THE FOLLOWING POEMS belong to a collection of over 90 poems that were originally published in an ebook whose synopsis you are kindly invited to read here. Most of these poems were written in English, some of them in Spanish, a few are creative self-translations and there are some in French as well.
HERE YOU WILL READ some of such poems as selected in English.
HAPPY READING!
Delfina
HERE YOU WILL READ some of such poems as selected in English.
HAPPY READING!
Delfina
BOOKS
©2019 Delfina Morganti Hernández
Always there to be touched, shelved, embraced;
Their pages to be flicked and read and scorned, with grace.
Books treasure poetry, fiction and plays;
They teach us law, refinement and faith.
Books suit our senses or else they are despised;
Books smell of roses, of lilies—of vice, alas!
Books make us smart, wistful, silly and wise;
If a book lives within us, we are alive likewise.
They may be owned, lent, loved, possessed.
But they are only books, they couldn’t care less!
Yet a book is a gift, whatever its content, whatever its dress;
Thus make the most of your books, for you have been blessed!
Their pages to be flicked and read and scorned, with grace.
Books treasure poetry, fiction and plays;
They teach us law, refinement and faith.
Books suit our senses or else they are despised;
Books smell of roses, of lilies—of vice, alas!
Books make us smart, wistful, silly and wise;
If a book lives within us, we are alive likewise.
They may be owned, lent, loved, possessed.
But they are only books, they couldn’t care less!
Yet a book is a gift, whatever its content, whatever its dress;
Thus make the most of your books, for you have been blessed!
- - - - - - -FROM The Arts, in Las lenguas que me habitan. The languages within me. Les langues dans ma peau.
ON THE PAINS IT TAKES TO BE A WRITER
©2019 Delfina Morganti Hernández
I
There goes he with his lacerated pen,
his fingers filthy, his eyes in strain.
There goes he, one man who chose well!
He chose to live upon his passion,
along its inherent pains.
His back, when it speaks, it always wails,
and his eyes—oh, poor eyes!
They now bear the shadows
of the light they used to bring.
II
There goes he who can smell farther than the flowers,
he who sees beyond the seas and hears beyond the heres;
there he lies again, beside the fire for long hours--
the flames inflate him; he cannot rest, he is a writer!
For years his muse has been his fear,
his passion, reading, and writing his vice;
I swear I never saw a writer whose tears
read witty and worthy and moving likewise.
III
But whoso writer wants to be
do not seek his advice.
He’ll say: ‘I have nothing but my writing,
I have ne’er made any friends.’
And he’ll try to deter you
with many an ungrounded lie:
‘A writer can only be born, not made,’
this writer will cry.
Now, being a writer myself,
I’ll dare challenge my peer
and say only this:
‘You needn’t fear, for
a writer through reading
can always be made.’
Yet one thing is certain
and I cannot deny it:
‘When the magic ends;
when the writing ceases,
it is sadness what follows
—either with or without friends—;
sadness for the loss
of one’s former source of pleasure
and the fear we all fear
that it may never come again.’
There goes he with his lacerated pen,
his fingers filthy, his eyes in strain.
There goes he, one man who chose well!
He chose to live upon his passion,
along its inherent pains.
His back, when it speaks, it always wails,
and his eyes—oh, poor eyes!
They now bear the shadows
of the light they used to bring.
II
There goes he who can smell farther than the flowers,
he who sees beyond the seas and hears beyond the heres;
there he lies again, beside the fire for long hours--
the flames inflate him; he cannot rest, he is a writer!
For years his muse has been his fear,
his passion, reading, and writing his vice;
I swear I never saw a writer whose tears
read witty and worthy and moving likewise.
III
But whoso writer wants to be
do not seek his advice.
He’ll say: ‘I have nothing but my writing,
I have ne’er made any friends.’
And he’ll try to deter you
with many an ungrounded lie:
‘A writer can only be born, not made,’
this writer will cry.
Now, being a writer myself,
I’ll dare challenge my peer
and say only this:
‘You needn’t fear, for
a writer through reading
can always be made.’
Yet one thing is certain
and I cannot deny it:
‘When the magic ends;
when the writing ceases,
it is sadness what follows
—either with or without friends—;
sadness for the loss
of one’s former source of pleasure
and the fear we all fear
that it may never come again.’
