Charles Bukowski
A pie de página, Bukowski, leyendo este conmovedor poema.
THE GENIUS OF THE CROWD
there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day
and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace
those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love
beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average
but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect
like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock
their finest art
Charles Bukowski
EL GENIO DE LA MULTITUD.
hay suficiente traición, odio, violencia absurdo en el ser humano
corriente como para abastecer cualquier ejército o cualquier día
y los mejores en el asesinato son aquellos que predican en su contra
y los mejores en el odio son aquellos que predican amor
y los mejores en la guerra son aquellos que predican la paz
aquellos que predican sobre dios, necesitan un dios
aquellos que predican la paz no tienen paz
aquellos que predican la paz no tienen amor
cuidado con los predicadores
cuidado con los que saben
cuidado con aquellos que siempre están leyendo libros
cuidado con aquellos que detestan la pobreza
o que están orgullosos de ella
cuidado con aquellos rápidos para alabar
pues necesitan una alabanza a cambio
cuidado con aquellos rápidos para censurar
tienen miedo de lo que no conocen
cuidado con aquellos que necesitan constantemente las multitudes
ellos no son nada solos
cuidado con el hombre corriente, con la mujer corriente
cuidado con su amor, su amor es corriente
busca lo corriente
pero es un genio en su odio
hay suficiente genio en su odio como para matarte
como para matar a cualquiera
al no querer la soledad
al no entender la soledad
intentarán destruir cualquier cosa
que difiera de lo de ellos
al no ser capaces de crear arte
no entenderán el arte
considerarán su fracaso como creadores
sólo como un fracaso del mundo
al no ser capaces de amar plenamente
creerán que tu amor es incompleto
y entonces te odiarán
y su odio será perfecto
como un diamante resplandeciente
como una navaja
como una montaña
como un tigre
como la cicuta
su mejor arte
.
Charles Bukowski
- música, color, videncia: el secuestro (raptus) de la poesía. Don McLean, tributo a Vincent Van Gogh - más abajo se incluye la hermosa letra de esta canción...
Starry starry night
Paint your palette blue and grey
Look out on a summer's day
with eyes that know the darkness in my soul
Shadows on the hills
Sketch the trees and the daffodils
Catch the breeze and the winter chills
in colors on the snowy linen land
Now I understand
what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for your sanity
How you tried to set them free
They would not listen they did not know how
Perhaps they'll listen now
Starry starry night
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze
Swirling clouds in violet haze reflect in
Vincent's eyes of china blue
Colors changing hue
Morning fields of amber grain
Weathered faces lined in pain
are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand
And now I understand
what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for your sanity
How you tried to set them free
They would not listen they did not know how
Perhaps they'll listen now
For they could not love you
Still your love was true
And when no hope was left in sight on that
starry starry night
You took your life as lovers often do
But I could have told you - Vincent
this world was never meant for one
as beautiful as you
Starry starry night
Portraits hung in empty halls
Frameless heads on nameless walls
with eyes that watch the world and can't forget
Like the stranger that you've met
The ragged men in ragged clothes
The silver thorn of bloddy rose
lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow
And now I think I know
what you tried to say to me
How you suffered for your sanity
How you tried to set them free
They would not listen
they're not listening still
Perhaps they never will....