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In caput (of immortality works)

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"... all the immortals were capable of perfect stillness, I remember one whom I have ever seen standing: a bird nesting in his chest."

"The Immortal", JL Borges, The Aleph.

Horacio monumentum stands a more lasting than bronze and larger than the actual base of the pyramids, and when we are assured that neither the weather nor the countless number of years could destroy, we observe how the characterization of the work is projected on the figure of the poet: non omnis pars mei multaque memory vitabit Libitinam . We then see Horace, who somehow mirroring that book transit qui et mare et longum noto scriptoria prorogat Aevum, becomes a target enigmatic swan neck and travels in his immortality the confines of time and space. Something similar

Ovid tells us in the last verses of the Metamorphoses: iamque exegi opus, quod nec nec ignis nec Iouis anger poterit ferrum nec edax tinged dilapidated, and then says that death shall have no right about something else your body: part melior tamen mei super high ferar perennis astra. These last words are significant, Ovid no longer speak of pars mei fine but meliora mei pars. That meliora pars is somehow guaranteed its apotheosis, apotheosis which is based on the continuance of the work: bequeath ore populi, omnia saecula perque fame, even habent veri vatum praesagia, vivam .

Horacio like Ovid
Both works awarded to the ability to stay upright and undisturbed over the centuries, plus a maneater saeclo perennial, Catullus also asked for their NUGA libellum novum. In a constant that is repeated throughout history, poets have been shielded in their texts to confront an enemy capable of piercing and wear down even the sea. But what is the eternal course of this fight, what texture it appears inevitable erosion time?

Close your eyes, forget the gloomy city of immortals, and let us imagine the locus amoenus of this combination of desire: it starts to get dark in Rome and do a bit of cold, from the darkened sky Ovid notes that a swan White Collar stops your flight in a tree below the leafy canopy, in a corner of the garden, Propertius slowly leans his head in the lap of Cinthya and creates a new concept of immortality:

iuvet me in gremio doctae legisse puellae,
auribus et puris scripta mea probasse
ubi contigerint HAEC, confusing Valeto
populi fabula: nam dominates judice
tutus ero forte quae if ad pacem bonas verterit auris, possum
inimicitias ego ferre Analogously Iovis tun.

He longs for his poetry is perceived by the sharp ears of a learned puella, if she approves his poems not care what people say, will be saved for the trial of his love and will even be able to withstand the enmity of Jupiter. He reads, she listens, interprets and assesses the work of artist and approves it. The picture is idyllic but suddenly a simple reasoning opens a crack: Cinthya ignore what I heard. And almost immediately a new reflection makes the crack ensache and construction begins to crumble: in fact we can not know what was what I read Propertius.

Perhaps the screening at the time of that gap between what Propertius Cinthya says that listening is the essence of immortality that they aspired to the feathers of Horace and Ovid's apotheosis. Let's try, rested her head in her lap ars poetica of poetry without purity and hear it talking through the effect of recoding Neruda: reprehendite Carmen dies et quod non fine fine litura coercuit to achieve that fresh surface of the instrument played without break, the softness of the wood handled tough, proud of iron.

The is Callida iunctura and slides plowing time and space with total disrespect.

The language is no longer the same, but the syntax that still allows us to claim these semantic games that have not been radical changes. Perhaps something similar has ever happened to the poets and their works, it may be time to negotiate the distance.

The following words are punctuated by terse swan feathers:

is highly desirable, at certain times of day or night, look deeply (...) handles and handles of the tools of a carpenter. They show the contact of man and the earth as a lesson for the tortured lyric poet. The surfaces used, spending the hands have inflicted on things, the atmosphere often tragic and always pathetic of these objects gives a kind of attraction is not insignificant to the real world. (...) This is the poetry that we, worn as an acid by the duties of the hand, imbued with the sweat and smoke, smelling of urine and lilies punctuated by the various professions that were performed within and outside the law. A poetry impure as a suit, as a body, with patches of nutrition and shameful attitudes, with wrinkles, observations, dreams, wakefulness, prophesies, declarations of love and hate, beasts, shocks, idylls, beliefs policies, negations, doubts, affirmations, taxes (...) touch, smell, taste, sight, hearing, the desire for justice, sexual desire, the noise of the ocean, not deliberately exclude any product poetry (...) Digital pigeons stained with traces of teeth and ice, perhaps slightly corroded by sweat and use (...) who flees the bad taste in the ice falls .

is true, the feathers are a little charred and the gleaming decorum seems to have been wallowing in the mud, but the feel is the same: the poem Horacio polished has the same texture that the wood softened by contact the hand of man, and perhaps - why not - the same smoothness of those tabellae , has quondam manibus nostris detriverat usus.

When the end is near, he wrote Cartaphilus, there are not memory images leaving only words. Words, words, displaced and muti-tons, in other words, was the poor alms hours and left him forever.

"The Immortal", JL Borges, The Aleph.