The Raven


   Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, 
   While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, 
  As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 
"'Tis some visitor." I muttered, "Tapping at my chamber door- 
                     Only this and nothing more." 
										 
   Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, 
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. 
   Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow 
   from my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore. 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore, 
                    Nameless here forevermore. 
	
  And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 
Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; 
  So that now, to the beating of my heart, I stood repeating 
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, 
  Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;- 
                      This it is, and nothing more." 
	
  Presently, my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; 
  But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, 
  And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door- 
That I scarce was sure I heard you" here I opened wide the door; 
                     Darkness there, and nothing more. 
  
  Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; 
  But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, 
  And the only word there spoken was the whispered word "Lenore!" 
This I whispered, and an echo muttered back the word, "Lenore! - 
                    Merely this, and nothing more. 
  
  Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, 
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. 
  "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice: 
  Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore- 
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;- 
                      'Tis the wind and nothing more." 
  
  Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, 
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore; 
  Not the least obeisance made he; not a moment stooped or stayed he' 
  But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door- 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door- 
                       Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 
  
  Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, 
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore. 
  "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou, I said, "art sure no craven, 
  Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore- 
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore!" 
                      Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 
  
   Which I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly 
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; 
  For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 
  Ever yet has been blest with seeing bird above his chamber door- 
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, 
    With such a name as "Nevermore." 
  
  But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in that one word did outpour. 
  Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered- 
  'Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before- 
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." 
                       Then the bird said, "Nevermore." 
  Startled by the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, 
  Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster 
  Followed fast and followed faster 'till the songs one burden bore- 
'Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore 
                   Of 'Never- nevermore.'" 
  But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, 
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust, and door; 
  Then upon the velvet shrinking, I betook myself to linking 
  Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore- 
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore 
                   Meant in croaking, "Nevermore." 
  
   This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; 
  This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 
  On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, 
But whose violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er, 
                      She shall press, ah, nevermore! 
  
  Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer 
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. 
  "Wretch," I cried, "Thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee 
  Respite, respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore! 
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!" 
                     Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 
  
  "Prophet!" said I, "Thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or devil!- 
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, 
  Desolate yet all undaunted, on this dessert land enchanted- 
  On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore- 
Is there- is there a balm in Gilead- tell me- tell me, I implore!" 
                  Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 
  
  "Prophet!" said I, "Thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or devil!- 
By that heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore- 
  Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within in the distant Aidenn, 
  It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore- 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." 
                  Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 
  
  "Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting- 
"Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore! 
  Leave no black plume as a token of the lie thy soul hath spoken! 
  Leave my loneliness unbroken!- Quit the bust above my door! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!" 
                     Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 
  
  And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; 
  And his eye hath all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, 
  And the lamplight gloating o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor 
                      Shall be lifted- nevermore!
											
											
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											POEMAS DE MARIO BENEDITTI
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TACTICA Y ESTRATEGIA

Mi tctica es 
           mirarte 
aprender como sos 
quererte como sos 
 
mi tctica es 
           hablarte 
y escucharte 
construir con palabras 
un puente indestructible 
 
mi tctica es 
quedarme en tu recuerdo 
no sT c=mo   ni sT 
con quT pretexto 
pero quedarme en vos 
 
mi tctica es 
            ser franco 
y saber que sos franca 
y que no nos vendamos 
simulacros 
para que entre los dos 
no haya tel=n 
            ni abismos 
 
mi estrategia es 
en cambio 
ms profunda y ms 
             simple 
 
mi estrategia es 
que un dfa cualquiera 
no sT c=mo   ni sT 
con quT pretexto 
por fin   me necesites.

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  HAGAMOS UN TRATO
 
Cuando sientas tu herida sangrar  
cuando sientas tu voz sollozar  
cuenta conmigo  
 
(de una canci=n de CARLOS PUEBLA)  
 
Compaera  
usted sabe  
puede contar  
conmigo  
no hasta dos  
o hasta diez  
sino contar  
conmigo  
 
si alguna vez  
advierte  
que la miro a los ojos  
y una veta de amor  
reconoce en los mfos  
no alerte sus fusiles  
ni piense quT delirio  
a pesar de la veta  
o tal vez porque existe  
usted puede contar  
conmigo  
 
si otras veces  
me encuentra  
hurao sin motivo  
no piense quT flojera  
igual puede contar  
conmigo  
 
pero hagamos un trato  
yo quisiera contar  
con usted  
                       es tan lindo  
saber que usted existe  
uno se siente vivo  
y cuando digo esto  
quiero decir contar  
aunque sea hasta dos  
aunque sea hasta cinco  
no ya para que acuda  
presurosa en mi auxilio  
sino para saber  
a ciencia cierta  
que usted sabe que puede  
contar conmigo.

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EL AMOR ES UN CENTRO

Una esperanza un huerto un paramo 
una migaja entre dos hambres 
el amor es campo minado 
un jubileo de la sangre 
 
caliz y musgo / cruz y sesamo 
pobre bisagra entre voraces 
el amor es un sueno abierto 
un centro con pocas filiales 
 
un todo al borde de la nada 
fogata que sera ceniza 
el amor es una palabra 
un pedacito de utopia 
 
es todo eso y mucho menos 
y mucho mas / es una isla 
una borrasca / un lago quieto 
sintetizando yo diria 
 
que el amor es una alcachofa 
que va perdiendo sus enigmas 
hasta que queda una zozobra 
una esperanza un fantasmita 