- - - - - - -FROM The Arts, in Las lenguas que me habitan. The languages within me. Les langues dans ma peau.
SONNET TO MY PIANO
©2019 Delfina Morganti Hernández
No drums or flute or strident xylophone
Will please me more than does my precious prompter;
No cello, bass nor saffon saxophone
Shall prompt my hands to play as does my Pianoforte.
The castanets I have tried, yet I have found
No bliss in hearing such consistent knocking;
Thy keys, my Piano, do produce such sounds
That bear no resemblance to the cornet’s.
All rhythms bear Thou, all flats and sharps,
Regardless of all chords and scores or lyrics;
For Thou shall let me play as many staves
As symphonies shall plead my manqué spirit.
Now, Piano, make me a Pianist so unique
That no such player plays our music!
Will please me more than does my precious prompter;
No cello, bass nor saffon saxophone
Shall prompt my hands to play as does my Pianoforte.
The castanets I have tried, yet I have found
No bliss in hearing such consistent knocking;
Thy keys, my Piano, do produce such sounds
That bear no resemblance to the cornet’s.
All rhythms bear Thou, all flats and sharps,
Regardless of all chords and scores or lyrics;
For Thou shall let me play as many staves
As symphonies shall plead my manqué spirit.
Now, Piano, make me a Pianist so unique
That no such player plays our music!
- - - - - - -FROM The Arts, in Las lenguas que me habitan. The languages within me. Les langues dans ma peau.
TO RUDYARD KIPLING ON HIS IF
©2019 Delfina Morganti Hernández
Pictures of perfection make me sick and wicked.
Jane Austen, letter LXXXIV
Jane Austen, letter LXXXIV
IF you can write a poem so misleading
As to suggest that men are made of stone,
Then I shall pen my song and sound deceiving,
For I too dare claim the right to sound as wrong:
If I could keep my head when all about me
Are losing their temper and dare blame it on me,
If I could trust myself when the rest doubted me,
Yet make allowance for their doubting, indeed!;
If I could wait without getting weary of waiting,
Or being lied about, not deal in lies,
Or being hated, not give in to hatred,
And yet look not too sound, nor talk too smart:
If I could dream—yet not make dreams my master;
If I could think but not make thoughts my aim;
If I could easily salute Triumph and Disaster
And treat both such impostors equally the same;
If I could bear to hear the truth I’ve spoken
Twisted by traitors to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things I’ve invested my life in, broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools:
If I could make one heap of all my winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, you say, and start again at my beginnings,
And never breathe a word about my loss!;
If I could force my heart and nerve and sinew
To serve my turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in me
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If I could talk with crowds and be a dime,
Or walk with Kings and not lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor friends could break my heart,
If all men counted with me, yet none ‘too much’!
If I could, in short, be so grand and glorious,
And act upon such endlessly perfect conduct,
I doubt I’d settle for the Earth, the ground,
If I might as well demand a better contract:
Now having read what you propose that I should be,
I have to say I find the prize below my standards;
You need not worry, though, for I’ll struggle and succeed:
I guess I can be cold and blind and heartlessly unflappable;
But since you ask that I give up on my nature,
I have to claim the Heavens must as well be mine!
Now what say you to my wanting such a treasure?
How could you now refuse me my better design?
As to suggest that men are made of stone,
Then I shall pen my song and sound deceiving,
For I too dare claim the right to sound as wrong:
If I could keep my head when all about me
Are losing their temper and dare blame it on me,
If I could trust myself when the rest doubted me,
Yet make allowance for their doubting, indeed!;
If I could wait without getting weary of waiting,
Or being lied about, not deal in lies,
Or being hated, not give in to hatred,
And yet look not too sound, nor talk too smart:
If I could dream—yet not make dreams my master;
If I could think but not make thoughts my aim;
If I could easily salute Triumph and Disaster
And treat both such impostors equally the same;
If I could bear to hear the truth I’ve spoken
Twisted by traitors to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things I’ve invested my life in, broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools:
If I could make one heap of all my winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, you say, and start again at my beginnings,
And never breathe a word about my loss!;
If I could force my heart and nerve and sinew
To serve my turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in me
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If I could talk with crowds and be a dime,
Or walk with Kings and not lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor friends could break my heart,
If all men counted with me, yet none ‘too much’!
