«Somos los hacedores de música»: Arthur O'Shaughnessy; poema y análisis.
Somos los hacedores de música, los soñadores de sueños (We Are The Music Makers, We Are The Dreamers of Dreams) —cuyo título original es: Oda (Ode)— es un poema metafísico del escritor inglés Arthur O'Shaughnessy (1844-1881), publicado en la antología de 1874: Música y luz de luna (Music and Moonlight).
Somos los hacedores de música, los soñadores de sueños, es sin dudas uno de los poemas de Arthur O'Shaughnessy más destacados; básicamente un canto de celebración a los artistas y al impacto que estos producen en el mundo que nos rodea.
Arthur O'Shaughnessy emplea una gran cantidad de eufemismos, como Hacedores de Música (Music Makers), Soñadores de Sueños (Dreamers of Dreams) y Agitadores e Impulsores (Movers and Shakers), para referirse a los artistas, probablemente músicos y poetas en particular. En esencia, el poema nos invita a reflexionar sobre la mayor ambición del arte: el cambio, a veces radical, otras paulatino, de la sociedad y sus miembros.
Somos los hacedores de música.
We Are The Music Makers, (1844-1881)
Somos los hacedores de música,
los soñadores de sueños,
Vagando por solitarias rompientes,
Sentados junto a desolados arroyos;
Perdedores y olvidados,
Sobre quienes la pálida luna resplandece;
Sin embargo, somos los agitadores e impulsores
del mundo, eternamente, así parece.
Con espléndidas e inmortales canciones
Construimos las ciudades más grandes,
Y de una fabulosa historia
Levantamos la gloria de un imperio;
Un hombre con un sueño
Puede ir y conquistar una corona,
Pero tres, con el acorde de una canción,
Pueden derribar un reino.
Nosotros en las eras yacemos,
En el pasado enterrado de la Tierra,
Construimos Nínive con susurros,
Babilonia con la risa;
Y ambas fueron derrocadas con profecías
sobre el nuevo valor del mundo;
Pues en cada era existe un sueño que agoniza,
O uno que está naciendo.
Un soplo de nuestra inspiración
Es la vida de cada generación;
Algo maravilloso de nuestro soñar
Inverosímil, aparentemente imposible:
El soldado, el rey, el campesino
Trabajan juntos, como uno solo,
Hasta que nuestro sueño se convierta en su presente,
Y su trabajo esté hecho.
Ellos no ven con asombro
La agradable casa que están construyendo,
No tienen presagios divinos
De la tierra de la cual se marchan;
Pero en el alma de un hombre esto se ha quebrado,
Una luz que no desaparece;
Y su brillo, una palabra que se ha dicho,
Enciende la llama en el corazón de otro hombre.
Y quizá por eso el hoy es emocionante,
Con los pasados finales del día ya realizados;
Y las multitudes están unidas
En la fe a la que se oponen sus padres,
Y desprecian el sueño del porvenir,
Provocando el avance al ir
por el mundo con su alegría o su tristeza,
Del sueño que ayer fue despreciado.
Pero nosotros, con sueños y canciones,
Seguimos incesantemente, sin tristeza.
La gloria aferrándose a nosotros,
De los gloriosos futuros que vemos,
Nuestras almas con música resuenan;
¡Hombres! Que siempre deba ser
Que habitemos, con nuestros sueños y canciones,
Un poco apartados de ustedes.
Porque lejos estamos con el amanecer
Y los soles que no ascienden todavía,
Y sin la mañana infinita
Tú, intrépidamente, nos oyes llorar.
Cómo, a pesar de tu desprecio humano,
Una vez más el futuro de Dios se acerca,
Y ya parte progresivamente la advertencia:
Los del pasado deben morir.
¡Salud! Clamamos en las esquinas,
Desde las orillas espléndidas, desconocidas;
Tráenos tu sol y tus veranos;
Y renueva nuestro mundo como antaño;
Nos enseñarás tus nuevas canciones,
Y cosas que nunca antes soñamos;
Sí, a pesar del soñador que dormita,
Y el cantante que no tiene cantos.
We are the music makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;—
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.
With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world's great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire's glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure
Can trample a kingdom down.
We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself in our mirth;
And o'erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.
A breath of our inspiration
Is the life of each generation;
A wondrous thing of our dreaming
Unearthly, impossible seeming—
The soldier, the king, and the peasant
Are working together in one,
Till our dream shall become their present,
And their work in the world be done.
They had no vision amazing
Of the goodly house they are raising;
They had no divine foreshowing
Of the land to which they are going:
But on one man's soul it hath broken,
A light that doth not depart;
And his look, or a word he hath spoken,
Wrought flame in another man's heart.
And therefore to-day is thrilling
With a past day's late fulfilling;
And the multitudes are enlisted
In the faith that their fathers resisted,
And, scorning the dream of to-morrow,
Are bringing to pass, as they may,
In the world, for its joy or its sorrow,
The dream that was scorned yesterday.
But we, with our dreaming and singing,
Ceaseless and sorrowless we!
The glory about us clinging
Of the glorious futures we see,
Our souls with high music ringing:
O men! it must ever be
That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing,
A little apart from ye.
For we are afar with the dawning
And the suns that are not yet high,
And out of the infinite morning
Intrepid you hear us cry—
How, spite of your human scorning,
Once more God's future draws nigh,
And already goes forth the warning
That ye of the past must die.
Great hail! we cry to the comers
From the dazzling unknown shore;
Bring us hither your sun and your summers;
And renew our world as of yore;
You shall teach us your song's new numbers,
And things that we dreamed not before:
Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers,
And a singer who sings no more.
Arthur O'Shaughnessy (1844-1881)
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;—
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.
With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world's great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire's glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure
Can trample a kingdom down.
We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself in our mirth;
And o'erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.
A breath of our inspiration
Is the life of each generation;
A wondrous thing of our dreaming
Unearthly, impossible seeming—
The soldier, the king, and the peasant
Are working together in one,
Till our dream shall become their present,
And their work in the world be done.
They had no vision amazing
Of the goodly house they are raising;
They had no divine foreshowing
Of the land to which they are going:
But on one man's soul it hath broken,
A light that doth not depart;
And his look, or a word he hath spoken,
Wrought flame in another man's heart.
And therefore to-day is thrilling
With a past day's late fulfilling;
And the multitudes are enlisted
In the faith that their fathers resisted,
And, scorning the dream of to-morrow,
Are bringing to pass, as they may,
In the world, for its joy or its sorrow,
The dream that was scorned yesterday.
But we, with our dreaming and singing,
Ceaseless and sorrowless we!
The glory about us clinging
Of the glorious futures we see,
Our souls with high music ringing:
O men! it must ever be
That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing,
A little apart from ye.
For we are afar with the dawning
And the suns that are not yet high,
And out of the infinite morning
Intrepid you hear us cry—
How, spite of your human scorning,
Once more God's future draws nigh,
And already goes forth the warning
That ye of the past must die.
Great hail! we cry to the comers
From the dazzling unknown shore;
Bring us hither your sun and your summers;
And renew our world as of yore;
You shall teach us your song's new numbers,
And things that we dreamed not before:
Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers,
And a singer who sings no more.
Arthur O'Shaughnessy (1844-1881)
Poemas góticos. I Poemas de Arthur O'Shaughnessy.
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El análisis, traducción al español y resumen del poema de Arthur O'Shaughnessy: Oda (Ode), fueron realizados por El Espejo Gótico. Para su reproducción escríbenos a elespejogotico@gmail.com
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