Almost a slaughter
Are you, granddaughter
of a faraway war.
With your smile that flashes knife-like
Like a blade that was drawn in anger
And turns and twists, reaching inside
The guts of this sorry loser.
With your killing legs and gait
With your mind that's sharper than that
(And that, too)
With your eyes, a bittersweet poison
That turns hemlock green(er) with envy
A carnage, a genocide,
Massenmord
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
Kitab alif layla wa layla - al'f layla zaer
Em nome de Alá o misericordioso, cheio de misericórdia:
Há muito, muito tempo atrás - antes que o Profeta, a paz esteja com ele, tivesse recebido sua mensagem de fogo da espada do Arcanjo, nos tempos em que os filhos de Ismael ainda vagavam sem língua nem letra pelo deserto, vivia uma mulher.
Como os outros, essa mulher não tinha um nome, e não sabia que as pessoas podiam ter nomes. Ás vezes, em sua casa no topo de um monte cheio de vinhedos, olhava para as estrelas, e pensava nelas; mas o que se pode pensar sem palavras é difícil de comunicar àqueles que sorveram palavras com o leite de suas mães, e bem pobre é a minha própria língua, de modo que permanecerão secretos os pensamentos secretos da mulher sem nome, deitada na pedra entre as estrelas e seu morro.
Deitada nua, olhando para a noite, algo saído da noite olhou para ela de volta, e o que viu lhe agradou. Porque era bela além do atingível, a filha de Ismael: suas pernas como as da gazela que escapou aos leões; sua cintura, como a de uma guitarra que escapou ao incêndio; seus seios prometiam um perfume mais doce do que os dos cachos de uvas que apenas começavam a murchar sob o sol; e os cabelos negros lhe cobriam a pele, num toque que levava a loucura aos homens.
Aquele que olhava da noite era um Djinn, um ifrit daqueles que, em tempos ainda mais remotos, na madrugada do mundo, haviam rejeitado Alá, se recusado a obedecer aos anjos. Feito de fumaça e de um fogo sutil, ele havia escapado às lanças celestes, e há tempos vagava pelos mares e ilhas, se divertindo em fazer mal aos homens, que são os filhos prediletos de Deus. Na noite em que se passa esta estória, tinha acabado de vir do mar dos romanos, onde uma enorme nau de guerra queimara por sua mão; e ainda ria dos gritos dos gregos implorando misericórdia, e das bocarras abertas dos tubarões, quando viu a filha de Ismael, nua sobre a pedra.
Naquele momento, o ifrit se emudeceu, enquanto o desejo corria por seu corpo de fumaça e sombra. A gargalhada cruel se extinguiu de sua essência, a nuvem luminosa se afogou nos olhos negros. E o shaitan se aproximou, na forma de uma nuvem escura, da ismaelita deitada que olhava para a noite. O toque dele, mais suave do que o fogo que não queima, não foi sentido por ela, apesar de passar por todas as curvas e por todas as cavidades de seu corpo. Quando retirou-se, o Djinn era uma nuvem cambaleante, embriagada; e o cheiro do sexo da mulher da colina das uvas, e o cheiro de sua boca e de seus cabelos, o de suas axilas e de seus pés, ele levou consigo, sem perceber o que tinha feito.
Assim, a mulher sem nome se tornou, também, a mulher sem cheiro. No começo, ela não reparou no que tinha acontecido (porque não reparamos em nossos próprios cheiros, na maior parte do tempo; e isso era mais verdade ainda então, quando as pessoas se alojavam junto às cabras e dormiam com os jumentos, e juntavam o excremento dos animais para queimar em suas casas). Mas um dia, tendo tomado banho no rio que corria em seu monte, e esperando o cheiro feito de ausências que sai de nós após o banho, ela percebeu, e muito se assustou.