If I could, in short, be so grand and glorious,
And act upon such endlessly perfect conduct,
I doubt I’d settle for the Earth, the ground,
If I might as well demand a better contract:
Now having read what you propose that I should be,
I have to say I find the prize below my standards;
You need not worry, though, for I’ll struggle and succeed:
I guess I can be cold and blind and heartlessly unflappable;
But since you ask that I give up on my nature,
I have to claim the Heavens must as well be mine!
Now what say you to my wanting such a treasure?
How could you now refuse me my better design?
- - - - - - -FROM Conversations, in Las lenguas que me habitan. The languages within me. Les langues dans ma peau.
ELECTRIC LIGHT IS OUT OF SIGHT
©2019 Delfina Morganti Hernández
Electric light
Is out of sight.
And as we move,
We see them shine:
The stars above,
They shine with lust;
And as we look,
They blink at us.
Is out of sight.
And as we move,
We see them shine:
The stars above,
They shine with lust;
And as we look,
They blink at us.
- - - - - - -FROM Facts and Myths, in Las lenguas que me habitan. The languages within me. Les langues dans ma peau.
MY STAR
©2019 Delfina Morganti Hernández
There’s a star that keeps following me
From the clearest of skies.
She smiles, she cries
And yet,
yet she would never hide.
‘What are we?’
I wonder,
Under the light that glistens
From my faithful star.
‘What are we, dear?’
I raise to her my eyes.
What are we but spies--
Curious and yet oblivious
To other people’s lives?
But my star, she stares,
Stares and smiles from a stormy sky;
And I wonder—is it me only to see
That we hardly ever smile
And seldom do we look
At one another in the eye?
There’s this star that keeps following me
From the most dreadful of skies;
A star who’s not afraid to let me see
That she cares, she dotes on me;
She feels, she smiles.
Now she laughs and I smile to myself
For I am invisible to all passers-by.
Yet this star, she keeps beaming;
She beams at me and I at her.
And we smile, she smiles,
And so do I, my star.
From the clearest of skies.
She smiles, she cries
And yet,
yet she would never hide.
‘What are we?’
I wonder,
Under the light that glistens
From my faithful star.
‘What are we, dear?’
I raise to her my eyes.
What are we but spies--
Curious and yet oblivious
To other people’s lives?
But my star, she stares,
Stares and smiles from a stormy sky;
And I wonder—is it me only to see
That we hardly ever smile
And seldom do we look
At one another in the eye?
There’s this star that keeps following me
From the most dreadful of skies;
A star who’s not afraid to let me see
That she cares, she dotes on me;
She feels, she smiles.
Now she laughs and I smile to myself
For I am invisible to all passers-by.
Yet this star, she keeps beaming;
She beams at me and I at her.
And we smile, she smiles,
And so do I, my star.
- - - - - - -FROM Odes and Songs, in Las lenguas que me habitan. The languages within me. Les langues dans ma peau.
STILL LIVING
©2019 Delfina Morganti Hernández
I felt I had slept;
I had dreamt and been
while sleeping.
I could breathe again;
I could see in the darkness
all while sleeping.
Then awake I rose to life;
I had dreamt and been;
I was still alive,
indeed! I was living.
I had dreamt and been
while sleeping.
I could breathe again;
I could see in the darkness
all while sleeping.
Then awake I rose to life;
I had dreamt and been;
I was still alive,
indeed! I was living.
- - - - - - -FROM Nature, in Las lenguas que me habitan. The languages within me. Les langues dans ma peau.
ON MY DEAREST JANE
©2019 Delfina Morganti Hernández
I
Of Sense and Pride
And Abbeys and wistful Parks
No one’s ever known better;
‘Tis of Her I am speaking, Jane Austen!
The woman whose writing and spirit
We know through her novels and letters.
II
Her niece Fanny, her favourite heart,
Our lady Jane Austen knew well by far,
And in her company the niece learnt as well
To marry for love and not for annuities,
Nor jewels,
Nor wealth.
