Al que ingrato me deja, busco amante...

Al que ingrato me deja, busco amante;
al que amante me sigue, dejo ingrata;
constante adoro a quien mi amor maltrata;
maltrato a quien mi amor busca constante.
Al que trato de amor, hallo diamante,
y soy diamante al que de amor me trata;
y mato al que me quiere ver triunfante.
Si a ésta pago, padece mi deseo;
si ruego a aquél, mi pundonor enojo:
de entrambos modos infeliz me veo.
Pero yo, por mejor partido, escojo
de quien no quiero, ser violento empleo,
que, de quien no me quiere, vil despojo.

Sonetos - Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz

Sigh no more, ladies

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh nor more;
    Men were deceivers ever;
One foot in sea and one on shore,
    To one thing constant never;
        Then sigh not so,
        But let them go,
    And be you blithe and bonny;
Converting all your sounds of woe
    Into. Hey nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no mo,
    Or dumps so dull and heavy;
The fraud of men was ever so,
    Since summer first was leavy.
        Then sigh not so, 
        But let them go,
    And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
    Into. Hey, nonny, nonny.

Balthasar in Much Ado About Nothing,ii.3 - William Shakespeare

Anoche, cuando dormía

Anoche, cuando dormía,
soñé ¡bendita ilusión!,
que una fontana fluía
dentro de mi corazón.
Di, ¿porqué acequia, escondida
agua, vienes hasta mí,
manantial de nueva vida
en donde nunca bebí?
Anoche, cuando dormía,
soñé ¡bendita ilusión!,
que una colmena tenía
dentro de mi corazón
y las doradas abejas
iban fabricando en él,
con las amarguras viejas,
blanca cera y dulce miel.
Anoche, cuando dormía,
soñé, ¡bendita ilusión!,
que un ardiente sol lucía
dentro de mi corazón.
Era ardiente porque daba
calores de rojo hogar,
y era sol porque alumbraba
y porque hacía llorar.
Anoche, cuando dormía,
soñé, ¡bendita ilusión!,
que era Dios lo que tenía
dentro de mi corazón

despecho

¡Ah, qué estoy cansada! Me he reído tanto,
tanto, que a mis ojos ha asomado el llanto;
tanto, que este rictus que contrae mi boca
es un rastro extraño de mi risa loca.
Tanto, que esta intensa palidez que tengo
(como en los retratos del viejo abolengo)
es por la fatiga de la loca risa
que en todo mi cuerpo su sopor desliza.
¡Ah, qué estoy cansada! Déjame que duerma;
pues, como la angustia, la alegría enferma.
¡Qué rara ocurrencia, decir que estoy triste!
¿Cuándo más alegre que ahora me viste?
¡Mentira! No tengo ni dudas ni celos,
ni inquietud, ni angustias, ni penas, ni anhelos.
Si brilla en mis ojos la humedad del llanto,
es por el esfuerzo de reírme tanto...

Despecho - Juana de Ibarbourou

verano

Ay, no estar separado

por tan estrecho muro

del ámbito estrellado.

¿Qué es lo interior

sino acrecido cielo

surcado por los pájaros, tan hondo

que en él soplan los aires del hogar?

Separate way

Take no stock in the friendly words of friends,
for in such kindness all their kindness ends;
we go our separate ways to death.
The love of father or of mother knows
the fear of sickness, the need of food and clothes,
but otherwise--we go our separate ways to death.
Kiss after kiss of the head beside you on the cushion,
but faithful only in its fashion--
we go our separate ways to death.
If you would see the phoenix burn
and in the traffic hunt a unicorn,
well, ride the subway till your death
and hold your job till you are out of breath.
We heard your jokes, your stories, and your songs,
know all of your rights and all your wrongs,
but we are busy with our own affairs.Sorry? O yes! But after all who cares?
You think that you have something still to say?
Perhaps. But you are growing old, are growing grey.
And we are too.
We'll spare another friendly word for you;
and go our separate ways to death.

If a clown

If a clown came out of the woods,
a standard looking clown with oversized
polkadot clothes, floppy shoes,
a red, bulbous nose, and you saw him
on the edge of your property,
there'd be nothing funny about that,
would there? A bear might be preferable,
especially if black and berry-driven.
And if this clown began waving his hands
with those big, white gloves
that clowns wear, and you realized
he wanted your attention, had something
apparently urgent to tell you, 
would you pivot and run from him,
or stay put, as my friend did, who seemed
to understand here was a clown
who didn't know where he was,
a clown without a context.
What could be sadder, my friend thought,
than a clown in need of a context?
If then the clown said to you
that he was on his way to a kid's
birthday party, his car had broken down,
and he needed a ride, would you give
him one? Or would the connection
between the comic and the appalling,
as it pertained to clowns, be suddenly so clear
that you'd be paralyzed by it?
And if you were the clown, and my friend
hesitated, as he did, would you make
a sad face, and with an enormous finger
wipe away an imaginary tear? How far
would you trust your art? I can tell you
it worked. Most of the guests had gone
when my friend and the clown drove up,
and the family was angry. But the clown
twisted a balloon into the shape of a bird
and gave it to the kid, who smiled,
letting it rise to the ceiling. If you were the kid,
the birthday boy, what from then on
would be your relationship with disappointment?
With joy? Whom would you blame or extol?

The garden called Gethsemane

 The Garden called Gethsemane
In Picardy it was,
And there the people came to see
The English soldiers pass.
We used to pass - we used to pass
Or halt, as it might be,
And ship our masks in case of gas
Beyond Gethsemane.

The Garden called Gethsemane,
It held a pretty lass,
But all the time she talked to me
I prayed my cup might pass.
The officer sat on the chair,
The men lay on the grass,
And all the time we halted there
I prayed my cup might pass.

It didn't pass - it didn't pass -
It didn't pass from me.
I drank it when we met the gas
Beyond Gethsemane

Absoluta

Color de ropa antigua. Un julio a sombra,
y un agosto recién segado. Y una
mano de agua que injertó en el pino
resinoso de un tedio malas frutas.

Ahora que has anclado, oscura ropa,
tornas rociada de un suntuoso olor
a tiempo, a abreviación... Y he cantado
el proclive festín que se volcó.

Mas ¿no puedes, Señor, contra la muerte,
contra el límite, contra lo que acaba?
¡Ay, la llaga en color de ropa antigua,
cómo se entreabre y huele a miel quemada!

¡Oh unidad excelsa! ¡Oh lo que es uno
por todos!
¡Amor contra el espacio y contra el tiempo!
Un latido único de corazón;
un solo ritmo: ¡Dios!

Y al encogerse de hombros los linderos
en un bronco desdén irreductible,
hay un riego de sierpes
en la doncella plenitud del 1.
¡Una arruga, una sombra!

On a perfumed lady

You say you're sweet:  how should we know
Whether that you be sweet or no?
--From powders and perfumes keep free;
Then we shall smell how sweet you be!

Quise buscarte

Quise buscarte en lo inaudible
en el reino más sigiloso
pero no pude averiguar
dónde habitaba el gran silencio
pues desconozco su sonido.

No sé si es roce de algodón
o áspero grito de vinagre
si parece un galope mudo
o es igual que un tambor sin piel
cuyo redoble se ha perdido.

Quise buscarte en aquel reino
en el vacío sin palabras
en el gran templo inexpresable
que es el silencio de tu dios
pero no di con el camino.