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sábado, 2 de febrero de 2013


Gwendolyn B. Bennett
Gwendolyn B. Bennett (Nació en Giddings, Texas el 8 julio 1902 a 30 mayo 1981). Fue una poeta afro-americana 



1923 — "Heritage" Opportunity (Dec)
1923 — "Nocturne" Crisis (Nov)
1924 — "To Usward" Crisis (May) and Opportunity (May)
1924 — "Wind" Opportunity (Nov)
1925 — "On a Birthday" Opportunity (Sept)
1925 — "Pugation" Opportunity (Feb)
1926 — "Song" Palms (Oct)
1926 — "Street Lamps in Early Spring" Opportunity (May)
1926 — "Lines Written At the Grave of Alexandre Dumas" Opportunity (July)
1926 — "Moon Tonight" Gypsy (Oct)
1926 — "Hatred" Opportunity (June)
1926 — "Dear Things" Palms (Oct)
1926 — "Dirge" Palms (Oct)
1934 — "Epitaph" Opportunity (Mar)


Te odiaré
como un dardo de acero cantarín
que rasga el aire tranquilo
del manto de la noche.
O con gesto solemne,
igual que los sobrios pinos
que se yerguen
hacia el cielo.
Odiarte será un juego
para solaz de manos frías
y ágiles dedos.
Tu corazón anhelará
el solitario esplendor
del pino;
mientras las llamas ardientes
de mis ojos
te herirán como raudas flechas.
El recuerdo posará sus manos
sobre tu pecho,
y comprenderás entonces
mi odio

Traducción de Raquel Vázquez Ramil

To a Dark Girl

(A una niña morena)

Te amo por tu tez morena, 
Y la oscuridad redondeada de tu pechos, 
Te amo por la tristeza rota en tu voz 
Y las sombras donde tus parpados caprichosos reposan.

Algo de viejas reinas olvidadas 
Acecha en el ligero abandono de tu caminata 
Y algo de la esclava encadenada 
Solloza en el ritmo de tu conversación.

Oh, pequeña niña morena, nacida como compañia de la tristeza  
Quedate todo lo que tienes de realeza, 
Olvidandote que una vez fuiste esclava, 
Y deja que tus labios llenos se rian del Destino!


I am weaving a song of waters,
Shaken from firm, brown limbs,
Or heads thrown back in irreverent mirth.
My song has the ush sweetness
Of moist, dark lips
Where hymns keep company
With old forgotten banjo songs.
Abandon tells you
That I sing the heart of race
While sadness whispers
That I am the cry of a soul. . . .

A-shoutin' in de ole camp-meeting-place,
A-strummin' o' de ole banjo.
Singin' in de moonlight,
Sobbin' in de dark.
Singin', sobbin', strummin' slow . . .
Singin' slow, sobbin' low.
Strummin', strummin', strummin' slow . . .
Words are bright bugles
That make the shining for my song,
And mothers hold down babies
To dark, warm breasts
To make my singing sad.

A dancing girl with swaying hips
Sets mad the queen in the harlot's eye.
        Praying slave
        Jazz-band after
        Breaking heart
        To the time of laughter . . .
Clinking chains and minstrelsy
Are wedged fast with melody.
        A praying slave
        With a jazz-band after . . . 
        Singin' slow, sobbin' low.
Sun-baked lips will kiss the earth.
Throats of bronze will burst with mirth.
        Sing a little faster,
        Sing a little faster,


Lines Written at the Grave of Alexandre Dumas

Cemeteries are places for departed souls
And bones interred,
Or hearts with shattered loves.
A woman with lips made warm for laughter
Would find grey stones and roving spirits
Too chill for living, moving pulses . . .
And thou, great spirit, wouldst shiver in thy granite shroud
Should idle mirth or empty talk
Disturb thy tranquil sleeping.

A cemetery is a place for shattered loves
And broken hearts . . .
Bowed before the crystal chalice of thy soul,
I find the multi-colored fragrance of thy mind
Has lost itself in Death's transparency.
Oh, stir the lucid waters of thy sleep
And coin for me a tale
Of happy loves and gems and joyous limbs
And hearts where love is sweet!

A cemetery is a place for broken hearts
And silent thought . . .
And silence never moves,
Nor speaks nor sings.



I shall hate you
Like a dart of singing steel
Shot through still air
At even-tide,
Or solemnly
As pines are sober
When they stand etched
Against the sky.
Hating you shall be a game
Played with cool hands
And slim fingers.
Your heart will yearn
For the lonely splendor
Of the pine tree
While rekindled fires
In my eyes
Shall wound you like swift arrows.
Memory will lay its hands
Upon your breast
And you will understand
My hatred.



I shall make a song like you hair . . .
Gold-woven with shadows green-tinged,
And I shall play with my song
As my fingers might play with your hair.
Deep in my heart
I shall play with my song of you,
Gently. . . .
I shall laugh
At its sensitive lustre . . .
I shall wrap my song in a blanket,
Blue like your eyes are blue
With tiny shots of silver.
I shall wrap it caressingly,
Tenderly. . . . 
I shall sing a lullaby
To the song I have made
Of your hair and eyes . . .
And you will never know
That deep in my heart
I shelter a song for you
Secretly. . . .




He came in silvern armour, trimmed with black--
A lover come from legends long ago--
With silver spurs and silken plumes a-blow,
And flashing sword caught fast and buckled back
In a carven sheath of Tamarack.
He came with footsteps beautifully slow,
And spoke in voice meticulously low.
He came and Romance followed in his track . .

I did not ask his name--I thought him Love;
I did not care to see his hidden face.
All life seemed born in my intaken breath;
All thought seemed flown like some forgotten dove.
He bent to kiss and raised his visor's lace . . .
All eager-lipped I kissed the mouth of Death.


Some things are very dear to me--
Such things as flowers bathed by rain
Or patterns traced upon the sea
Or crocuses where snow has lain . . .
The iridescence of a gem,
The moon's cool opalescent light,
Azaleas and the scent of them,
And honeysuckles in the night.
And many sounds are also dear--
Like winds that sing among the trees
Or crickets calling from the weir
Or Negroes humming melodies.
But dearer far than all surmise
Are sudden tear-drops in your eyes


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