The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind and another, his mother called him “WILD THING!” and Max said “I’LL EAT YOU UP!” so he was sent to bed without eating anything.

That very night in Max’s room a forest grew and grew– and grew until his ceiling hung with vines and the walls became the world all around and an ocean tumbled by with a private boat for Max and he sailed off through night and day and in and out of weeks and almost over a year to where the wild things are.

And when he came to the place where the wild things are they roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws till Max said “BE STILL!” and tamed them with the magic trick of staring into their yellow eyes without blinking once and they were frightened and called him the most wild thing of all and made him king of all wild things.

“AND NOW,” cried Max, “LET THE WILD RUMPUS START!”

“NOW STOP!” Max said and sent the wild things off to bed without their supper. And Max the king of all things wild was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all.

Then all around from far away across the world he smelled good things to eat so he gave up being king of where the wild things are.

But the wild things cried, “OH PLEASE DON’T GO– WE’LL EAT YOU UP– WE LOVE YOU SO!” And Max said, “NO!”

The wild things roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws but Max stepped into his private boat and waved good–bye and sailed back over a year and in and out of weeks and though a day and into the night of his very own room where he found his supper waiting for him and it was still hot.

La invención de Morel. (.pdf)

en Primeras canciones (1922)

Claro del reloj

Me senté

en un claro del tiempo.

Era un remanso

de silencio,

de un blanco silencio,

anillo formidable

donde los luceros

chocaban con los doce flotantes

números negros.

Adaptación de un cuento de Hernán Casciari.

The Dream.

I

Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world,

A boundary between the things misnamed

Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world,

And a wide realm of wild reality,

And dreams in their development have breath,

And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;

They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,

They take a weight from off waking toils,

They do divide our being; they become

A portion of ourselves as of our time,

And look like heralds of eternity;

They pass like spirits of the past -they speak

Like sibyls of the future; they have power -

The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;

They make us what we were not -what they will,

And shake us with the vision that’s gone by,

The dread of vanished shadows -Are they so?

Is not the past all shadow? -What are they?

Creations of the mind? -The mind can make

Substances, and people planets of its own

With beings brighter than have been, and give

A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.

I would recall a vision which I dreamed

Perchance in sleep -for in itself a thought,

A slumbering thought, is capable of years,

And curdles a long life into one hour.

II

I saw two beings in the hues of youth

Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,

Green and of mild declivity, the last

As ’twere the cape of a long ridge of such,

Save that there was no sea to lave its base,

But a most living landscape, and the wave

Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men

Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke

Arising from such rustic roofs: the hill

Was crowned with a peculiar diadem

Of trees, in circular array, so fixed,

Not by the sport of nature, but of man:

These two, a maiden and a youth, were there

Gazing -the one on all that was beneath

Fair as herself -but the boy gazed on her;

And both were young, and one was beautiful:

And both were young -yet not alike in youth.

As the sweet moon on the horizon’s verge,

The maid was on the eve of womanhood;

The boy had fewer summers, but his heart

Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye

There was but one beloved face on earth,

And that was shining on him; he had looked

Upon it till it could not pass away;

He had no breath, no being, but in hers:

She was his voice; he did not speak to her,

But trembled on her words; she was his sight,

For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers,

Which coloured all his objects; -he had ceased

To live within himself: she was his life,

The ocean to the river of his thoughts,

Which terminated all; upon a tone,

A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow,

And his cheek change tempestuously -his heart

Unknowing of its cause of agony.

But she in these fond feelings had no share:

Her sighs were not for him; to her he was

Even as a brother -but no more; ’twas much,

For brotherless she was, save in the name

Her infant friendship had bestowed on him;

Herself the solitary scion left

Of a time-honoured race. -It was a name

Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not -and why?

Time taught him a deep answer -when she loved

Another; even now she loved another,

And on the summit of that hill she stood

Looking afar if yet her lover’s steed

Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew.

III

A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.

There was an ancient mansion, and before

Its walls there was a steed caparisoned:

Within an antique Oratory stood

The Boy of whom I spake; -he was alone,

And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon

He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced

Words which I could not guess of; then he leaned

His bowed head on his hands and shook, as ’twere

With a convulsion -then rose again,

And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear

What he had written, but he shed no tears.

And he did calm himself, and fix his brow

Into a kind of quiet: as he paused,

The Lady of his love re-entered there;

She was serene and smiling then, and yet

She knew she was by him beloved; she knew -

For quickly comes such knowledge -that his heart

Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw

That he was wretched, but she saw not all.

He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp

He took her hand; a moment o’er his face

A tablet of unutterable thoughts

Was traced, and then it faded, as it came;

He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps

Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,

For they did part with mutual smiles; he passed

From out the massy gate of that old Hall,

And mounting on his steed he went his way;

And ne’er repassed that hoary threshold more.