Naqueles tempos, os filhos de Ismael ainda não haviam recebido a Lei, então ela não pensou em demônios ou que havia sido punida pelos seus pecados, como os homens de fé fariam nos dias de hoje. Nem, como os doutos fazem, interrogou ela com raios e facas seu corpo, para saber o que tinha acontecido. Simplesmente se deitou novamente, à noite, olhando as estrelas, e perguntou a elas sobre sua condição. Vocês devem saber que as estrelas, então, não eram mais propensas a falar do que hoje; e no brilho oscilante delas, quem falou foi a imaginação da mulher, que criou para si das estrelas um ladrão de cheiros. E porque as coisas mais belas que ela já havia visto eram o próprio reflexo num lago, e um colibri que se inebriava nas garrafas de vinho, ela fez esse ladrão à própria imagem, esguio de corpo e amplo de ombro, com olhos negros como a noite, mas com, no lugar dos cabelos, penas azuis que lhe desciam do escalpo, juntando-se às penas azuis das grandes e irrequietas asas.
Enquanto a mulher sonhava com seu ladrão imaginário, o verdadeiro ladrão, o djinn, que nada sabia da necessidade que têm os filhos de adão de dormir e sonhar, se embriagava com os cheiros que tinha roubado, e se indagava que nova emoção era aquela. Até então, ele nunca sentira nada além de desprezo, de ódio, talvez de pena pelos homens, criados do barro e que ele considerava seus inferiores como o barro é inferior ao fogo sutil do qual ele fora feito. Mas a mulher do monte de videiras devia ser uma bruxa poderosa - era isso! Ela o havia enfeitiçado, e os cheiros aprazíveis que tinha roubado eram a ferramenta do feitiço, a corrente com a qual ela gostaria de submetê-lo! Decidido a devolver os cheiros de sexo e axila, cabelo e pé e boca, o Djinn se afastou de sua montanha, e a sua vinda, cheio de raiva e fogo, era como uma grande nuvem sobre os campos, que aterrorizava os homens. Ele pretendia destruir a bruxa que lhe havia enfeitiçado, e para isso se armou de muitas armas terríveis, para as quais mesmo hoje não há nomes nas línguas de homens e anjos.
Ao chegar perto do morro, entretanto, a prudência lhe fez ocultar sua fúria, e foi novamente sob a forma de uma nuvem invisível que ele se aproximou da ismaelita que sonhava, como se não fosse mais do que o orvalho noturno. E, de posse mais uma vez de seus cheiros, ainda mais desejável ela se tornou ao djinn, e desejo e fúria se misturaram nele, fazendo com que ele se esquecesse da prudência, e acariciasse todo o corpo da mulher, que parecia a ele feito de cobre e da noite, e enquanto ele fazia isso, a mulher sonhava com seu ladrão-estrela, sem saber que era uma nuvem terrível que lhe envolvia os mamilos, que deixava gotas quentes e cócegas em sua barriga, apenas para substituí-las pelo gelo das alturas sem ar; que se inseria como uma língua em sua boca e em seu sexo, e afastava suas pernas e nádegas. E num frenesi final de desejo pela ismaelita, o djinn finalmente, não se contendo, penetrou-a completamente, e deixou assim de existir, e com ele pereceram toda sua ameaça, e todas as suas armas terríveis, e o medo que ele causava nos filhos de Eva.
Mas a mulher ganhou, penetrada pela nuvem noturna, as línguas e as letras, que antes eram desconhecidos; e pôde dar nomes às coisas à sua volta, e a primeira palavra que ela cunhou foi o nome para o ladrão com que sonhara, e a segunda o nome para a criança, luminosa, que carregava em seu ventre. E dessa criança, e da mulher, outras estórias foram contadas, mas esta acaba aqui, que este velho já falou muito para uma noite, e tem sede.
Há muito, muito tempo atrás - antes que o Profeta, a paz esteja com ele, tivesse recebido sua mensagem de fogo da espada do Arcanjo, nos tempos em que os filhos de Ismael ainda vagavam sem língua nem letra pelo deserto, vivia uma mulher.
Como os outros, essa mulher não tinha um nome, e não sabia que as pessoas podiam ter nomes. Ás vezes, em sua casa no topo de um monte cheio de vinhedos, olhava para as estrelas, e pensava nelas; mas o que se pode pensar sem palavras é difícil de comunicar àqueles que sorveram palavras com o leite de suas mães, e bem pobre é a minha própria língua, de modo que permanecerão secretos os pensamentos secretos da mulher sem nome, deitada na pedra entre as estrelas e seu morro.
