Invierno

Shakespeare, claro. Invierno. Infierno. Cambiemos tan sólo una letra.

¿Eran Cervantes y Shakespeare la misma persona?

Esto no es nada nuevo, pero resulta siempre interesante. El hecho de que los dos hayan muerto el mismo día del mismo año llama la atención (23 de abril de 1616). No sé si Cervantes era Shakespeare, o si los dos fueran Francis Bacon, pero no hay dudas de que en esta fascinante teoría conspirativa hay material para una buena novela.

ROCK FILARMONICA ORADEA (Soneto 60)

 

60
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown’d,
Crooked elipses ’gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

Soneto 141

No es con mis ojos que te amo porque ellos en ti miles de errores encuentran. Es mi corazón el que ama lo que mis ojos detestan. Tampoco le gustan a mis oídos tu tonada. Tu sabor ni tu olor me invitan a un banquete sensual. Ni mis cinco sentidos ni mis cinco conciencias logran disuadir a mi corazón de que deje de ser tu esclavo. Esta plaga ha sido hasta ahora mi única ganancia. Esa mujer me hace pecar y el dolor es mi recompensa.

 

Sonnet 141

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who, in despite of view, is pleas'd to dote.
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted;
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone.
Nor taste nor smell desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone:
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unsway'd the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be:
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain

Soneto 37

Como el padre anciano disfruta al ver a su hijo haciendo proezas juveniles, me conforta en mi infortunio comprobar tu valor y honestidad. Hago míos tus atributos de belleza, riqueza y lucidez. Y así dejo de ser pobre y despreciable. Soy una sombra que vive en tu gloria y tu abundancia. Lo que es mejor a ti te deseo. Este deseo tengo y este deseo me hace feliz.

Soneto 37
As a decrepit father takes delight
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
So I, made lame by fortune’s dearest spite,
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit,
I make my love engrafted to this store:
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
That I in thy abundance am sufficed
And by a part of all thy glory live.
Look, what is best, that best I wish in thee:
This wish I have; then ten times happy me!

23

Soy como un actor mediocre. El miedo me hace olvidar mi papel. Quizás mi fortaleza me debilita. Este miedo a mi arrogancia me hace torpe en la ceremonia y los rituales del amor. Entonces dejo que mis libros te digan lo que mi boca ha sido incapaz de expresar. Oh, aprender a leer lo que el silencio del amor ha escrito. Escuchar con los ojos es el verdadero arte del amor.

 

23

As an unperfect actor on the stage

Who with his fear is put besides his part,

Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,

Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart.

So I, for fear of trust, forget to say

The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,

And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,

O’ercharged with burden of mine own love’s might.

O, let my books be then the eloquence

And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,

Who plead for love and look for recompense

More than that tongue that more hath more express’d.

O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:

To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.

Este poeta miente

Los poetas mienten. O quizás exageran. Como los viejos que se pasan todo el tiempo haciendo historias de su juventud y nadie les cree. En el futuro, ¿quién creerá estos versos que he escrito para describir tu belleza? Mi verso es una tumba que esconde tu vida, sólo te muestra incompleta. Tu eres más bella. Mi pobre poesía no te hace justicia. Pero si ven nuestras hijas y leen mi poesía, podrás entonces vivir doblemente. En ellas y en mis versos.

Soneto 17

Who will believe my verse in time to come,

If it were fill’d with your most high deserts?

Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb

Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.

If I could write the beauty of your eyes

And in fresh numbers number all your graces,

The age to come would say ‘This poet lies:

Such heavenly touches ne’er touch’d earthly faces.’

So should my papers yellow’d with their age

Be scorn’d like old men of less truth than tongue,

And your true rights be term’d a poet’s rage

And stretched metre of an antique song:

But were some child of yours alive that time,

You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.

No dejes que la tosca mano del invierno desfigure en ti tu verano

Aquí William Shakespeare habla de la clonación. Si no me creen, lean el soneto. Le pide a la persona a la que le escribe el poema que guarde su esencia (su ADN) en una probeta antes de que el invierno le desfigure su verano para que después pueda crear "otro tú." "That's for thyself to breed another thee." Después dice, "¿Qué podrá hacer la muerte cuando te marches dejándote en la posteridad?" El poema termina con esto: "eres muy bella para dejarte conquistar por la muerte y hacer de los gusanos tus herederos."

Then let not winter’s ragged hand deface

In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill’d:

Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place

With beauty’s treasure, ere it be self-kill’d.

That use is not forbidden usury,

Which happies those that pay the willing loan;

That’s for thyself to breed another thee,

Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;

Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,

If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:

Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,

Leaving thee living in posterity?

Be not self-will’d, for thou art much too fair

To be death’s conquest and make worms thine heir.

Una historia contada por un tonto

From Macbeth (V,v,19)

"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death.
Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."

Mi soneto favorito de Shakespeare

Sonnet 116

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments; love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no, it is an ever-fixèd mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.