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#octavio paz
Octavio Paz, from The Dialectic of Solitude; The Labyrinth of Solitude & Other Writings (tr. by Lysander Kemp), 1950
What we ask of love (which, being desire, is a hunger for communion, a will to fall and to die as well as to be reborn) is that it give us a bit of true life, of true death. We do not ask it for happiness or repose, but simply for an instant of that full life in which opposites vanish, in which life and death, time and eternity are united.
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image

“La muerte es la palabra que jamás se pronuncia porque quema los labios. El mexicano, en cambio, la frecuenta, la burla, la acaricia, duerme con ella, la festeja, es uno de sus juguetes favoritos y su amor más permanente”.


- Octavio Paz


Arte: Griss Romero.

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I find myself in the middle of an eye,

watching myself in its blank stare.

The moment scatters. Motionless,

I stay and go: I am a pause.

— Between Going and Coming, a poem by Octavio Paz

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Si tú eres la yegua de ámbar
yo soy el camino de sangre
Si tú eres la primer nevada
yo soy el que enciende el brasero del alba
Si tú eres la torre de la noche
yo soy el clavo ardiendo en tu frente
Si tú eres la marea matutina
yo soy el grito del primer pájaro
Si tú eres la cesta de naranjas
yo soy el cuchillo de sol
Si tú eres el altar de piedra
yo soy la mano sacrílega
Si tú eres la tierra acostada
yo soy la caña verde
Si tú eres el salto del viento
yo soy el fuego enterrado
Si tú eres la boca del agua
yo soy la boca del musgo
Si tú eres el bosque de las nubes
yo soy el hacha que las parte
Si tú eres la ciudad profanada
yo soy la lluvia de consagración
Si tú eres la montaña amarilla
yo soy los brazos rojos del liquen
Si tú eres el sol que se levanta
yo soy el camino de sangre

-

If you are the amber mare
I am the road of blood
If you are the first snow
I am he who lights the hearth of dawn
If you are the tower of night
I am the spike burning in your mind
If you are the morning tide
I am the first bird’s cry
If you are the basket of oranges
I am the knife of the sun
If you are the stone altar
I am the sacrilegious hand
If you are the sleeping land
I am the green cane
If you are the wind’s leap
I am the buried fire
If you are the water’s mouth
I am the mouth of moss
If you are the forest of the clouds
I am the axe that parts it
If you are the profaned city
I am the rain of consecration
If you are the yellow mountain
I am the red arms of lichen
If you are the rising sun
I am the road of blood

—-

Movimiento

Octavio Paz  1914-1998

—-

Graphic - Ricardo Martínez  1918–2009

mvaljean525
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Y las sombras se abrieron otra vez
y mostraron su cuerpo:
tu pelo, otoño espeso, caída de agua solar,
tu boca y la blanca disciplina
de tus dientes caníbales,
prisioneros en llamas,
tu piel de pan apenas dorado
y tus ojos de azúcar quemada,
sitios en donde el tiempo no transcurre,
valles que sólo mis labios conocen,
desfiladero de la una que asciende
a tu garganta entre tus senos,
cascada petrificada de la nuca,
alta meseta de tu vientre,
playa sin fin de tu costado.

Tus ojos son los ojos fijos del tigre
y un minutos después
son los ojos húmedos del perro.
Siempre hay abejas en tu pelo.
Tu espalda fluye tranquila bajo mis ojos
como las espalda del río a la luz del incendio.

Octavio Paz

adelina-rs
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“Oh life to live, life already lived,

time that comes back in a swell of sea,

time that recedes without turning its head,

the past is not past, it is still passing by,

flowing silently into the next vanishing moment.”

                                    —-Octavio Paz

cutiewithawakenedheart
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Octavio Paz, from A Draft of Shadows (tr. by Eliot Weinberger)
Like drizzle on embers,
footsteps within me step
toward places that turn to air.
Names: they vanish
in a pause between two words.
The sun walks through the rubble
of what I’m saying;
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Octavio Paz, from A Draft of Shadows (tr. by Eliot Weinberger)
Heard by the soul, footsteps
in the mind more than shadows,
shadows of thought more than footsteps
through the path of echoes
that memory invents and erases:
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IRMANDADE

Sou homem: duro pouco

e é enorme a noite.

Mas olho para cima:

as estrelas escrevem.

Sem entender compreendo:

Também sou escritura

e neste mesmo instante

alguém me soletra.


~ Octavio Paz

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Octavio Paz, from Sunstone (tr. by Eliot Weinberger)
the rotten masks that divide one man
from another, one man from himself,
they crumble
for one enormous moment and we glimpse
the unity that we lost, the desolation
of being man, and all its glories,
sharing bread and sun and death,
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