Pensaba, por parecerme obvio, no tratar de defender la entrega del premio nobel de literatura a un poeta. Me parecía inverosímil que alguien se rasgara las vestiduras al conocer al premiado de este año. Lo cierto es que lo inverosímil ha sido escuchar y leer la sarta de sandeces que muchos han dicho, et tu quoque Varguitas fili mi !
¿Por qué se creen dueños de las palabras? ¿Por qué si las palabras se cantan ya no sirven?
Me resisto a argumentar lo evidente. No quiero. Eso es lo que buscan. No hay que satisfacer su deseo. A palabras necias oídos sordos.
Otra cosa es que lo escrito, y luego cantado, por Bob Dylan guste o no guste. A eso no tengo nada que decir. A mí me parece asombroso. ¿A ti no?
A mi tampoco me gusta José Echegaray y no me ha pasado nada.
Sin ánimo de ofender ni polemizar, os presento al próximo premio nobel:
Operator, number, please. It’s been so many years, will she remember my old voice while I fight the tears? Hello, hello there, is this Martha? This is old Tom Frost, and I am calling long distance, don’t worry ‘bout the cost. ‘Cause it’s been forty years or more. Now Martha, please, recall, meet me out for coffee where we’ll talk about it all.
Those were the days of roses, poetry and prose and, Martha, all I had was you and all you had was me. There was no tomorrows, we’d packed away our sorrows and we saved them for a rainy day.
I feel so much older now, and you’re much older too. How’s your husband? And how’s the kids? You know that I got married too? Lucky that you found someone to make you feel secure, ‘Cause we were all so young and foolish, now we are mature.
Those were the days of roses, poetry and prose and, Martha, all I had was you and all you had was me. There was no tomorrows, we’d packed away our sorrows and we saved them for a rainy day. I was always so impulsive, I guess that I still am, and all that really mattered then was that I was a man. I guess that our being together was never meant to be. And Martha, Martha, I love you, can’t you see?
Those were the days of roses, poetry and prose and, Martha, all I had was you and all you had was me. There was no tomorrows, we’d packed away our sorrows and we saved them for a rainy day.
And I remember quiet evenings
trembling close to you
La poesía está también en la música. ¿Alguien lo duda? Que no me entere yo.
La poesía también en la voz. El que tenga oídos, que oiga.
¡Pura literatura!
jusamawi 