EDUARD HOORNIK [13.367]

Eduard Hoornik

Eduard Hoornik fue un escritor neerlandés nacido en La Haya en 1910 y fallecido en Ámsterdam en 1970. Sus dramas y su lírica de crítica social (Nacimiento 1939) expresan la tensión entre el yo y el mundo.

OBRA:

Het keerpunt (1936)

Geboorte (1938)

Mattheus (1938)

Steenen (1939)

Tweespalt (1943)

Ex tenebris (1948)

Het menselijk bestaan (1952)

Achter de bergen (1955)

De vis (1962)

De overweg (1965)

La casa

Volví a leer: «puedes venir aquí, a mi casa,

y estar emboscado el tiempo que tú quieras».

Y recorrí las mil seiscientas leguas

andando muchas veces sobre piedras;

hasta que vi la casa suspendida

en un acantilado de un peñón salobre.

La distinguí por su ventana de barrotes.

Con la lengua amarada me decía:

«En esta soledad podré quedarme a salvo.

Creo que, al fin, mañana estaré en casa».

Y mañana vinieron los soldados.

Me colgaron un cinto de granadas.

Yo lancé la primera a la ventana.

Eduard Hoornik, incluido en Antología de la poesía neerlandesa moderna (Ediciones Saturno, Barcelona, 1971, selecc. y trad. de Francisco Carrasquer).

Illusion

I went to the train station,

not to say goodbye,

or to get myself started on a trip,

but to stand between all the people

who live for some goal,

for somewhere to go.

To Love A Woman...

To love a woman is to escape death,

to be torn away from this earthly existence,

like flashes of lightning in each other's souls,

to lay together, listening and dreaming,

to gently rock with trees at night,

kiss each other and have at each other,

in a blink of the eye to stand together in hardship,

to go under and come back up amazed.

"Asleep already?" I ask, but she doesn't answer;

speechless, we lie thinking about each other:

two souls filled to the brim with sadness.

Far away is the world, that cannot touch us,

close are the stars, that enchant as they sparkle.

It is as if I am dead and have left her behind.

The Christmas Dinner

The father crossed himself and blessed the food.

His face became darker, as if a distant story

moved him anew, a long forgotten melody again 

took hold of him. Astonished, we ate the meal

within the smell of heavy wine and light of candles

that upon the pinegreen and white hands shone,

and heard again and again how during the purple

night the footstep of a child came and then vanished.  

[At School]

At school they were both written on the board.

The verb to have and the verb to be;

With this time, and eternity were born,

The one reality, the other illusion.

To have is nothing. Is war. Is not life.

Is to be of the world and its gods.

To be, is to stand above those things,

Become filled with heavenly pain. 

To have is hard. Is body. Is two breasts.

Is to hunger and thirst for the earth.

Is the duty of each pondering and bud.

To be is soul, is listening, is making way,

Is becoming a child and looking at the stars,

And lifted up slowly toward that place.

The Birds

There were always birds in the garden.

We watched how the plump dove came to bathe

and sank into the pond, stone by stone.

At first you were just as shy as me;

the birds helped us get over that,

the birds, yes, but not only them.

What then? The mischief we came up with,

like when your wife appeared on the lawn

and your eyes shone with the purest joy?

Or sitting together as the sun disappeared,

the birds singing only now and then

and no longer all together, but one by one?