A February 22 and today, in 1939 - died in France, the remarkable poet Antonio Machado. Their presence, din certainly transcends time and distance to join us on this trip different from day to day. I was very excited when I read the poem that another large Raymond Carver, he devotes the English poet. Let this be a tribute and a new redemption through art.
WAVES RADIO
Antonio Machado To
The rain has stopped, and the moon is out.
not know anything about radio waves.
But I think it best just
transmitted after rain, when the air is humid.
In any case, I can now take Ottava, if I want,
or Toronto. Lately, at night, I find myself slightly interested
Canadian
policy and domestic affairs. It's true. But usually
what he wanted was their music stations. I feel
here in armchair and listen, without having anything to do or think
. I have no TV and stopped reading newspapers
. At night I put the radio.
When I escaped here
was away from it all. Especially in the literature.
From what it entails, and what it brings in tow.
there in the soul a desire not to think.
to stand still. Coupled with this,
a desire to be strict, yes, and rigorous.
But the soul is also a gentle bitch
not always reliable. And I forgot that.
heard when he said: Best song to what has been and never will
that to what
still with us and be with us tomorrow. Or not.
And if not, also fine.
does not matter too much, he said, a man who never sings.
That is the voice I heard.
Can you imagine that anyone thinks things?
How absurd!
But I have these stupid ideas
night when I sit in the chair and hear the radio.
Then, Machado, his poetry!
was like a man older than
turns to love. One thing worthy of note,
and embarrassing, too.
And carry your book
bed with me and sleep with it by hand. A train passed
in my dreams one night and woke me up.
And my first thought, his heart pounding
there in the darkened bedroom, was this:
Everything is perfect, Machado is here.
Then I went back to sleep.
Today I took your book with me when I left
to give my ride. "Pay attention!" "You said,
when someone asked what to do with his life.
So I looked around and took note of everything.
Then I sat in the sun on my site
of along the river from where I can see the mountains.
and closed my eyes and heard the sound of water
. Then I opened them and started to read
"Abel Martín."
This morning I thought a lot about you, Machado.
hope, despite what I know about death,
hope, despite what I know about death,
you receive the message you intend to send.
But it's okay if you did not receive. Sleep well.
Rest. Sooner or later I hope to see.
And then I could say these things directly.
Literature. Poetry. Raymond Carver. Antonio Machado.
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