RE: [xmca] Concepts as sedimentation

[christine schweighart <schweighartgate@hotmail.com>]

What a co-incidence Andy,
 I think in the translation from Machado the sense is of path opening  in the doing, and looking back there is a narrower 'track' that  although never the same again might ease a journey of another. It is 'solitary' though not a rippling of a band journeying in 'pilgrimage' or a nomadic way of living. 
 I recently was citing this, as Stafford Beer ( cybernetician) was attracted to Machado too. It appears 

In a song by Joan Manuel Serrat  ( in Spanish not in his first language, Catalan)

http://youtu.be/Lj-W6D2LSlo

and with intonations much later in life

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M6IGhwFDn-I
  He seems to emphasise verse -by-verse more than

blow-by blow in this later moving  rendition.
 My translation of the song:




cantares



Todo pasa y todo queda,

pero lo nuestro es pasar,

pasar haciendo caminos,

caminos sobre la mar.



Nunca perseguí la gloria,

ni dejar en la memoria

de los hombres mi canción;

yo amo los mundos sutiles,

ingrávidos y gentiles

como pompas de jabón.

Me gusta verlos pintarse

de sol y grana, volar

bajo el cielo azul, temblar

súbitamente y quebrarse.



Caminante, son tus huellas

el camino, y nada más;

caminante, no hay camino,

se hace camino al andar.

Al andar se hace camino,

y al volver la vista atrás

se ve la senda que nunca

se ha de volver a pisar.

Caminante, no hay camino,

sino estelas en la mar.



Hace algún tiempo, en ese lugar

donde hoy los bosques se visten de espinos,

se oyó la voz de un poeta gritar:

caminante, no hay camino,

se hace camino al andar,

golpe a golpe, verso a verso.



Murió el poeta lejos del hogar,

le cubre el polvo de un país vecino.

Al alejarse le vieron llorar,

caminante, no hay camino,

se hace camino al andar,

golpe a golpe, verso a verso.



Cuando el jilguero no puede cantar,

cuando el poeta es un peregrino,

cuando de nada nos sirve rezar,

caminante, no hay camino,

se hace camino al andar,

golpe a golpe, verso a verso.



Singings



Everything passes and everything stays,

but our thing is passing,

passing making paths,

paths over the sea.



I never pursued glory,

nor to to leave in memory

of man my song;

I love subtle worlds,

gravityless and graceful

like soap bubbles.

I like to watch them paint themselves

of sun and scarlet, fly

under the blue sky, tremble

all of a sudden and burst.



Walker, your footprints are

the path, and nothing more;

walker, there is no path,

the path is made while walking.

By walking a path is made,

and when you look back

you see the track

that will never be stepped on again.

Walker, there is no path,

but trails on the sea.



Some time ago, in that place

where today the forests dress themselves in thorns ,

the voice of a poet was heard shouting:

Walker, there is no path,

the path is made while walking,

stroke by stroke , verse by verse.



The poet died far from his home,

The dust of a neighboring country covers him.

While distancing himself they saw him cry,

Walker, there is no path,

the path is made while walking,

stroke by stroke , verse by verse.



When the goldfinch cannot sing,

when the poet is a pilgrim,

when there is no use in praying,

walker, there is no path,

the path is made by walking,

stroke by stroke , verse by verse.





....... Christine.
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