#barnstone

[kamas-corner]

BORGES Y EL SONETO

- VARGAS LLOSA :Usted ha escrito poemas, cuentos y ensayo. ¿Tiene predilección por alguno de esos géneros?

-Ahora, al término de al carrera literaria, tengo la impresión que he cultivado un solo género: la poesía. Salvo que mi poesía se ha expresado muchas veces en prosa y no en verso. Pero como hace unos diez años que he perdido la vista, y a mí me gusta mucho vigilar, revisar lo que escribo, ahora me he vuelto a las formas regulares del verso. Ya que un soneto, por ejemplo, puede componerse en la calle, en el subterráneo, aseando por los corredores de la Biblioteca Nacional, y la rima tiene una virtud mnemónica que usted conoce. Es decir, uno puede trabajar y pulir un soneto mentalmente y luego, cuando el soneto está más o menos maduro, entonces lo dicto, dejo pasar unos diez o doce días y luego lo retomo, lo modifico lo corrijo hasta que llega un momento en que ese soneto ya puede publicarse sin mayor deshonra para el autor.

(Entrevista del joven Mario Vargas Llosa a Jorge Luis Borges, en 1963, cuando Borges fue a París a ofrecer dos conferencias sobre literatura fantástica y literatura gauchesca, y concedió una entrevista al joven traductor de noticias al español de la radiotelevisión francesa, Mario Vargas Llosa. )

- BARNSTONE: Quisiera preguntarle por el uso que usted hace en sus poemas de las formas tradicionales como el soneto.

Una de las formas poéticas más hermosas es, creo yo, el soneto. ¡Qué extraño resulta que una forma que parece tan arbitraria como el soneto — cuatro estrofas (dos cuartetos y dos tercetos), o bien tres estrofas seguidas de dos versos pareados — pueda ser utilizada para fines tan variados! Si yo pienso en un soneto de Shakespeare, o de Milton, o un soneto de Rosetti, un soneto de Swinburne, o de William Butler Yeats, estoy pensando en poemas muy diferentes entre sí. Y sin embargo tienen la misma estructura, y esa estructura permite que la voz de cada poeta encuentre su propia entonación, de tal forma que los sonetos de todo el mundo tienen la misma estructura a la vez que son completamente diferentes. Cada poeta le imprime a la misma forma algo distinto. De manera que yo aconsejaría a los jóvenes que comiencen respetando esas formas.

(Borges: el misterio esencial, Conversaciones en Universidades de los EE.UU. , traducción de Martín Hadis)

[thisistennis]

Transitional Landscape in Cleveland Inspiration for a large transitional shade backyard stone retaining wall landscape in spring.

[exxemi]

Landscape Pathway

Ideas for a sizable brick garden path in a traditional shaded backyard in the spring.

[lemaquillage]

Landscape in Cleveland

An idea for a sizable backyard stone retaining wall landscape in the spring.

[manicpixievideovixen]

[paranormaltheatrekid]

I’ve been wondering for a while now why people (myself included. I’ll admit it) aren’t feral and barnston the way they are about lautski or paulkins, and I think I’ve finally figured it out. It simply comes down to the sheer amount of things that are happening in Black Friday. There’s not really enough time to get invested in the romance. This isn’t a criticism, I’ll defend bf ‘til the end of time. I’m just analyzing.

[ahaura]

Elizabeth Magill (Irish, b. 1959), Sleep, 2022, mixed medium on canvas, 58.25 × 50.5 in

Tony Barnstone, "Nightmare Kiss"

[Image ID: A painting depicting a scene of barren, dark trees against a backdrop of dark-red sky. End ID]

[Text ID: The middle of a kiss, and though he opened his jaw up wide and wider, her own small jawbones gave a little crack and stuck, and look what happened: as if she’d fallen in an open grave, he swallowed her at last, and then she wandered in a dark saturated country where the red land throbbed with capillaries under electric stars. A kiss had brought her there, a simple kiss that rained and filled her head with blood, a nightmare kiss, a wrong man kiss; why had she kissed a man with such a mouth, with such thick teeth and jaws, such tongue, instead of kissing someone who would let her out, kissing someone nicer, who ate less. End ID]