IV

A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.

The Boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds

Of fiery climes he made himself a home,

And his Soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt

With strange and dusky aspects; he was not

Himself like what he had been; on the sea

And on the shore he was a wanderer;

There was a mass of many images

Crowded like waves upon me, but he was

A part of all; and in the last he lay

Reposing from the noontide sultriness,

Couched among fallen columns, in the shade

Of ruined walls that had survived the names

Of those who reared them; by his sleeping side

Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds

Were fastened near a fountain; and a man,

Glad in a flowing garb, did watch the while,

While many of his tribe slumbered around:

And they were canopied by the blue sky,

So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,

That God alone was to be seen in heaven.

V

A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.

The Lady of his love was wed with One

Who did not love her better: in her home,

A thousand leagues from his, -her native home,

She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy,

Daughters and sons of Beauty, -but behold!

Upon her face there was a tint of grief,

The settled shadow of an inward strife,

And an unquiet drooping of the eye,

As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.

What could her grief be? -she had all she loved,

And he who had so loved her was not there

To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,

Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts.

What could her grief be? -she had loved him not,

Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved,

Nor could he be a part of that which preyed

Upon her mind -a spectre of the past.

VI

A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.

The Wanderer was returned. -I saw him stand

Before an altar -with a gentle bride;

Her face was fair, but was not that which made

The Starlight of his Boyhood; -as he stood

Even at the altar, o’er his brow there came

The selfsame aspect and the quivering shock

That in the antique Oratory shook

His bosom in its solitude; and then -

As in that hour -a moment o’er his face

The tablet of unutterable thoughts

Was traced -and then it faded as it came,

And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke

The fitting vows, but heard not his own words,

And all things reeled around him; he could see

Not that which was, nor that which should have been -

But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall,

And the remembered chambers, and the place,

The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,

All things pertaining to that place and hour,

And her who was his destiny, came back

And thrust themselves between him and the light;

What business had they there at such a time?

VII

A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.

The Lady of his love; -Oh! she was changed,

As by the sickness of the soul; her mind

Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes,

They had not their own lustre, but the look

Which is not of the earth; she was become

The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts

Were combinations of disjointed things;

And forms impalpable and unperceived

Of others’ sight familiar were to hers.

And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise

Have a far deeper madness, and the glance

Of melancholy is a fearful gift;

What is it but the telescope of truth?

Which strips the distance of its fantasies,

And brings life near in utter nakedness,

Making the cold reality too real!

VIII

A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.

The Wanderer was alone as heretofore,

The beings which surrounded him were gone,

Or were at war with him; he was a mark

For blight and desolation, compassed round

With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mixed

In all which was served up to him, until,

Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,

He fed on poisons, and they had no power,

But were a kind of nutriment; he lived

Through that which had been death to many men,

And made him friends of mountains; with the stars

And the quick Spirit of the Universe

He held his dialogues: and they did teach

To him the magic of their mysteries;

To him the book of Night was opened wide,

And voices from the deep abyss revealed

A marvel and a secret. -Be it so.

IX

My dream is past; it had no further change.

It was of a strange order, that the doom

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out

Almost like a reality -the one

To end in madness -both in misery.

O Flower of Scotland,
When will we see
Your like again,
That fought and died for,
Your wee bit Hill and Glen,
And stood against him,
Proud Edward’s Army,
And sent him homeward,
Tae think again.

The Hills are bare now,
And Autumn leaves
lie thick and still,
O’er land that is lost now,
Which those so dearly held,
That stood against him,
Proud Edward’s Army,
And sent him homeward,
Tae think again.

Those days are past now,
And in the past
they must remain,
But we can still rise now,
And be the nation again,
That stood against him,
Proud Edward’s Army,
And sent him homeward,
Tae think again.

O Flower of Scotland,
When will we see
your like again,
That fought and died for,
Your wee bit Hill and Glen,
And stood against him,
Proud Edward’s Army,
And sent him homeward,
Tae think again.

Presionar acá. 

Excelente oportunidad para realizar un viaje por el río Nilo y ver el amanecer desde la barandilla de un barco mientras -despacio- avanza por la costa.

A short introduction

With a length of 6.671 km – widely accepted as the longest river on Earth and often referred to as the most beautiful and most famous river of the world, the Nile becomes object of an experimental and unique photographic mapping and investigation.

Presione aquí para ver la foto.

