Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta oulipo. Mostrar todas las entradas
Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta oulipo. Mostrar todas las entradas

lunes, 17 de marzo de 2025

rapsòdia bohèmia en clau de ditiramb

 rapsòdia bohèmia en clau de ditiramb

Per Sandra Dermark – sobre personatges de Victor Hugo,

amb fil musical de Queen

I.

És açò un somni, o és la realitat?

Obre els teus ulls i mira cap a amunt…

Sens escapar, en un racó atrapat…

Del teu despit impossible és fer fum:

calen molts ous i molt d’ibuprofen,

i tu no vols ni sentir ma ferum…

Jo no en tinc d’ous ni en tinc d’ibuprofen;

de simpatia aliena res no me’n cal,

no importa ni la direcció del vent

per a un bohemi fet d’aquest tergal,

que, tan prompte com toca el seté cel,

cau en la desesperació abismal…

*****************************

II.

Vull contar, sense plaer,

en torn al jove Grantaire.

És nat al port de Marsella,

s’acostuma a la botella

i també apren a lluitar.

Un dia mata un català:

d’un colp de peu massa fort

el xiquet li ha donat mort.

De sa mare s’acomiada

i els estalvis li demana:

“Mare, me’n vaig a París,

és urgent i molt precís.

Faré carrera de Dret;

un nou home m’haré fet”.

Una nova vida enceta,

no és precisament d’asceta.

Falta a classes cada dia,

tant en son trellat confia.

I viu, a la capital,

vida com un carnaval.

No creu en res, però heus ací

que descobre el seu destí…

El company més atractiu

desperta en ell desig viu,

però els seus ulls color de glaç

rebutgen besos i jaç

(Mais oui, donc, voilà Enjolras!).

Quant més el company s’aparta,

més vol ell que un llamp el parta.

Per la columna un calfred

li descen: dolor, destret…

I l’ardenta set l’espenta

a ofegar-se en absenta.

“Adéu siau, amant cruel,

de rínxols d’or i ulls de gel:

vaig a una altra realitat,

a enfrontar la veritat.

Tot i que no vull morir,

desitjo mai existir…”

***************************

III.

EL JO.

Veig una petita silueta – un efeb – un donzell…

L’ALLÒ

Chi all’esca ha morso

del ditirambo

spavaldo e strambo,

voglio veder lui

danzare il fandango

e tutto gira intorno alla stanza…

EL JO.

Llamps – trons – gota freda – trombes d’aigua – ensurt que glaça la sang

COR DE LES FADES VERDES.

Come on – you boy-child

you winner – and loser

come on you stranger – you legend – you martyr – and…

L’ALLÒ (director del COR DE LES FADES VERDES).

And SHINE!!

EL JO.

Un bohemi fet d’aquest tergal

no té qui l’estime, tots li volen mal…

COR DELS ESPERITS DE SUPERACIÓ.

Només és un bohemi miserable

d’ascendents marsellesos marginals.

Tot i que s’ha escollit en estes Falles

l’únic ninot que va a ser indultat,

deixem viure a aquest xic sa curta vida

i morir lliure d’aquest fred parany…

****************************

IV.

EL JO.

U, tan prompte com toca el seté cel,

cau en la desesperació abismal…

Digueu-me, m’anireu a alliberar?

L’ALLÒ, COR DE LES FADES VERDES.

Lliure, tu? En absolut, per descomptat!

COR DELS ESPERITS DE SUPERACIÓ.

Tingueu pietat!

L’ALLÒ, COR DE LES FADES VERDES.

Lliure, ell? En absolut, per descomptat!

COR DELS ESPERITS DE SUPERACIÓ.

Tingueu pietat!

L’ALLÒ, COR DE LES FADES VERDES.

Lliure, ell? En absolut, per descomptat!

EL JO.

Tingueu pietat!

L’ALLÒ, COR DE LES FADES VERDES.

Lliure, tu? En absolut, per descomptat!

EL JO.

Tingueu pietat!

L’ALLÒ, COR DE LES FADES VERDES.

Lliure, tu? En absolut, per descomptat!

EL JO.

Tingueu pietat! Tingueu pietat, tingueu pietat…!

L’ALLÒ, COR DE LES FADES VERDES.

NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!

EL JO.

