domingo, 19 de junio de 2011

Borges y Peter Hammill


Peter Joseph Andrew Hammill es un músico multi instrumentista, poeta y compositor, ícono referencial y pionero del Rock progresivo de los años 70. Fue fundador y líder de la emblemática banda británica Van der Graaf Generator.

Pocas letras de rock pueden ser definidas como poesía sin demostrar, con ello, el absoluto desconocimiento de lo que es la poesía; algunas de esas pocas letras se deben a Peter Hammill. ¿Qué decir, por ejemplo, de la de Still life, tema editado en el disco homónimo de 1976? El título es traducido corrientemente como “naturaleza muerta”, pero también puede ser vertido al español, literalmente, como “vida quieta”; una ambigüedad del todo apropiada para una canción cuyo tema es la vida de un Inmortal.

Este inmortal, que recuerda tanto al del cuento homónimo de Jorge Luis Borges, está lleno de dudas (“¿en qué nos convertimos? ¿Qué hemos elegido ser?”), lleva una “estéril” vida de “aburrimiento e inercia”, en la que “la risa no se diferencia del llanto” y, “pasando el tiempo / el cual ya no tiene ningún significado”. El final de la historia es ominoso, y recuerda el mito helénico de Titono: “pero la cama nupcial está lista / la dote ha sido pagada / los desdentados y demacrados rasgos de la eternidad / ahora me dan la bienvenida entre las sábanas / para unirme a su cuerpo marchito – mi esposa / Suyo para siempre / suyo para siempre / en la vida quieta”


En Skin Peter Hammil introduce el tema Shell en cuya letra menciona a Borges

Fuente : Cine Braille



Shell

Turn a card, turn a page, the action

sure to start, second-stage reaction

to illogical thoughts on random lines

in a Borges dream we move toward

the writing of lives.

Leave it out, leave it in, no edits -

with a shout, with a grin I said

it was a certainty that I'd arrive

in an Escher sketch we walk around

the drawing of lines.

The character uncertainty

as he contemplates his lot

and tries to move with urgency

though he's rooted to the spot.

On the brink, on the edge, but lately

what I think, what I said escapes me

in a flash, a tiger burning bright

does the visionary trance obscure

the burgeoning night?

And she said "What are you doing?"

And he said "What do you think?"

Oh, no,

what on earth are we doing?

The characters procrastinate

on the threshold of the door;

there's something here that fascinates,

though the meaning's still unsure

and the plot so thick...

is it some kind of history?

Sketch the thumbnail to the quick.

Oh, even though it's full of contradiction,

though it's flawed in the design

this is no fiction, it's a lifeline.

Here we are, there we went, full circle

shooting stars, heaven-sent, turned turtle

on the beach are shells are left behind

life a library, like a memory

of our ghost-written lives.

Still Life

Citadel reverberates to a thousand voices, now

dumb:

What have we become?

What have we chosen to be?

Now, all history is reduced to the syllables of

our name-

nothing can ever be the same:

now the Immortals are here.

At the time it seemed a reasonable course

to harness all the force

of life without the threat of death,

but soon we found that boredom and inertia

are not negative, but all the law we know,

and dead are will and words like survival.

Arrival at immunity from all age, all fear and

all end...

why do I pretend?

Our essence is distilled

and all familiar taste is now drained,

and though purity is maintained

it leaves us sterile,

living through the millions of years,

a laugh as close as any tear;

living, if you claim that all

that entails is breathing, eating, defecating,

screwing, drinking,

spewing, sleeping, sinking ever down and down

and ultimately passing away time

which no longer has any meaning.

Take away the threat of death and all you're

left with is a round of make-believe.

Marshal every sullen breath and though you're

ultimately bored by endless ecstasy

it's still the ring by which you hope to be

engaged

to marry the girl who will give you forever-

it's crazy, and plainly

that simply is not enough.

What is the dullest and bluntest of pains,

such that my eyes never close without feeling it

there?

What abject despair demands an end

to all things of infinity?

If we have gained, how do we now meet the

cost?

What have we bargained, and what have we

lost?

What have we relinquished, never even knowing it

was there?

What thoughts now of holding fast the line,

defying death and time?

Everything we had is gone,

everything we laboured for and favoured more

than earthly things reveals the hollow ring

of false hope and false deliverance.

But now the nuptial bed is made,

the dowry has been paid:

the toothless, haggard features of eternity

now welcome me between the sheets

to couple with her withered body - my wife.

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