III
Now December brings the memory of Thee again, Jane!
Storm and Thunder, they shall not come in vain;
Now they are crying, my lady, the Heavens are,
For they are in pain; they lament Thy parting,
And the fact that it took place long ago
Will not help us conceal our sorrow.
IV
Thus the sons and daughters of Thy soul,
As well as the daughters and sons
Of their descendants,
We shall all pray for Thee, recall Thee;
Bring Thy memory into remembrance!
Every single day of our lives.
V
And in Heaven Thou are resting,
Now and for ever, ever after,
That when I write or read, or cry
Reading Thy masterpieces, in laughter,
It shall always be in Thy name—Thou, Jane!
My truest friend, my only master!
Of Sense and Pride
And Abbeys and wistful Parks
No one’s ever known better;
‘Tis of Her I am speaking, Jane Austen!
The woman whose writing and spirit
We know through her novels and letters.
II
Her niece Fanny, her favourite heart,
Our lady Jane Austen knew well by far,
And in her company the niece learnt as well
To marry for love and not for annuities,
Nor jewels,
Nor wealth.
III
Now December brings the memory of Thee again, Jane!
Storm and Thunder, they shall not come in vain;
Now they are crying, my lady, the Heavens are,
For they are in pain; they lament Thy parting,
And the fact that it took place long ago
Will not help us conceal our sorrow.
IV
Thus the sons and daughters of Thy soul,
As well as the daughters and sons
Of their descendants,
We shall all pray for Thee, recall Thee;
Bring Thy memory into remembrance!
Every single day of our lives.
V
And in Heaven Thou are resting,
Now and for ever, ever after,
That when I write or read, or cry
Reading Thy masterpieces, in laughter,
It shall always be in Thy name—Thou, Jane!
My truest friend, my only master!
- - - - - - -FROM Odes and Songs, in Las lenguas que me habitan. The languages within me. Les langues dans ma peau.
PORTRAIT OF A CAREFREE YOUNG MAN
©2019 Delfina Morganti Hernández
There was a man I used to find agreeable
Until I knew what he was really like;
To everyone’s eyes he was a fellow most amiable,
Except he wasn’t when it came to War and Love.
This man he called himself a sensitive fellow,
That a good book or film would make him cry;
Yet when it came to the slightest hint of affection,
Only Fiction seemed to touch his heart.
This man he thought himself so right and pure;
So everyone who met him would simply testify.
But when it came to Love he was obscure,
He’d take Life for granted and Time likewise.
If you, like him, have vowed to be restrained,
At least make up your mind and don’t pretend.
Until I knew what he was really like;
To everyone’s eyes he was a fellow most amiable,
Except he wasn’t when it came to War and Love.
This man he called himself a sensitive fellow,
That a good book or film would make him cry;
Yet when it came to the slightest hint of affection,
Only Fiction seemed to touch his heart.
This man he thought himself so right and pure;
So everyone who met him would simply testify.
But when it came to Love he was obscure,
He’d take Life for granted and Time likewise.
If you, like him, have vowed to be restrained,
At least make up your mind and don’t pretend.
- - - - - - -FROM Love and Friendship, in Las lenguas que me habitan. The languages within me. Les langues dans ma peau.
BEAUTY
©2019 Delfina Morganti Hernández
What part of nature might I have been
when the world was young and I unborn?
What sight, what sense,
what creature would be seen
by the men who would trod on the ground
which I now walk on?
I wonder—could I have been a boastful tree,
a very tall, very large tree?
Or else a cloud?
The sun?
Or was I but a mere stem? A butterfly, a bee?
Perhaps I was a common bird, an ant, a worm.
Or nothing.
when the world was young and I unborn?
What sight, what sense,
what creature would be seen
by the men who would trod on the ground
which I now walk on?
I wonder—could I have been a boastful tree,
a very tall, very large tree?
Or else a cloud?
The sun?
Or was I but a mere stem? A butterfly, a bee?
Perhaps I was a common bird, an ant, a worm.
Or nothing.
- - - - - - -FROM Nature, in Las lenguas que me habitan. The languages within me. Les langues dans ma peau.
