Michael Horovitz
(Nacido en 1935) es un poeta inglés, artista y traductor.
Michael Horovitz era el menor de diez hermanos que fueron traídos a Inglaterra desde la Alemania nazi por parte de sus padres, los cuales eran parte de una red de familias Europeo-rabínicas. Horovitz estudió en la universidad de Brasenose, Oxford 1954-1960.
Libros:
Strangers (with Maria Simon),
Nude Lines For Larking In Present Night Soho
High Notes
Poetry for the people
Bank Holiday: a New Testament for the Love Generation (1967)
Love Poems: Nineteen Poems of Love, Lust and Spirit
The Wolverhampton Wanderer (1971)
Growing Up: Selected Poems & Pictures 1951-1979 (1979)
Midsummer Morning Jog Log (with Peter Blake),
A New Waste Land: Timeship Earth at Nillennium
Wordsounds and Sightlines: New and Selected Poems (1994)
Grandchildren of Albion
Mire adelante
Nuestros dedos están delante de nosotros —se han salido de nosotros
Nuestras uñas están delante de nuestros dedos —se la pasan cambiando de color
Nuestros martillos están delante de nuestras uñas —golpean como estibadores
Nuestras hoces están delante de nuestros martillos —forma de nuestros dedos de martillo
Nuestros carros son los jefes de nuestros cinemas —porque no usamos gibbs nuestras películas
son una lucha entre la iglesia y el estado uña y diente mientras los productores se
adelantan a los espectadores
Nuestros televisores están delante de los auspiciadores y ya todo se acaba de vender
Nuestras bicis están delante de nuestros triciclos y nuestras modernas obras de arte chorreadas
por los ciclistas que pintan
Nuestros mejores ciclistas son nuestros peores pintores y
Nuestros mejores pintores son peores que nuestros peores ciclistas
Nuestros peores ciclistas están adelante de todos nuestros pintores —salvo cuando los pintores
—salvo cuando los pintores se vuelven ciclistas
y eso es lo que han hecho—
cada día más y más pintores se dedican al ciclismo y cada día
se les ve en sus bicicletas por Strand auspiciados
revueltos entre los remolinos de pintura cruzándose delante
de los trolebuses los tranvías los trombones y arrancan a escobillarse los pies con
gibbs hasta que los cinemas
pueden al fin estacionar los autos
Nuestros dedos-peatones furiosos martillean las motociclistas
pero esas hoces que llevan acopladas
rebanan los martillos
Nuestros esqueletos nuestras uñas se agarran a nuestros dedos
hasta que lo consiguen
y los hallamos nuestros
dientes
futbolistas
desarrollados por completo
Michael Horovitz, incluido en Poesía inglesa contemporánea (Barral Editores, Barcelona, 1975, versión de Antonio Cisneros).
MYSTERIES OF MUSIC
Having absently, that’s to say dozily
switched on BBC Radio 3
down in the kitchen
as is my frequent small-hours wont
I faintly recognise some emergent wisps of melody
& at first while preparing coffee
am tempted to switch it off again
as the mood of the music feels a bit downbeat
& I’m quite concerned to jerk out
of darkish dreamtrace mode – but then
it begins to gather up brighter themes
that mount in more & more endearingly familiar
spiraling patterns & I think the name Weber
– & having completed the meticulously orchestrated
ritual of coffee-making I turn up the volume
so’s I’ll go on hearing the piece from the desk upstairs
to which I carry the as near-perfect as I ever manage
cup of coffee – and a quick check with Radio Times
confirms it is indeed the Overture to Weber’s opera
‘Der Freischütz’ which my ears proceed to follow intently
as it mounts to its exhilarated climax
which arrives all too quickly for my taste
& after a downbringingly brief pause
the earnestly confidential voice of Jonathan Swain
interposes to report who was playing it
& introduce the next piece.
I reflect on the seeming oddity
that I know next to nothing about this bloke Weber
except that when I hear certain arrangements
of instrumental sounds – some of whose titles
such as ‘Invitation to the Dance’ I know
– that one mainly because swing king Benny Goodman
adapted its icerink-swirly introduction as theme tune
for his 1930s NBC ‘Let’s Dance’ big band radio shows
I’ve heard rebroadcast now & then
– & a Quintet for Clarinet & Strings
with a lot of deliciously ebullient up&down-scaled trills
I always prick up my ears on hearing the faintest breath of
– which I remember doing for example
when the wondrously versatile Indian writer Vikram Seth chose it
as one of his selections for Michael Berkeley’s Sunday noontide
Private Passions programme also on Radio 3 some years ago.
