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Letra y música

La razón reproduce hoy una conversación entre Paul Auster y Chico Buarque. Hablan de la musicalidad que es intrínseca a cualquier discurso:

– No te entiendo Paul, cómo puedes escribir sólo la letra y no componer al mismo tiempo. Eso es imposible, yo creo que jamás podría hacerlo… la música y las palabras vienen a la vez.
– No, Chico, no, no… hay algunos que no… Chico… yo, no. Un novelista realmente bueno hace composición musical cuando escribe.

He visto en El País que ha muerto Robert Creeley, poeta desconocido para mí hasta hace unos minutos. He encontrado en la web de la Western Michigan University este poema que no solo es pura musicalidad, es que te pide a gritos que le pongas música para memorizarlo y cantarlo. Y Creeley lo sabe, fijaos en los dos últimos versos… Se titula Ballad of the Despairing Husband, y contiene material para llenar toda una teleserie:

My wife and I lived all alone,
contention was our only bone.
I fought with her, she fought with me,
and things went on right merrily.

But now I live here by myself
with hardly a damn thing on the shelf,
and pass my days with little cheer
since I have parted from my dear.

Oh come home soon, I write to her.
Go fuck yourself, is her answer.
Now what is that, for Christian word?
I hope she feeds on dried goose turd.

But still I love her, yes I do.
I love her and the children too.
I only think it fit that she
should quickly come right back to me.

Ah no, she says, and she is tough,
and smacks me down with her rebuff.
Ah no, she says, I will not come
after the bloody things you’ve done.

Oh wife, oh wife — I tell you true,
I never loved no one but you.
I never will, it cannot be
another woman is for me.

That may be right, she will say then,
but as for me, there’s other men.
And I will tell you I propose
to catch them firmly by the nose.

And I will wear what dresses I choose!
And I will dance, and what’s to lose!
I’m free of you, you little prick,
and I’m the one to make it stick.

Was this the darling I did love?
Was this that mercy from above
did open violets in the spring —
and made my own worn self to sing?

She was. I know. And she is still,
and if I love her? then so I will.
And I will tell her, and tell her right . . .

Oh lovely lady, morning or evening or afternoon.
Oh lovely lady, eating with or without a spoon.
Oh most lovely lady, whether dressed or undressed or partly.
Oh most lovely lady, getting up or going to bed or sitting only.

Oh loveliest of ladies, than whom none is more fair, more gracious, more beautiful.
Oh loveliest of ladies, whether you are just or unjust, merciful, indifferent, or cruel.
Oh most loveliest of ladies, doing whatever, seeing whatever, being whatever.
Oh most loveliest of ladies, in rain, in shine, in any weather.

Oh lady, grant me time,
please, to finish my rhyme.

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