The Nile is a singular river in several aspects and has intrigued historians, artists, poets and other people since the ancient days of the Pharaohs. Called ‘iteru’, meaning Great River in Ancient Egyptian, it has been primary lifeline and spiritual, cultural and economic source for the Egyptian Civilization for more than 3000 years. But – carrying down the water from the deep African highlands down to Egypt – the Nile is also unusual in its last major tributary joining it roughly about halfway to the sea. From that point on the Northern section of the river flows almost entirely through desert and the Nile actually diminishes due to evaporation and irrigation on its way down to the Mediterranean Sea.

Its crucial role as a lifeline of Egypt since Ancient Egyptian Civilization up to now does not cover up the fact that “no international river basin has a longer and more complex and eventful history of water politics than the Nile” and “It plays an essential economic, political and cultural role in the 10 countries through which it flows. Today the importance of the Nile is greater than ever.”

Nile Studies is an artistic research and investigation project, an experimental photographic and cultural mapping survey by digitally scanning the Nile’s long coastlines and landscapes along with its long and complicated history and politics.

Presione aquí para ver la foto.

“Cae la tarde y” (spam)

Carlos Gradin.

“sé que en Iowa ahora deben estar llorando

los niños en la tierra donde se deja a los niños llorar”

Jack Kerouac.

Cae la tarde y vos no estás,

cae la tarde y dan ganas

de llamarte.

Se termina el día.

Cae la tarde y es hora

de abandonar la playa.

Caen gotas, y la luz

es más tenue.

Los turistas se cansan

y los habitantes comienzan

a abrigarse más.

Cae la tarde y las sombras

de la noche

se apoderan de la ciudad.

Cae la tarde y una fina

lluvia apaga las hogueras

de la noche; a su paso

el vapor escupe hollín

y abate

su penacho largo y negro. (Th. Gaultier)

Antes de sumergirnos

en la marea incesante de Benarés,

cuando cae la tarde y miles

de criaturas se acercan

a mojarse al río y

a expresar su devoción por

seguir latiendo,

hicimos un pacto:

nada de flash-backs,

cada quien tenía

su pasado,

superestresante.

Cae la tarde y con ella la esperanza.

Cae la tarde y aparecen los aviones de la RAF,

cae la tarde y llega la noche

en la Costa del Sol.

La ciudad se dibuja tranquila

y solitaria sobre el cielo

azul, con edificios de balconadas

graciosas, pintadas de amarillo.

Cae la tarde y Gilberto Gil

guitarrea en la terraza de su departamento,

en uno de los edificios

de la colorida Vila do Farol.

Cae la tarde y el mundo sigue,

algunos árboles se tuercen,

aún no sabemos dónde

vamos a dormir.

Cae la tarde, y Anahí debe marcharse.

La caravana avanza. Se desata la tempestad.

Tu hija te ruega para que la lleves al desfile de la rambla.

En el altiplano una vaca da de mamar a su ternero,

junto al lago Titicaca.

La arista de roca, un pañal tendido,

y, encima de todo, el aliento de la anchura,

el vaho de sal y de miel

del verano levantino

cuando cae la tarde.

Y entonces Sigüenza

percibe el grito interior

sobrecogido: “¡Campo mío!” (Gabriel Miró)

Cae la tarde, y la verdad

es que hipnotiza.

Cae la tarde y el sol impiadoso de febrero.

Cae la tarde y el viento arrecia,

y esperás paciente.

Cae la tarde, y Christopher tiene

mucho ánimo para desvelarse

esta noche.

Desde las escaleras de una escuela

de medios audiovisuales

en la Pcia. de Buenos Aires,

se vislumbra la silueta de un hombre

de estatura mediana.

A la hora en punto de la cita,

Viggo Cormanti -las manos le tiemblan,

el cabello rubio destella

humedecido por la lluvia, (…)

- está al fin ante mí. (*** ??)

La tierra compacta de la Sierra de Juárez,

al pie de la Rumorosa, entre Mexicali

y Tijuana, se ilumina por el tono

rojizo de un sol que parece

llorar sobre el imponente y mágico

desierto de la Laguna Salada.

Cae la tarde, y en la trágica esquina

de avenida Rivadavia y Cabral,

es arrollada por un camión

Isabel Elisa Martínez de Ibarreta.

En ese inmenso silencio de los templos

tibetanos,

el buda reencarnado va

durmiéndose.

Cae la tarde y el mundo sigue,

y la luna se asoma.

Hoy probamos otro misil de largo alcance.

En la Plaza Italia comienzan

a juntarse los que celebran

la muerte de Pinochet.

Cae la tarde y Boca pierde 2 a 1.

Cae la tarde, y en el cielo de Madrid.

Cae la tarde, y cae la noche,

me llama el Carlos

pa un güen derroche.

Peppermint abre el armario

de espejo de su cuarto.

Me hacen señas

de que el séquito

comienza a impacientarse.