Si us plau, si’s plau, sisplau, tingueu pietat!

L’ALLÒ, COR DE LES FADES VERDES.

Per mi, l’infern escons buits ha deixat…

ha deixat… ha deixat… 

********************************

V.

aixina que et creus que

el meu cos és massa cairut

la meua ferum a aiguardent

i a suor de lluites al carrer

els teus ulls blaus disparen dards de glaç

els meus foscos ulls són les dianes

sempre encertes enmig del punt negre

aixina que et creus que,

tu, aroma de lavanda i roses

suau pell blanca i vetejada de venes

com el marbre de Carrara

o el sucre de llustre,

que el que dius és ironia, una figura retòrica

i m’estimes de veritat,

res de compassió, sinó vertader amor

per primera vegada

i per darrera vegada

per a nosaltres dos…

i em deixes morir en el meu estupor

mentre estic dormint

i la fuselleria artilleria armes blanques ens envolten

em deixes morir a traïció amb els meus vicis?

No.

Açò mai no m’ho pots fer, amor.

Ets un cabdill de veritat,

i mai gosaries ni tan sols pensar-ho.

En torn al meu jo el silenci, sol amb els meus pensaments

inquietantment sinistre

espero que tu seguisques amb vida

mentre recullo forces per a eixir d’ací…

**************************

VI.

mentre tot calla

despertar, de nou conscient:

EL LÍDER SÓC JO!!

*************************

VII.

Grantaire s’était levé.

L’immense lueur de tout le combat qu’il avait manqué, et dont il n’avait pas été, apparut dans le regard éclatant de l’ivrogne transfiguré.

Il répéta : Vive la République ! traversa la salle d’un pas ferme, et alla se placer devant les fusils debout près d’Enjolras.

— Faites-en deux d’un coup, dit-il.

Et, se tournant vers Enjolras avec douceur, il lui dit :

— Permets-tu ?

Enjolras lui serra la main en souriant.

Ce sourire n’était pas achevé que la détonation éclata.

Enjolras, traversé de huit coups de feu, resta adossé au mur comme si les balles l’y eussent cloué. Seulement il pencha la tête.

Grantaire, foudroyé, s’abattit à ses pieds.

KOНEЦ.

domingo, 14 de mayo de 2017

WANDERING WITH A BAG CALLED MATILDA ON MY BACK

This is a parody of Waltzing Matilda in which everything is kind of... expanded. The lyrics are obviously unsingable. But still the style exercise is exhilarating!

Once, an itinerant worker in a positive emotional state camped by a body of stagnant freshwater
under the shade of a Eucalyptus coolabah,
and he sang as he watched and waited until his teawater reached the temperature of 100 ºC:
"You'll come wandering in this bag called Matilda with me."

WANDERING WITH A BAG CALLED MATILDA ON MY BACK,
WANDERING WITH A BAG CALLED MATILDA ON MY BACK,
You'll come wandering in this bag called Matilda with me...
And he sang as he watched and waited until his teawater reached the temperature of 100 ºC:
"You'll come wandering in this bag called Matilda with me."

Down came a young Ovis aries orientalis to drink at the stagnant freshwater,
up jumped the itinerant worker and seized it with elation;
and he sang as he stuffed that Ovis aries orientalis inside his knapsack:
"You'll come wandering in this bag called Matilda with me."

WANDERING WITH A BAG CALLED MATILDA ON MY BACK,
WANDERING WITH A BAG CALLED MATILDA ON MY BACK,
You'll come wandering in this bag called Matilda with me...
and he sang as he stuffed that Ovis aries orientalis inside his knapsack:
"You'll come wandering in this bag called Matilda with me."

Up rode the wealthy landowner, mounted upon the back of his purebred Equus ferus caballus;
down came the military personnel... one, two, three!
"Where's that lively young Ovis aries orientalis you've got inside your knapsack?
You'll come wandering in this bag called Matilda with me."

WANDERING WITH A BAG CALLED MATILDA ON MY BACK,
WANDERING WITH A BAG CALLED MATILDA ON MY BACK,
You'll come wandering in this bag called Matilda with me...
"Where's that lively young Ovis aries orientalis you've got inside your knapsack?
You'll come wandering in this bag called Matilda with me."

