored velvet . . . !
Is it this then the avid life ajar
to all the miracles and all the wonders
and marvels?
And to all the daily, sampled harvest?
Or to whatever fate has in stock?
Or to all the prodigies and all the deceptive
mirages, and aladineous delusions and enticements
and indehiscent fantasies?
Is it this, is it this,
my soul,
my heart, my spirit, – never satiated! – ,
my heart, my spirit, – never satisfied! – ,
is it this then the avid life of my dreams,
the avid life mistress
of all earthly and sidereal things of whatever my
cogitation ideated?
Is it this?
Is it this?
And here I thought to rest?
Zuyaxiwevo, February 1931.
Var. August-October 1931. Netupiromba.
© 2004, Valentin Kielland
From: Antología Multilingüe
From: Antología Multilingüe
ODE OF THE HUNTER OF
EPHEMERAL SUNRISES
to Baldomero Sanín Cano
Is it this then the avid life ajar
to all the uncommon winds of fate,
to all the usual, sampled winds?
Is it this?
And here I thought to rest?
Here I thought to cast anchor?
And, forever, to make fast
the wayward vessel?
– For, with the soul fully awake,
and in the saline fume and the impellent, turbulent,
uncanny winds,
(with the subtle ear, with the keen nose – unanimous
acolytes –)
to capture, to seize, to grasp
the science of the bygone sea?
Is it this, is it this,
my soul,
my thirsty heart, my thirsty spirit,
my roving heart, my roving spirit,
frenetic, vagrant,
eager nomads,
– is it this
is it this then the avid life, mistress
of all earthly and sidereal things and of whatever
the dream begat?
The avid life ajar as the piercing, staring
eyes and as the ears – profound shells –
and in the pensive pate,
and the brow, – bell:
And the brow – bell – to harbor the Aladineous spoils
of the piracy and the daring assaults:
the – blue – cutlasses for the boarding red of blood;
the – red – lips blue from the seas and the skies;
the fingers bejeweled from caressing the woman (in whose damp,
moist, downy, scented lairs
I would unearth marvellous El Dorados
and of ebony and murex delightful wonders . . . )
Is it this, is it this,
thirsty soul of mine,
my heart, my spirit – fiery,
insaturable, inextinguishable, indomitable, eternal, insurgent –,
is it this then the avid imperative life,
and mistress of all the earthly and sidereal things, or of
whatever it dreamed – meditative –
The pregnant bell
plethoric of indehiscent fantasies?
The avid life ajar as the piercing,
staring, sleepless and alert eyes
and the ears, shells,
and the brow, bell:
and the mouth, that usurped from the sea its saline breath;
and the hair, desirous of flight with the roving winds;
and the spirit, to the sea and the wind and the golden
sun and the nights of sloe-colored velvet,
– the liberty, the recondite music and the marine spell:
Oh hunter of ephemeral sunrises!
Oh hunter of ephemeral sunrises,
of lips and dreams that desire saturates
with uncanny spell!
Oh hunter of ephemeral sunrises,
of spirits and sexes that the desire exalt
– briefly – and the boredom mitigates;
oh hunter of clouds, navigator of clouds,
follower of shadows, protector of oblivion,
tamer of winds!
Oh hunter of ephemeral sunrises,
argonaut in oceans of songs,
and in seas of rhythms
argonaut, and in passionate nights and sexual
perfumes . . . !
Oh nights of sloe-colored velvet . . . !
Is it this then the avid life ajar
to all the miracles and all the wonders
and marvels?
And to all the daily, sampled harvest?
Or to whatever fate has in stock?
Or to all the prodigies and all the deceptive
mirages, and aladineous delusions and enticements
and indehiscent fantasies?
Is it this, is it this,
my soul,
my heart, my spirit, – never satiated! – ,
my heart, my spirit, – never satisfied! – ,
is it this then the avid life of my dreams,
the avid life mistress
of all earthly and sidereal things of whatever my
cogitation ideated?
Is it this?
Is it this?
And here I thought to rest?
Zuyaxiwevo, February 1931.
Var. August-October 1931. Netupiromba.
© 2004, Valentin Kielland
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