Deitada nua, olhando para a noite, algo saído da noite olhou para ela de volta, e o que viu lhe agradou. Porque era bela além do atingível, a filha de Ismael: suas pernas como as da gazela que escapou aos leões; sua cintura, como a de uma guitarra que escapou ao incêndio; seus seios prometiam um perfume mais doce do que os dos cachos de uvas que apenas começavam a murchar sob o sol; e os cabelos negros lhe cobriam a pele, num toque que levava a loucura aos homens.
Aquele que olhava da noite era um Djinn, um ifrit daqueles que, em tempos ainda mais remotos, na madrugada do mundo, haviam rejeitado Alá, se recusado a obedecer aos anjos. Feito de fumaça e de um fogo sutil, ele havia escapado às lanças celestes, e há tempos vagava pelos mares e ilhas, se divertindo em fazer mal aos homens, que são os filhos prediletos de Deus. Na noite em que se passa esta estória, tinha acabado de vir do mar dos romanos, onde uma enorme nau de guerra queimara por sua mão; e ainda ria dos gritos dos gregos implorando misericórdia, e das bocarras abertas dos tubarões, quando viu a filha de Ismael, nua sobre a pedra.
Naquele momento, o ifrit se emudeceu, enquanto o desejo corria por seu corpo de fumaça e sombra. A gargalhada cruel se extinguiu de sua essência, a nuvem luminosa se afogou nos olhos negros. E o shaitan se aproximou, na forma de uma nuvem escura, da ismaelita deitada que olhava para a noite. O toque dele, mais suave do que o fogo que não queima, não foi sentido por ela, apesar de passar por todas as curvas e por todas as cavidades de seu corpo. Quando retirou-se, o Djinn era uma nuvem cambaleante, embriagada; e o cheiro do sexo da mulher da colina das uvas, e o cheiro de sua boca e de seus cabelos, o de suas axilas e de seus pés, ele levou consigo, sem perceber o que tinha feito.
Assim, a mulher sem nome se tornou, também, a mulher sem cheiro. No começo, ela não reparou no que tinha acontecido (porque não reparamos em nossos próprios cheiros, na maior parte do tempo; e isso era mais verdade ainda então, quando as pessoas se alojavam junto às cabras e dormiam com os jumentos, e juntavam o excremento dos animais para queimar em suas casas). Mas um dia, tendo tomado banho no rio que corria em seu monte, e esperando o cheiro feito de ausências que sai de nós após o banho, ela percebeu, e muito se assustou.
Naqueles tempos, os filhos de Ismael ainda não haviam recebido a Lei, então ela não pensou em demônios ou que havia sido punida pelos seus pecados, como os homens de fé fariam nos dias de hoje. Nem, como os doutos fazem, interrogou ela com raios e facas seu corpo, para saber o que tinha acontecido. Simplesmente se deitou novamente, à noite, olhando as estrelas, e perguntou a elas sobre sua condição. Vocês devem saber que as estrelas, então, não eram mais propensas a falar do que hoje; e no brilho oscilante delas, quem falou foi a imaginação da mulher, que criou para si das estrelas um ladrão de cheiros. E porque as coisas mais belas que ela já havia visto eram o próprio reflexo num lago, e um colibri que se inebriava nas garrafas de vinho, ela fez esse ladrão à própria imagem, esguio de corpo e amplo de ombro, com olhos negros como a noite, mas com, no lugar dos cabelos, penas azuis que lhe desciam do escalpo, juntando-se às penas azuis das grandes e irrequietas asas.