Up jumped the itinerant worker and sprang into the stagnant freshwater:
"You shall never seize me while I'm alive!" said he...
And the spirit of him, after he drowned, can be heard as one passes by that stagnant freshwater:
"You'll come wandering in this bag called Matilda with me."

WANDERING WITH A BAG CALLED MATILDA ON MY BACK,
WANDERING WITH A BAG CALLED MATILDA ON MY BACK,
You'll come wandering in this bag called Matilda with me...
And the spirit of him, after he drowned, can be heard as one passes by that stagnant freshwater:
"You'll come wandering in this bag called Matilda with me."




viernes, 26 de junio de 2015

A LITTLE POTENTIAL LITERATURE

May in Ayemenem is a hot, brooding month. The days are long and humid. 

November in Weissenfels is a cold, brooding month. The days are short and stormy.

One eggman, 
two eggmen, 
fat walrus, 
coo coo cachoo.

In this corner...
in this corner...

AMANAP LANAC A NALP A NAM A
(Try to read it backwards and/or change the spaces)

Wallenstein's Monster
Young Wallenstein
Wallenstein's Bride

A word which rhymes with duck and begins with an F?
Firetruck.
Foretruck.

The drain of brains takes place mainly in Spain.

BRAINSTORM EXERCISE

ere
quaff
rout (or, put to rout)
cahoots
writhe (like a trampled snake)
peruse
fens
partisan
roquelaure
asunder
dithyramb
enthrall
raconteur (raconteuse)
outré
maelstrom
trifle
platitude
ruse (ruse de guerre)
in sooth
ennui
usurp
pique
dirge
fête
accoutrements

Ere I finish this style exercise, you readers will find out that I am a person of those who quaff life in long draughts, putting to rout all those thoughts unpleasant that are in cahoots with my darkest subconscious, where they writhe like trampled snakes. Hence, I have sought to peruse more than one interesting literary oeuvre, steering clear of the swampy fens of the mainstream, partisan of high culture and forgotten poetry as I am. Readers may picture me, thus, in a tricorn and roquelaure, torn asunder from the 'verse which is my home and birthplace, now chanting a dithyramb to enthrall potential fellow readers, a raconteuse of unpredictable events, which may now seem pedestrian made exceedingly outré, now a maelstrom that absorbs every single lapalissade and platitude in existence, now rather a trifle, and now a ruse, in sooth, crafted with such skill that you, dear readers, have surely fallen for it. Such is the extent of my war on ennui, which relentlessly attempts to usurp my consciousness, and thus, this is one of the events that pique me the most, even more than mezzo women singing dirges. Therefore, I invite you to a fête of composing style exercises, taking for guidelines all the accoutrements of littérature potentielle.

Ere the request for that long-expected reinstatement came, Albrecht von Wallenstein had foreseen that there was no other outcome. The Elector of Saxony could quaff his tankards of dark ale in peace once more, ever since the Catholic League had been put to rout. Slightly against their will, both the Northern Electors were now in cahoots with the King of Sweden. In more recent times, half a year later, a racked Count of Tilly had writhed feverishly on his bed for two weeks, and now he was still. The upstart was perusing those so expected tidings, relishing them as if he were sinking into some miry fens, thinking of the fact that Pappenheim and all his other former partisans would return to his side after his rival's demise. Checking his scarlet roquelaure for imperfections of any kind, quietly chanting an ironic dithyramb to himself (like any raconteur of eerie events), still dressed in the usual outré fashion which made anyone recognize the Duke of Friedland from vast distances, Wallenstein was completely absorbed as if by a maelstrom. The Kaiser's request was by no means a trifle, and Albrecht's own convoluted ruse to bring Jean t'Serclaes to the ground had, in sooth, succeeded to such a degree that its own author had not even expected. The ages of ennui had finally come to an expected end, for the seventy-something Walloon who had usurped Wallenstein's position had left the stage in one of the most painful ways... which would never pique the Duke of Friedland. "Let them sing their Dies irae and De profundis and their other tiresome Catholic dirges!" This was a day for the shire of Friedland, the foremost reach in the Kingdom of Bohemia, to revel at least with a fête, before the host that was to be under his command would lead Albrecht to discard his research and charts and, once more, get accustomed to all the cold and hard, lethal accoutrements of warfare.