The word Weber appears unbidden
on the inbox of my mind
when his or in some way Weberlike music turns up
& I reflect that just about all the next to nothing
I know about Weber textually
is that the rest of his name is something like
Carl Maria von – which suggests he was German
or Austrian & of a perhaps somewhere aristocratic ancestry
– & reminds me I’ve never sussed why or how
Maria sometimes turns out to be a chap’s
as well as surely a lot more often a woman’s name.
More ultimately worth pursuing
are probably the mysterious ways by whose means
one person’s works can convey so much
interest & pleasure & occasionally also
irritation or even fury
& other emotional-intellectual distraction
to other people ages later
just by dint of that person having scrivened
musical notes onto manuscript pages
to be turned over & over by musicians equipped
to translate those dots into concerted sounds
which in turn may come to turn on listeners
in generation after generation that follows
– for all that such listeners
including those who find them faintly familiar
may initially at least know next to nothing
particularly accountable about the sounds
except perhaps the composer’s or arranger’s name.
So here’s thanking you for your arrangements of sounds
& looking forward to hearing from you again
esteemed Herr (or whatever designation you prefer)
Carl Maria von Weber.
And you or your shade might like to know
that I am resolving henceforth
to try harder to avoid
revisiting the confusion
I have entertained more than a few times
of your generally mellifluous tunes
& straight-aheadshaped variations
with the dodecaphonic compositions
of your near-namesake the Schoenbergian
Anton Webern
– for all that the arrangements of notes
I associate with his name
tend to sound a far cry
from yours
– as most certainly are from both of yours
the musics of Julian & Andrew
Lloyd-Webber
– & equally
the guitar & electric keyboard contributions
of the deceptively diminutive Mark Webber
to the high-spirited recordings & performances
of the Jarvis Cocker-fronted indie-rock band Pulp.
© Michael Horovitz, February 2012. Michael Horovitz has six poems in The White Review No. 4,
Per Bix Beiderbecke (1903-1931)
Il suono di Bix…
- così spesso paragonato
a quello di una campana
eppure se pensate alle vere campane - quante di loro
somigliano minimamente
al suono di Bix?
Deve essere la perfetta
simmetria di forma
l’idea stessa
che evoca una campana
… infallibilmente il modo misurato
le note chiare caduta e crescendo –
erompono, scivolano giù guizzano e sgorgano
dalla campana del suo corno angelico
conservando per sempre e dilatando
i suoi profili come un cielo senza nuvole
facendo implodere l’aria
- Addio uccello bianco
i cui fiati con dita di piume
come i rimbombanti dong della campanologia
sfiorati, sì così delicatamente
raggiunsero quei giri
ingioiellati di mercurio e quieti movimenti
inimmaginati dentro
una cornetta cremosa gelatina tritata
…la cui fiamma luminosa percorre un sentiero
duro come fiamma ossidrica nella foschia
- la strada attraverso quelle poche
preziose notti, scure e lievi
mettesti a nudo
il cuore segreto
che arrossisce di ogni canzone
facendo bolle di sapone
O i colori
di tutte le giovani età
del jazz
che non muoiono mai
soffiate così alte
- sillabe perfette
di tempo registrato.
Traduzione: Raffaella Marzano
Una canzone per Frances
Ti sento definire la mia testa una botte
In cui i bambini riempiono i secchielli
Mentre fluttuo e stormisco nel cielo
Il sole alla tua coda di sirena va in volo
La terra canta attraverso te da dove fluiscono gli oceani
Nutrendo foreste nel passato sommerse
In cui le meduse si dimenano verso il barile che spruzza
del cibo delle stelle – in cui nessun uomo litiga
Scacci le mosche con una bacchetta magica di fresche piccole felci
Giungi dolcemente alla mia mente in una radura di sogni
Mentre la luna si addormenta mentre il gallo saluta il sole
Camminiamo sull’aria, stiamo a galla
- uccello e pesce tutt’uno.
Traduzione: Raffaella Marzano
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