Enquanto a mulher sonhava com seu ladrão imaginário, o verdadeiro ladrão, o djinn, que nada sabia da necessidade que têm os filhos de adão de dormir e sonhar, se embriagava com os cheiros que tinha roubado, e se indagava que nova emoção era aquela. Até então, ele nunca sentira nada além de desprezo, de ódio, talvez de pena pelos homens, criados do barro e que ele considerava seus inferiores como o barro é inferior ao fogo sutil do qual ele fora feito. Mas a mulher do monte de videiras devia ser uma bruxa poderosa - era isso! Ela o havia enfeitiçado, e os cheiros aprazíveis que tinha roubado eram a ferramenta do feitiço, a corrente com a qual ela gostaria de submetê-lo! Decidido a devolver os cheiros de sexo e axila, cabelo e pé e boca, o Djinn se afastou de sua montanha, e a sua vinda, cheio de raiva e fogo, era como uma grande nuvem sobre os campos, que aterrorizava os homens. Ele pretendia destruir a bruxa que lhe havia enfeitiçado, e para isso se armou de muitas armas terríveis, para as quais mesmo hoje não há nomes nas línguas de homens e anjos.
Ao chegar perto do morro, entretanto, a prudência lhe fez ocultar sua fúria, e foi novamente sob a forma de uma nuvem invisível que ele se aproximou da ismaelita que sonhava, como se não fosse mais do que o orvalho noturno. E, de posse mais uma vez de seus cheiros, ainda mais desejável ela se tornou ao djinn, e desejo e fúria se misturaram nele, fazendo com que ele se esquecesse da prudência, e acariciasse todo o corpo da mulher, que parecia a ele feito de cobre e da noite, e enquanto ele fazia isso, a mulher sonhava com seu ladrão-estrela, sem saber que era uma nuvem terrível que lhe envolvia os mamilos, que deixava gotas quentes e cócegas em sua barriga, apenas para substituí-las pelo gelo das alturas sem ar; que se inseria como uma língua em sua boca e em seu sexo, e afastava suas pernas e nádegas. E num frenesi final de desejo pela ismaelita, o djinn finalmente, não se contendo, penetrou-a completamente, e deixou assim de existir, e com ele pereceram toda sua ameaça, e todas as suas armas terríveis, e o medo que ele causava nos filhos de Eva.
Mas a mulher ganhou, penetrada pela nuvem noturna, as línguas e as letras, que antes eram desconhecidos; e pôde dar nomes às coisas à sua volta, e a primeira palavra que ela cunhou foi o nome para o ladrão com que sonhara, e a segunda o nome para a criança, luminosa, que carregava em seu ventre. E dessa criança, e da mulher, outras estórias foram contadas, mas esta acaba aqui, que este velho já falou muito para uma noite, e tem sede.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Merry Xmas!
It is Christmas Day in the Workhouse,
And the cold, bare walls are bright
With garlands of green and holly,
And the place is a pleasant sight;
For with clean-washed hands and faces
In a long and hungry line
The paupers sit at the table,
For this is the hour they dine.
And the guardians and their ladies,
Although the wind is east,
Have come in their furs and wrappers
To watch their charges feast;
To smile and be condescending,
Putting on pauper plates.
To be hosts at the workhouse banquet
They've paid for--with the rates.
0, the paupers are meek and lowly
With their 'Thank'ee kindly, mums!'
So long as they fill their stomachs
What matter it whence it comes?
But one of the old men mutters
And pushes his plate aside,
"Great God" he cries, "but it chokes me;
For this is the day she died!"
The guardians gazed in horror,
The master's face went white;
"Did a pauper refuse their pudding?"
"Could their ears believe aright?"
Then the ladies clutched their husbands,
Thinking the man would die,
Struck by a bolt, or something,
By the outraged One on high.
But the pauper sat for a moment,
Then rose 'mid silence grim,
For the others had ceased to chatter
And trembled in every limb:
He looked at the guardians' ladies,
Then, eyeing their lords, he said;
"I eat not the food of villains
Whose hands are foul and red;
"Whose victims cry for vengeance
From their dark, unhallowed graves."
"He's drunk," said the workhouse master,
"or else he's mad and raves."
"Not drunk or mad," cried the pauper,
"but only a haunted beast,
Who, torn by the hounds and mangled,
Declines the vulture's feast.
"I care not a curse for the guardians,
And I won't be dragged away;
Just let me have the fit out,
It's only on Christmas Day
That the black past comes to goad me
And prey on my burning brain;
I'll tell you the rest in a whisper--
I swear I won't shout again.