[apoemaday]

To the One Who Is Reading Me

by Jorge Luis Borges

You are invulnerable. Didn’t they deliver (those forces that control your destiny) the certainty of dust? Couldn’t it be your irreversible time is that river in whose bright mirror Heraclitus read his brevity? A marble slab is saved for you, one you won’t read, already graved with city, epitaph, dates of the dead. And other men are also dreams of time, not hardened bronze, purified gold. They’re dust like you; the universe is Proteus. Shadow, you’ll travel to what waits ahead, the fatal shadow waiting at the rim. Know this: in some way you’re already dead.

[ineedtoreadmorepoetry]

Nobody will open the door for you. Keep banging on it. On the other side is music. No, it's the phone. You're wrong. It's a noise of machines, electric panting, hissing, lashes. No. It's music. No. Someone is crying very slowly. No. It's a stabbing siren, a huge steep tongue licking the empty, colorless sky. No. It's fire. All wealth, miseries, all men, all things fade at hot noon. You're alone, on the other side. They don't want to let you in. Look again, climb, yell. Useless. I know it's the small, transparent, coiled, meaningless worm. With your tiny mortal eyes, turn the apple over, measure it with your muddy stomach and heat its impregnable plumpness. You, small worm, worm-mouth, worm-hate, master of death and life. You can't go in. They say.

--Blanca Varela

[la-cocotte-de-paris]

Jorge Luis Borges, tr. by Tony Barnstone, from ‘Music Box’                                                                                                                   

[zaritiseawi]

SAPPHO

Seizure

Translated from the Greek by Willis Barnstone

To me he seems like a god

as he sits facing you and

hears you near as you speak

softly and laugh

in a sweet echo that jolts

the heart in my ribs. For now

as I look at you my voice

is empty and

can say nothing as my tongue

cracks and slender fire is quick

under my skin. My eyes are dead

to light, my ears

pound, and sweat pours over me.

I convulse, greener than grass,

and feel my mind slip as I

go close to death,

yet, being poor, must suffer

[epellucid]

via

[spockvarietyhour]

Barnston Baptist Church (via wikimedia commons)

[vifetoile]

Blue

Blue is Greece where fishermen tame their boats, where I float naked in the color of truth, the sea

humming in my ears, lulling me with ultramarines like a baby kicking in amniotic seas, like god whose throne is this transparent blue bowl, this star-sapphire studded cradle of waves.

She must have blue skin and eyes, lapis lazuli looped in strands and strands around her rounded belly

and her breasts amply squirting blue-white milk.

She must make love on silk sheets of azure air.

She must have been there in the window, that narrow shaft in the hospital wall letting in pale blue spring light the morning my daughter was born.

She hid in the forget-me-nots in the wallpaper, fluttered in the doctors' and nurses blue medical gowns,

fluttered in the doctors' and nurses' blue medical gowns, glinted in the metallic blue of the scissors that cut the cord.

Her blue threads embroidered the bloody placenta.

She colors the newborns' eyes blue

for babies come from her inside-out world.

She is in the bluish spit against the evil eye.

When I'm blue I close my eyes and see blue with my third eye.

Blue light comes from the island in my brain where sunflowers crook their necks, weary of time.

Sunflowers, your wild fire hair burns in blue.

Peaceful blue, luminous blue, keep my daughter safe.

She splashes her little feet in Aegean blue sea, reaches her hands into blue beauty. I hug her dry in a towel deep blue as Mary's timeless robes.

ALIKI BARNSTONE

(B. 1956)

[expeditiemuziek]

Rock op Kerstmis

Mix de kerstsfeer met wat gepeperde kost door een half uurtje naar de geschiedenis van rock & roll te kijken en te luisteren. Op Expeditie muziek kan het via deze link: https://hermanvandenbosch.online/2023/12/21/van-rock-roll-naar-rock/

[manicpixievideovixen]