Archivo de la etiqueta: Ana Kun

May Day special / Especial 1º de mayo

Ana Kun | Joaquín Lameiro | María Blanco

 

laboriousDay by Ana Kun

laboriousDay

MayDay call by Joaquín Lameiro Tenreiro

Now the streets are full with mustangs/ wild hoofs steaming open wide/ like the spirit of Mayflower/ long steam roses rising high/ from the crowded rebel cry.

‘Cos everybody’s sick and tired/ of this April fool spring showers/ dropping from the roofs of modern/ times factories so everybody’s/ a-bopping & a-beeping in the music of the thousands

– & they sing what they need & they make it out of dreams & they do believe it now/ that as modern as times are/
they are a-changing.

No more use for the merchant’s greed/ all-a that we do not need/ all the workers dressed in gray/ marchin’ through the somber grave/ of a past that’s still alive.

No more needles for the camels/ no more lucky strikes or chances/ we will gather arm to arm/ for the shake of some new heavens/ here in earth – no sugar mountain/ but a promise kept through time/ a new deal/ the seventh seal/
just a contract with ideas/ waking up like spring May flowers/ climbing up the city lights/ disclosing the hidden powers/
for everyone to see.

And as long as there still be borders and boundaries/ balls and chain-gangs/ blue Negroes a-singin’ and a-suffering/ be them black or be them white/
there still be the Italian ghosts/ haunting the endless Boston nights/ & Haymarket shall not rest/ from its thousand bloody stains.

So come friends & foes see clearly/ now through the looking-glass/ open all the gates of Eden/ that conceal your promised lands.

Follow the horses of burning eyes/ take the streets once again/ let’s no one forget the day/ let’s break loose the 1st of May.

 

1M por María Blanco

1M

Ana Kun was born in one very cold winter, sometime around noon. She waited quietly until she could go to the Fine Arts High School in the 5th grade, determined to be a graphic artist as soon as possible. Now, 20 years later, she has a BA in Graphics (Faculty of Arts and Design), a MA in Creative Writing (Faculty of Letters and Theology) and a magical 7 years experience in graphic design. Ana feels ready to see her dream come true: to doodle super colorful drawings and mega intricate texts, if possible on the same paper. Visit anakun.com

Joaquín Lameiro Tenreiro nació en A Coruña en 1982. Es licenciado en Filología Hispánica por la Universidade da Coruña, en donde actualmente realiza su tesis doctoral y otros trabajos de investigación sobre las Vanguardias Históricas y la literatura hispanoamericana. Ha publicado poesía y relato breve en varias revistas y fanzines, en gallego y en español.

María Blanco Rodríguez (A Coruña, 1982) es licenciada en Bellas Artes por la Universidad de Vigo. Sitio web: mariablancorodriguez.com

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Archivado bajo H2, Ilustración, Poesía

To You / A ti

by Walt Whitman
With a drawing by | Con un dibujo de Ana Kun
Spanish version by | Versión en español de Joaquín Lameiro Tenreiro

To You

Whoever you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams,
I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and hands,
Even now your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners, troubles, follies, costume, crimes, dissipate away from you,
Your true soul and body appear before me.
They stand forth out of affairs, out of commerce, shops, work, farms, clothes, the house, buying, selling, eating, drinking, suffering, dying.

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem,
I whisper with my lips close to your ear.
I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.

O I have been dilatory and dumb,
I should have made my way straight to you long ago,
I should have blabb’d nothing but you, I should have chanted nothing but you.

I will leave all and come and make the hymns of you,
None has understood you, but I understand you,
None has done justice to you, you have not done justice to yourself,
None but has found you imperfect, I only find no imperfection in you,
None but would subordinate you, I only am he who will never consent to subordinate you,
I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God, beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself.

Painters have painted their swarming groups and the centre-figure of all,
From the head of the centre-figure spreading a nimbus of gold-color’d light,
But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nimbus of gold-color’d light,
From my hand from the brain of every man and woman it streams, effulgently flowing forever.

O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you!
You have not known what you are, you have slumber’d upon yourself all your life,
Your eyelids have been the same as closed most of the time,
What you have done returns already in mockeries,
(Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in mockeries, what is their return?)

The mockeries are not you,
Underneath them and within them I see you lurk,
I pursue you where none else has pursued you,
Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the accustom’d routine, if these conceal you from others or from yourself, they do not conceal you from me,
The shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure complexion, if these balk others they do not balk me,
The pert apparel, the deform’d attitude, drunkenness, greed, premature death, all these I part aside.

There is no endowment in man or woman that is not tallied in you,
There is no virtue, no beauty in man or woman, but as good is in you,
No pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is in you,
No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits for you.

As for me, I give nothing to any one except I give the like carefully to you,
I sing the songs of the glory of none, not God, sooner than I sing the songs of the glory of you.

Whoever you are! claim your own at any hazard!
These shows of the East and West are tame compared to you,
These immense meadows, these interminable rivers, you are immense and interminable as they,
These furies, elements, storms, motions of Nature, throes of apparent dissolution, you are he or she who is master or mistress over them,
Master or mistress in your own right over Nature, elements, pain, passion, dissolution.

The hopples fall from your ankles, you find an unfailing sufficiency,
Old or young, male or female, rude, low, rejected by the rest, whatever you are promulges itself,
Through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided, nothing is scanted,
Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what you are picks its way.