"Keep your hands off me, curse you!
Hear me right out to the end.
You come here to see how paupers
The season of Christmas spend;
You come here to watch us feeding,
As they watched the captured beast;
Here's why a penniless pauper
Spits on your paltry feast
"Do you think I will take your bounty
And let you smile and think
You're doing a noble action
With the parish's meat and drink?
Where is my wife, you traitors--
The poor old wife you slew?
Yes, by the God above me,
My Nance was killed by you!
"Last Winter my wife lay dying,
Starved in a filthy den.
I had never been to the parish--
I came to the parish then;
I swallowed my pride in coming!
For ere the ruin came
I held up my head as a trader,
And I bore a spotless name.
"I came to the parish, craving
Bread for a starving wife--
Bread for the woman who'd loved me
Through fifty years of life;
And what do you think they told me,
Mocking my awful grief,
That the house was open to us,
But they wouldn't give out relief.
"I slunk to the filthy alley--
'twas a cold, raw Christmas Eve--
And the bakers' shops were open,
Tempting a man to thieve;
But I clenched my fists together,
Holding my head awry,
So I came to her empty-handed
And mournfully told her why.
"Then I told her the house was open;
She had heard of the ways of "that,"
For her bloodless cheeks went crimson,
And up in her rags she sat,
Crying, 'Bide the Christmas here, John,
We've never had one apart;
I think I can bear the hunger--
The other would break my heart.'
"All through that eve I watched her,
Holding her hand in mine,
Praying the Lord and weeping
Till my lips were salt as brine;
I asked her once if she hungered,
And as she answered 'No.'
The moon shone in at the window,
Set in a wreath of snow.
"Then the room was bathed in glory,
And I saw in my darling's eyes
The faraway look of wonder
That comes when the spirit flies;
And her lips were parched and parted,
And her reason came and went.
For she raved of our home in Devon,
Where our happiest years were spent.
"And the accents, long forgotten,
Came back to the tongue once more.
For she talked like the country lassie
I woo'd by the Devon shore;
Then she rose to her feet and trembled,
And fell on the rags and moaned,
And, 'Give me a crust--I'm famished--
For the love of God,' she groaned.
"I rushed from the room like a madman
And flew to the workhouse gate,
Crying, 'Food for a dying woman!'
And the answer came, 'Too late;'
They drove me away with curses;
Then I fought with a dog in the street
And tore from the mongrel's clutches
A crust he was trying to eat.
"Back through the filthy byways!
Back through the trampled slush!
Up to the crazy garret,
Wrapped in an awful hush;
My heart sank down at the threshold,
And I paused with a sudden thrill.
For there, in the silv'ry moonlight,
My Nance lay cold and still.
"Up to the blackened ceiling
The sunken eyes were cast-
I knew on those lips, all bloodless,
My name had been the last;
She called for her absent husband--
O God! Had I known--
Had called in vain, and, in anguish,
Had died in that den alone.
"Yes, there in a land of plenty,
Lay a loving woman dead.
Cruelly starved and murdered
For a loaf of the parish bread;
At yonder gate, last Christmas,
I craved for a human life,
You, who would feed us paupers,
What of my murdered wife?
"There, get ye gone to your dinners,
Don't mind me in the least,
Think of the happy paupers
Eating your Christmas feast-
And when you recount their blessings
In your parochial way,
Say what you did for me, too,
Only last Christmas Day."
--George R. Sims (1847-1922)
And the cold, bare walls are bright
With garlands of green and holly,
And the place is a pleasant sight;
For with clean-washed hands and faces
In a long and hungry line
The paupers sit at the table,
For this is the hour they dine.
And the guardians and their ladies,
Although the wind is east,
Have come in their furs and wrappers
To watch their charges feast;
To smile and be condescending,
Putting on pauper plates.
To be hosts at the workhouse banquet
They've paid for--with the rates.
0, the paupers are meek and lowly
With their 'Thank'ee kindly, mums!'
So long as they fill their stomachs
What matter it whence it comes?
