By A. R. Ammons
A. R. Ammons es uno de los mayores poeta s anglosajones del siglo XX. Harold Bloom lo considera uno de los últimos canónicos. Para presentarlo al lector español, hemos elegido su obra más ambiciosa, un largo poema related a Canto a mi mismo de Whitman, los Cuatro cuartetos de Eliot o a Notas para una ficción suprema de Wallace Stevens. Basura es un poema sobre los angeles materia, sobre los angeles realidad del cosmos que formamos hombres, animales y partículas. Algunos críticos lo han definido como «una épica de las ideas». Y eso es precisamente este libro: los angeles última épica posible. Además del largo poema titulado #Basura#, se incluyen también otros poemas breves, representativos del extraordinario arte de Ammons.
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Additional resources for Basura y otros poemas
If the gnawing worms the floweret blast, Who can madly think he’ll ne’er decay? Who above, below, can hope to last, If the young man’s life thus fleets away? Joyously his days of youth so glad Danced along, in rosy garb beclad, And the world, the world was then so sweet! And how kindly, how enchantingly Smiled the future,—with what golden eye Did life’s paradise his moments greet! While the tear his mother’s eye escaped, Under him the realm of shadows gaped And the fates his thread began to sever,— Earth and Heaven then vanished from his sight.
God forbid it in me! How bitter will then be the tears Shed, Minna, O Minna, for thee! THE FLOWERS. Ye offspring of the morning sun, Ye flowers that deck the smiling plain, Your lives, in joy and bliss begun, In Nature’s love unchanged remain. With hues of bright and godlike splendor Sweet Flora graced your forms so tender, And clothed ye in a garb of light; Spring’s lovely children weep forever, For living souls she gave ye never, And ye must dwell in endless night? The nightingale and lark still sing In your tranced ears the bliss of love; The toying sylphs, on airy wing, Around your fragrant bosoms rove, Of yore, Dione’s daughter 6 twining In garlands sweet your cup-so shining, 33 The Poems of Schiller A pillow formed where love might rest!
Is that true which cheered the pilgrim’s gloom? Is it true that thoughts can yonder be True, that virtue guides us o’er the tomb? That ‘tis more than empty phantasy? All these riddles are to thee unveiled! Truth thy soul ecstatic now drinks up, Truth in radiance thousandfold exhaled From the mighty Father’s blissful cup. Dark and silent bearers draw, then, nigh! To the slayer serve the feast the while! Cease, ye mourners, cease your wailing cry! Dust on dust upon the body pile! Where’s the man who God to tempt presumes?