Simplicity Poem by Jorge Luis Borges
Simplicity
It opens, the gate to the garden
with the docility of a page
that frequent devotion questions
and inside, my gaze
has no need to fix on objects
that already exist, exact, in memory.
I know the customs and souls
and that dialect of allusions
that every human gathering goes weaving.
I've no need to speak
nor claim false privilege;
they know me well who surround me here,
know well my afflictions and weakness.
This is to reach the highest thing,
that Heaven perhaps will grant us:
not admiration or victory
but simply to be accepted
as part of an undeniable Reality,
like stones and trees.
not admiration or victory but simply to be accepted as part of an undeniable Reality, like stones and trees.......................................It's great by it's own light focused on truth.
I have been an admirer of J.L. Borges since 1972 when I heard him give a public lecture in London. I like his stories more than his poems. Few writers have shown the imaginative creativity of some allegories he wrote; one about a universal library. A.Madhavan
simply to be accepted as part of an undeniable Reality, like stones and trees. - - - - we are, aren't we?
And this acceptance comes when the gaze is turned with in...... Beautiful poem.
Marvelous poem. We all fight and wish for this acceptance starting from our own circle and extending it to be accepted in God's eyes.
Borges could've just said: you're born, you live, you die, but the poem paid the bills.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/19/2024 5:52:08 PM # 1.0.0.1119
only 2 poems by Borges at PH (at this date) , so I add another of his poems here: ''Arte poetica'' Mirar el río hecho de tiempo y agua y recordar que el tiempo es otro río, saber que nos perdemos como el río y que los rostros pasan como el agua. Sentir que la vigilia es otro sueño que sueña no soñar y que la muerte que teme nuestra carne es esa muerte de cada noche, que se llama sueño. Ver en el día o en el año un símbolo de los días del hombre y de sus años, convertir el ultraje de los años en una música, un rumor y un símbolo, ver en la muerte el sueño, en el ocaso un triste oro, tal es la poesía que es inmortal y pobre. La poesía vuelve como la aurora y el ocaso. A veces en las tardes una cara nos mira desde el fondo de un espejo; el arte debe ser como ese espejo que nos revela nuestra propia cara. Cuentan que Ulises, harto de prodigios, lloró de amor al divisar su Itaca verde y humilde. El arte es esa Itaca de verde eternidad, no de prodigios. También es como el río interminable que pasa y queda y es cristal de un mismo Heráclito inconstante, que es el mismo y es otro, como el río interminable. (Jorge Luis Borges)