But one of the old men mutters
And pushes his plate aside,
"Great God" he cries, "but it chokes me;
For this is the day she died!"
The guardians gazed in horror,
The master's face went white;
"Did a pauper refuse their pudding?"
"Could their ears believe aright?"
Then the ladies clutched their husbands,
Thinking the man would die,
Struck by a bolt, or something,
By the outraged One on high.
But the pauper sat for a moment,
Then rose 'mid silence grim,
For the others had ceased to chatter
And trembled in every limb:
He looked at the guardians' ladies,
Then, eyeing their lords, he said;
"I eat not the food of villains
Whose hands are foul and red;
"Whose victims cry for vengeance
From their dark, unhallowed graves."
"He's drunk," said the workhouse master,
"or else he's mad and raves."
"Not drunk or mad," cried the pauper,
"but only a haunted beast,
Who, torn by the hounds and mangled,
Declines the vulture's feast.
"I care not a curse for the guardians,
And I won't be dragged away;
Just let me have the fit out,
It's only on Christmas Day
That the black past comes to goad me
And prey on my burning brain;
I'll tell you the rest in a whisper--
I swear I won't shout again.
"Keep your hands off me, curse you!
Hear me right out to the end.
You come here to see how paupers
The season of Christmas spend;
You come here to watch us feeding,
As they watched the captured beast;
Here's why a penniless pauper
Spits on your paltry feast
"Do you think I will take your bounty
And let you smile and think
You're doing a noble action
With the parish's meat and drink?
Where is my wife, you traitors--
The poor old wife you slew?
Yes, by the God above me,
My Nance was killed by you!
"Last Winter my wife lay dying,
Starved in a filthy den.
I had never been to the parish--
I came to the parish then;
I swallowed my pride in coming!
For ere the ruin came
I held up my head as a trader,
And I bore a spotless name.
"I came to the parish, craving
Bread for a starving wife--
Bread for the woman who'd loved me
Through fifty years of life;
And what do you think they told me,
Mocking my awful grief,
That the house was open to us,
But they wouldn't give out relief.
"I slunk to the filthy alley--
'twas a cold, raw Christmas Eve--
And the bakers' shops were open,
Tempting a man to thieve;
But I clenched my fists together,
Holding my head awry,
So I came to her empty-handed
And mournfully told her why.
"Then I told her the house was open;
She had heard of the ways of "that,"
For her bloodless cheeks went crimson,
And up in her rags she sat,
Crying, 'Bide the Christmas here, John,
We've never had one apart;
I think I can bear the hunger--
The other would break my heart.'
"All through that eve I watched her,
Holding her hand in mine,
Praying the Lord and weeping
Till my lips were salt as brine;
I asked her once if she hungered,
And as she answered 'No.'
The moon shone in at the window,
Set in a wreath of snow.
"Then the room was bathed in glory,
And I saw in my darling's eyes
The faraway look of wonder
That comes when the spirit flies;
And her lips were parched and parted,
And her reason came and went.
For she raved of our home in Devon,
Where our happiest years were spent.
"And the accents, long forgotten,
Came back to the tongue once more.
For she talked like the country lassie
I woo'd by the Devon shore;
Then she rose to her feet and trembled,
And fell on the rags and moaned,
And, 'Give me a crust--I'm famished--
For the love of God,' she groaned.
"I rushed from the room like a madman
And flew to the workhouse gate,
Crying, 'Food for a dying woman!'
And the answer came, 'Too late;'
They drove me away with curses;
Then I fought with a dog in the street
And tore from the mongrel's clutches
A crust he was trying to eat.
"Back through the filthy byways!
Back through the trampled slush!
Up to the crazy garret,
Wrapped in an awful hush;
My heart sank down at the threshold,
And I paused with a sudden thrill.
For there, in the silv'ry moonlight,
My Nance lay cold and still.
"Up to the blackened ceiling
The sunken eyes were cast-
I knew on those lips, all bloodless,
My name had been the last;
She called for her absent husband--
O God! Had I known--
Had called in vain, and, in anguish,
Had died in that den alone.
"Yes, there in a land of plenty,
Lay a loving woman dead.