The works of Walt Whitman are under the public domain | La obra de Walt Whitman es de dominio público

To You / A ti by Ana Kun

To You / A ti by Ana Kun

A ti

Quienquiera que seas, temo que camines los caminos del sueño,
temo que estas supuestas realidades vayan a desvanecerse bajo tus pies y tus manos;
ahora mismo tus rasgos, gozos, habla, casa, empresas, modales, problemas, veleidades, vestimenta, crímenes se esfuman lejos de ti
y tu alma y cuerpo verdaderos se muestran frente a mí,
emergen libres de negocios, libres de comercio, tiendas, trabajo, granjas, ropas, la casa, comprar, vender, comer, beber, sufrir, morir.

Quienquiera que seas, ahora yo poso mi mano sobre ti, pues tú serás mi poema;
susurro con mis labios pegados a tu oído:
he amado a muchas mujeres y hombres, pero a ninguno he amado más que a ti.

Oh, he sido tardío y torpe;
debería haberme abierto camino hacia ti hace mucho,
de mis labios solo tú deberías haber salido, solo tú deberías haber sido mi canción.

Lo dejaré todo y vendré y haré himnos para ti;
nadie te ha comprendido, pero yo te comprendo;
nadie te ha hecho justicia, tú mismo no te has hecho justicia;
nadie ha encontrado en ti más que imperfección, yo soy el único que no encuentra esa imperfección;
nadie ha buscado más que subyugarte, yo soy el único que no consiente tu yugo;
Yo soy el único que no coloca sobre ti ni amo, ni dueño, ni mejor, ni Dios más allá del que aguarda en tu interior.

Los pintores han pintado siempre a las masas abigarradas en torno a un personaje
y un nimbo de luz dorada que emana de la cabeza de ese personaje.
Pero yo pinto miríadas de cabezas, y ninguna pinto sin su nimbo de luz dorada;
brota de mi mano, del cerebro de cada hombre y mujer, y fluye fulguroso hacia el infinito.

¡Qué grandezas y glorias podría cantar de ti!
Tú no sabes lo que eres, toda tu vida ha sido un dormitar sobre ti mismo,
la mayor parte de tu vida la has pasado como con los párpados cerrados.
Todo lo que has hecho no te ha rendido más que burlas
(tus ahorros, tus conocimientos, tus oraciones, ¿qué te han rendido sino burlas?)

Estas burlas no son tú.
Bajo ellas, en su interior, veo cómo acechas.
Te busco allí donde nadie te ha buscado.
El silencio, el despacho, el gesto indiferente, la noche, el día a día; si todo esto te esconde de los otros o de ti mismo, no te esconde de mí.
La cara afeitada, la mirada vacilante, la complexión débil; si esto ha entorpecido a los otros, no me entorpece a mí.
El descaro en el vestir, las costumbres viciosas, la embriaguez, la codicia, la muerte prematura; todo esto yo lo dejo a un lado.

No hay don en hombre o mujer que no se halle inscrito en ti;
no hay mayor virtud o belleza en hombre o mujer de la que hay en ti,
ni mayor coraje o entereza en los otros que en ti;
ningún placer aguarda a los otros que no te aguarde a ti.

En cuanto a mí, a nadie doy nada que no te dé en idéntica medida a ti;
no canto a la gloria de nadie, ni siquiera a la de Dios, antes que a la tuya.

¡Quienquiera que seas: reivindícate sin temor!
Los espectáculos de Oriente y Occidente son insulsos comparados contigo.
Las inmensas praderas, los ríos interminables: tú eres inmenso e interminable como ellos;
la furia de los elementos, las tormentas, las fuerzas de la Naturaleza, la angustia ante la destrucción inminente, tú las señoreas a todas;
señoreas con pleno derecho sobre la Naturaleza, los elementos, el dolor, la pasión, la destrucción.

Los grilletes caen de tus tobillos, sientes una suficiencia inquebrantable,
joven o viejo, hombre o mujer, tosco, vulgar, rechazado por el resto,
lo que eres se propaga.
A través del nacimiento, la vida, la muerte, el entierro… se proveen los medios; nada se escatima.
A través de la ira, la pérdida, la ambición, la ignorancia, el hastío… lo que eres se abre camino.

Walter “Walt” Whitman (May 31, 1819 – March 26, 1892) was an American poet, essayist and journalist. A humanist, he was a part of the transition between transcendentalism and realism, incorporating both views in his works. Whitman is among the most influential poets in the American canon, often called the father of free verse. His work was very controversial in its time, particularly his poetry collection Leaves of Grass, which was described as obscene for its overt sexuality. (From “Walt Whitman” at Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia)

Ana Kun was born in one very cold winter, sometime around noon. She waited quietly until she could go to the Fine Arts High School in the 5th grade, determined to be a graphic artist as soon as possible. Now, 20 years later, she has a BA in Graphics (Faculty of Arts and Design), a MA in Creative Writing (Faculty of Letters and Theology) and a magical 7 years experience in graphic design. Ana feels ready to see her dream come true: to doodle super colorful drawings and mega intricate texts, if possible on the same paper. Visit anakun.com

Joaquín Lameiro Tenreiro nació en A Coruña en 1982. Es licenciado en Filología Hispánica por la Universidade da Coruña, en donde actualmente realiza su tesis doctoral y otros trabajos de investigación sobre las Vanguardias Históricas y la literatura hispanoamericana. Ha publicado poesía y relato breve en varias revistas y fanzines, en gallego y en español.

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