sábado, 2 de junio de 2007

Igor Mitoraj y Edgar Allan Poe

Hoy he vuelto a pasar por delante de la exposición de Mitoraj de la que ayer hablaba. No se agota la melancolía que me crece en el alma al pasear entre las estatuas de bronce. Al contemplarlas, me continúa entrando un estremecimiento silencioso y profundo. Y también una sensación como de desamparo, como de soledad, como de orfandad. Quizás sea por esto último que al contemplarlas me entran unas ganas muy grandes de volver a Roma. Quizás sea para volver a estar entre lo antiguo. Quizás para volver a estar con lo auténtico. Quizás, en definitiva, para volver a casa.

Mientras volvía a casa, a la de Barcelona, claro, y aturdido por el recuerdo de las estatuas mezclado con el de Roma, me he acordado de un poema de Edgar Allan Poe. Se titula The Coliseum y lo escribió en 1833. Lo copio a continuación.


Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation left to Time
By buried centuries of pomp and power!
At length- at length- after so many daysOf weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
I kneel, an altered and an humble man,Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!

Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
I feel ye now- I feel ye in your strength-
O spells more sure than e'er Judaean king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!

Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,
The swift and silent lizard of the stones!

But stay! these walls- these ivy-clad arcades-
These moldering plinths- these sad and blackened shafts-
These vague entablatures- this crumbling frieze-
These shattered cornices- this wreck- this ruin-
These stones- alas! these grey stones- are they all-
All of the famed, and the colossal left
By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?

"Not all"- the Echoes answer me- "not all!
Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever
From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
As melody from Memnon to the Sun.
We rule the hearts of mightiest men- we rule
With a despotic sway all giant minds.
We are not impotent- we pallid stones.
Not all our power is gone- not all our fame-
Not all the magic of our high renown-
Not all the wonder that encircles us-
Not all the mysteries that in us lie-
Not all the memories that hang upon
And cling around about us as a garment,
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."

1 comentario:

el forastero dijo...

Como me voy a sentir agraviado, todo lo contrario, enorgullecido. tu blog me parece sumamente interesante y con temas que como bien dices también me interesan a mi. Espero estemos visitándonos.