Cae la tarde y no estás,

y el mundo sigue.

Todos se dedican a tomar mate

en las lejanías,

los obreros se han quedado

hasta casi las siete, y ahora

atardece. Después pongo algo en el tocadiscos.

En el Quadrado,

la plaza central de Trancoso,

se reúnen los jóvenes del lugar

para disputar su partida

diaria de fútbol.

La centuria romana

que acompañaba a la cofradía

se va abriendo paso. El trono

sale a la calle

y era la historia de una Semana Santa.

Son recuerdos.

Cae la tarde y pienso en Cortázar,

en la lucidez abismal de Pizarnik,

en todos ellos

(y en todos nosotros).

Cuando cae la tarde

y llega el momento

de recoger el ganado,

acaba el canto de Sileno.

Cae la tarde y también cae el siglo. (??)

Sí, la fuente del Bicentenario.

Esa agua que te empapa lento,

sentado en una banca,

mientras cae la tarde,

y anochece.

Cae la tarde y los antimineros

posan para la foto. Eligieron

la ruta 23

como escenario.

Cae la tarde y yo duermo.

Cae la tarde y el teatro se despierta.

En el patio de Morgan

cae la tarde y alcanza

a verse el cielo enrojecido

a través de las ramas del toronjal.

Juan Cobos Wilkins recuerda

camino del hotel Los Godos,

donde pernoctó Paquirri antes

de su cogida mortal.

Una luz tostada tiñe

de ocre-rojizo ese inmenso y árido

territorio cedido por Argelia,

[(...) 250.000 personas

en jaimas y pequeñas

construcciones de adobe.]

Cae la tarde y los lirios mueren

y anochece sobre el Mar Menor.

A la salida del cementerio me despido

de mis compañeros de tour.

Platico con el Capitán Meda

sobre los viajes pasados y futuros

del Orión a la Antártida;

me señala una familia de delfines

Turciops trucantus que juegan en la proa.

Y sin ningún efecto de interrupción

se lee un pasaje que describe la belleza

de esta hora del día, con sus escenas

caseras y típicas, y la evocación

de los ruidos del lugar y de la hora

en que regresan a casa

los lugareños (Martha E. Allen).

Cae la tarde y sigue sin haber rastro

de tierra. Los chicos tienen hambre, lloran…

Cae la tarde y con ella un disparo,

cae la tarde y el calor pone a sudar a Caracas.

Cae la tarde y Quasimodo no da signos de vida,

y cae la tarde y atracamos frente a Qasr Ibrim,

el único monumento que permanece

en su sitio original. Estaba en lo alto

de un acantilado, dominando el Nilo; hoy,

las aguas lamen sus cimientos.

Cae la tarde y se iluminan uno a uno

los puestos de comida callejera,

los corros de los cuenta cuentos,

encantadores de serpientes, tragafuegos

y demás. El sonido del bullicio

y la música de la plaza te llega

entremezclado con los olores de los puestos

callejeros de especias y comidas.

Cae la tarde y la ciudad se dibuja

tranquila y solitaria sobre el cielo

azul, con edificios de balconadas

graciosas pintadas de amarillo.

Las últimas luces del día cubren

con su manto gris cobalto

el horizonte marino. Cae

la tarde y volvemos a casa

caminando, lentamente. Y el tiempo refresca,

nos vamos a los merenderos

a comer y beber con la familia o

con los amigos, sin restricciones.

Y los álamos modifican

las estrellas. Llena un grito

todo en torno

a este observatorio.

Estamos de nuevo en Puerto Natales.

Indudablemente, Salto del río Serrano.

Cae la tarde y los pescadores

salen a dejar sus redes

que recogerán al día siguiente. (Oneidaw)

Y Angelique está muy deprimida,

no ha parado de llorar

y eso pone mal a Dulce…

La terraza de este café comienza

a llenarse cuando cae la tarde

y es punto de encuentro

de muchas caras conocidas.

Dos tequilas en un garito,

este veneno que no mata.

Cae la tarde y los monos de Sumatra

se mecen impasibles ante la boca

estática de un caimán.

Ya cae la tarde y descansamos en Fuente Bermeja,

al sur del Navalperal,

suena una banda holandesa de nombre escandinavo –Igdrassil- en el CD-player.

Los turistas se cansan

del asedio de los vendedores

de puros y ron,

luego cae la tarde y van

como corderitos a contar

sus provisiones.

Cae la tarde y se cierra el santuario,

Cae la tarde y los feganuhés se disponen a cenar.

Cae la tarde y el paisaje se abre

y el calor cedió unos grados.

Cae la tarde y el tren se acerca a Malang.

Poema realizado con los resultados de una búsqueda en Google mediante la frase “cae la tarde y”