#38 Fri (7/29/22) - A Borges poetry generator

 

Three poems, by J.L.B., randomly selected by the FB Borges group today.

They are (in the order in which I encountered them):

Al hijo [To the son] (El otro, el mismo, 1964) (SP, print, 245) [A.R.]

A cierta sombra, 1940 [To a certain ghost, 1940] (Elogio de la sombra, 1969) (PC, 331)(PD, 52, N.T.dG.)

La trama [The plot] (El hacedor, 1960) (CF, 307, Hurley tr.) 

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I reordered the lines of the English translations a bit to make the breaks more coherent, then built a little random number generator to select some lines (about 10-15) and put them in a random order.  

Here are a few of the results:

DREAM AGAIN, DE QUINCEY

Dream again, De Quincey.
to arrive, blood and marrow, at this day in the future, in which I now beget you.
May you be saved, Shakespeare’s island, by your sons and daughters
Caesar stops defending himself, and cries out Et tu, Brute?
Weave nightmare nets as a bulwark for your island.
Nineteen centuries later, in the southern part of the province
Let those who hate you wander without end inside your labyrinths of time.
mitered and iron-crowned, with Bibles, swords, and oars, with anchors and bows.
Fate is partial to repetitions, variations, symmetries.
(these words must be heard, not read)

ETERNITY IS PRESENT

Eternity is present in the things of time, and its impatient happenings.
By sea and land and air the armies are converging.
do you hear me, unseen friend, through these fathomless things: the seas and death?
creator of unforgettable words—
and glorious ghosts. Here, from far-off shores,
Caesar stops defending himself, and cries out Et tu, Brute?
descend from Adam and the desert wastes of Cain and Abel,
in a dawn so ancient it has become mythology by now,
They are who we are, and you among us, you and the sons to come that you will beget.
In the black night, a time auspicious for the arts of rhetoric and magic, they loom over me,
To make his horror perfect, Caesar, hemmed about at the foot of a statue
the hostile continent prepares with arms the invasion of your England,

I TOO AM THOSE OTHERS

the hostile continent prepares with arms the invasion of your England,
descend from Adam and the desert wastes of Cain and Abel,
Weave nightmare nets as a bulwark for your island.
(these words must be heard, not read): Pero, ¡che!
By sea and land and air the armies are converging.
to arrive, blood and marrow, at this day in the future, in which I now beget you.
and glorious ghosts. Here, from far-off shores,
The latest in the line and in red Adam's line.
creator of unforgettable words—
I too am those others.
thronging out of the numberless past,
do you hear me, unseen friend, through these fathomless things: the seas and death?
I feel their multitudes.
Shakespeare and Quevedo record that pathetic cry.
Brother of night, eater of opium, father of winding sentences which already are mazes and towers,

AND GLORIOUS GHOSTS    
    
And glorious ghosts. Here, from far-off shores,
Let their night be measured by centuries, by eras, by pyramids,
He dies, but he does not know that he has died so that a scene can be played out again.
Weave nightmare nets as a bulwark for your island.
my father, and his father, and their forebears,
Eternity is present in the things of time, and its impatient happenings.
the hostile continent prepares with arms the invasion of your England,
Caesar stops defending himself, and cries out Et tu, Brute?
Fate is partial to repetitions, variations, symmetries.
and I seek out the frailest, the most tenuous, and say to him: O friend, again
To make his horror perfect, Caesar, hemmed about at the foot of a statue