SIGUE EL DEBATE: APARECIÓ UN POETA

¿SOBRE LOS POETAS QUE DAN CLASE?

Albert

Encontre un poema de Robert Frost a través de una novela.

El final dice:

Only where love and need are one,

And the work is play for mortal stakes,

Is the deed ever really done

For Heaven and the future's sakes.

Traducción mía:

Sólo donde el amor y la necesidad son uno,

y en el trabajo están en juego apuestas mortales,

es cuando la tarea verdaderamente se realiza,

para ganar el Cielo y el futuro.

Es tremendamente bello y pone en juego esta cosa tan argentina que estamos discutiendo, lo de tomarnos todo como un hobby, la falta de gravitas, de seriedad en el compromiso. Esa forma tan nuestra de cagarnos de risa de todo y de todos, de ser livianos, banales. Y esa cosa tan aristocrática de que el dinero no entra en la ecuación de lo que hacemos. Para nosotros, pobres plebeyos que nos tenemos que ganar la vida ganando dinero, el aristocrático hobby queda para otro momento. Sólo podemos aspirar a amar lo que nos da de comer: conseguir comer de lo que amamos y amar lo que nos da de comer.

Las alternativas, en cambio, son lamentables: amar lo que no nos da de comer y comer de aquello que no amamos.

Sin embargo, los que escriben sobre esta combinaciones dicen que el primero es el camino de la sabiduría práctica, e incluso de la revolución: el sabio práctico de Aristóteles, el caballero de la fe de Kierkegaard, el reconfigurador de Heidegger (en versión de H. Dreyfus), el virtuoso social de Bourdieu, el estadista de Kronman. Todos parece que mejoran hasta la excelencia, porque sólo con el amor a lo que uno hace uno puede lanzarse valientemente a enfrentar la angustia de no tener reglas que seguir cuando se le acabaron los papeles, a familiarizarse con las infinitas variables de la práctica en cuestión. Y si sigue vivo después de enfrentar exitosamente los problemas de la práctica surge la felicidad y las ganas de seguir haciendolo cada vez mejor, en un círculo virtuoso de temor, valentía y placer.

Dar clase puede ser esa práctica, ser profesor esa vocación y la docencia una profesión.

Aqui va el poema entero (no encontré traducción).

Abrazo. Martín

PD: ¿Jornada sobre el poema?

Two Tramps in Mud Time

by Robert Frost

Out of the mud two strangers came

And caught me splitting wood in the yard,

And one of them put me off my aim

By hailing cheerily "Hit them hard!"

I knew pretty well why he had dropped behind

And let the other go on a way.

I knew pretty well what he had in mind:

He wanted to take my job for pay.

Good blocks of oak it was I split,

As large around as the chopping block;

And every piece I squarely hit

Fell splinterless as a cloven rock.

The blows that a life of self-control

Spares to strike for the common good,

That day, giving a loose my soul,

I spent on the unimportant wood.

The sun was warm but the wind was chill.

You know how it is with an April day

When the sun is out and the wind is still,

You're one month on in the middle of May.

But if you so much as dare to speak,

A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,

A wind comes off a frozen peak,

And you're two months back in the middle of March.

A bluebird comes tenderly up to alight

And turns to the wind to unruffle a plume,

His song so pitched as not to excite

A single flower as yet to bloom.

It is snowing a flake; and he half knew

Winter was only playing possum.

Except in color he isn't blue,

But he wouldn't advise a thing to blossom.

The water for which we may have to look

In summertime with a witching wand,

In every wheelrut's now a brook,

In every print of a hoof a pond.

Be glad of water, but don't forget

The lurking frost in the earth beneath

That will steal forth after the sun is set

And show on the water its crystal teeth.

The time when most I loved my task

The two must make me love it more

By coming with what they came to ask.

You'd think I never had felt before

The weight of an ax-head poised aloft,

The grip of earth on outspread feet,

The life of muscles rocking soft

And smooth and moist in vernal heat.

Out of the wood two hulking tramps

(From sleeping God knows where last night,

But not long since in the lumber camps).

They thought all chopping was theirs of right.

Men of the woods and lumberjacks,

They judged me by their appropriate tool.

Except as a fellow handled an ax

They had no way of knowing a fool.

Nothing on either side was said.

They knew they had but to stay their stay

And all their logic would fill my head:

As that I had no right to play

With what was another man's work for gain.

My right might be love but theirs was need.

And where the two exist in twain

Theirs was the better right--agreed.

But yield who will to their separation,

My object in living is to unite

My avocation and my vocation

As my two eyes make one in sight.

Only where love and need are one,

And the work is play for mortal stakes,

Is the deed ever really done

For Heaven and the future's sakes.