Poco voy a decir de este libro recopilatorio de la poesía de Bret Harte . Poco pero positivo. Harte es recordado en el mundo literario por sus relatos y por sus composiciones de género poético. Pero su poesía no es lírica. Su obra poética es más bien una suerte de narraciones breves en verso, relatos versificados al estilo de Her Letter . Cada uno de sus poemas nos cuenta una historia, una historia de ese Oeste sobre el que el autor arroja una visión entre romántica y costumbrista.

La lectura de The Poetical Works of Bret Harte es placentera y muy agradable. Logra transportar al lector a una California en plena ebullición con la fiebre del oro, a las historia de rivalidad- o no tanta- entre nativos americanos y vaqueros, de forajidos huidos de la ley y de la vida dura en esas tierras.

The Idyl of Battle Hollow , por ejemplo, nos cuenta un simple hecho, un momento contado por la mujer que lo protagoniza pero nos evoca y deja entrever mucho más. Espero que lo disfrutéis...

'The Idyl Of Battle Hollow'

No, I won't, --thar, now, so! And it ain't nothin', --no!

And thar's nary to tell that you folks yer don't know;

And it's 'Belle, tell us, do!' and it's 'Belle, is it true?'

And 'Wot's this yer yarn of the Major and you?'

Till I'm sick of it all, --so I am, but I s'pose

Thet is nothin' to you. . . . Well, then, listen! yer goes!

It was after the fight, and around us all night

Thar was poppin' and shootin' a powerful sight;

And the niggers had fled, and Aunt Chlo was abed,

And Pinky and Milly were hid in the shed:

And I ran out at daybreak, and nothin' was nigh

But the growlin' of cannon low down in the sky.

And I saw not a thing, as I ran to the spring,

But a splintered fence rail and a broken-down swing,

And a bird said 'Kerchee!' as it sat on a tree,

As if it was lonesome, and glad to see me;

And I filled up my pail and was risin' to go,

When up comes the Major a-canterin' slow.

When he saw me he drew in his reins, and then threw

On the gate-post his bridle, and--what does he do

But come down where I sat; and he lifted his hat,

And he says--well, thar ain't any need to tell THAT;

'Twas some foolishness, sure, but it 'mounted to this,

Thet he asked for a drink, and he wanted--a kiss.

Then I said (I was mad), 'For the water, my lad,

You're too big and must stoop; for a kiss, it's as bad, --

You ain't near big enough.' And I turned in a huff,

When that Major he laid his white hand on my cuff,

And he says, 'You're a trump! Take my pistol, don't fear!

But shoot the next man that insults you, my dear.'

Then he stooped to the pool, very quiet and cool,

Leavin' me with that pistol stuck there like a fool,

When thar flashed on my sight a quick glimmer of light

From the top of the little stone fence on the right,

And I knew 'twas a rifle, and back of it all

Rose the face of that bushwhacker, Cherokee Hall!

Then I felt in my dread that the moment the head

Of the Major was lifted, the Major was dead;

And I stood still and white, but Lord! gals, in spite

Of my care, that derned pistol went off in my fright!

Went off--true as gospil!--and, strangest of all,

It actooally injured that Cherokee Hall!

Thet's all--now, go 'long! Yes, some folks thinks it's wrong,

And thar's some wants to know to what side I belong;

But I says, 'Served him right!' and I go, all my might,

In love or in war, for a fair stand-up fight;

And as for the Major--sho! gals, don't you know

Thet--Lord! thar's his step in the garden below.

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