Cruelly starved and murdered
For a loaf of the parish bread;
At yonder gate, last Christmas,
I craved for a human life,
You, who would feed us paupers,
What of my murdered wife?
"There, get ye gone to your dinners,
Don't mind me in the least,
Think of the happy paupers
Eating your Christmas feast-
And when you recount their blessings
In your parochial way,
Say what you did for me, too,
Only last Christmas Day."
--George R. Sims (1847-1922)
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Soneto XIII
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
-W. Shakespeare
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
-W. Shakespeare
Thursday, December 17, 2009
O que é a poesia?
It's a whistle blown ripe in a trice,
It's the cracking of ice in a gale,
It's a night that turns green leaves to ice,
It's a duel of two nightingales.
It is sweet-peas run gloriously wild,
It's the world's twinking tears in the pod,
It is Figaro like hot hail hurled
From the flutes on the wet flower bed.
It is all that the night hopes to find
On the bottom of deep bathing pools,
It's the star carried to the fish-pond
In your hands, wet and trembling and cool.
This close air is as flat as the boards
In the pond. The sky's flat on its face.
It would be fun if these stars guffawed-
But the universe is a dull place.
B.L.Pasternak
It's the cracking of ice in a gale,
It's a night that turns green leaves to ice,
It's a duel of two nightingales.
It is sweet-peas run gloriously wild,
It's the world's twinking tears in the pod,
It is Figaro like hot hail hurled
From the flutes on the wet flower bed.
It is all that the night hopes to find
On the bottom of deep bathing pools,
It's the star carried to the fish-pond
In your hands, wet and trembling and cool.
This close air is as flat as the boards
In the pond. The sky's flat on its face.
It would be fun if these stars guffawed-
But the universe is a dull place.
B.L.Pasternak
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Vódega 2
"Don't you drink? I notice you speak slightingly of the bottle. I have drunk since I was fifteen and few things have given me more pleasure. When you work hard all day with your head and know you must work again the next day what else can change your ideas and make them run on a different plane like whisky? When you are cold and wet what else can warm you? Before an attack who can say anything that gives you the momentary well-being that rum does?... The only time it isn't good for you is when you write or when you fight. You have to do that cold. But it always helps my shooting. Modern life, too, is often a mechanical oppression and liquor is the only mechanical relief."
- E. Hemingway
- E. Hemingway
Travesti
Belle digne d'orner les antiques manoirs
Não são teus belos olhos que me prostram
Nem teu rosto, por mais jovem e belo
Mas sim tua voz, que ouço envergonhado
Enquanto me fala de sonhos e fatos
Sento-me a teu lado, e sinto-me, na verdade
Como se fosse eu, não tu, uma moça
Dessas que os chatos poetastros da arcádia
Punham sempre a enfiar rosas nos cabelos
Enquanto ouviam fascinadas a lira do poeta
Não são teus belos olhos que me prostram
Nem teu rosto, por mais jovem e belo
Mas sim tua voz, que ouço envergonhado
Enquanto me fala de sonhos e fatos
Sento-me a teu lado, e sinto-me, na verdade
Como se fosse eu, não tu, uma moça
Dessas que os chatos poetastros da arcádia
Punham sempre a enfiar rosas nos cabelos
Enquanto ouviam fascinadas a lira do poeta
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Carinho triste
A tua boca ingênua e triste
E voluptuosa, que eu saberia fazer
Sorrir em meio dos pesares e chorar em meio das alegrias,
A tua boca ingênua e triste
É dele quando ele bem quer.
Os teus seios miraculosos,
Que amamentaram sem perder
O precário frescor da pubescência,
Teus seios, que são como os seios intactos das virgens,
São dele quando ele bem quer.
O teu claro ventre,
Onde como no ventre da terra ouço bater
O mistério de novas vidas e de novos pensamentos,
Teu ventre, cujo contorno tem a pureza da linha de mar e
[céu ao pôr do sol,
É dele quando ele bem quer.
Só não é dele a tua tristeza.
Tristeza dos que perderam o gosto de viver.
Dos que a vida traiu impiedosamente.
Tristeza de criança que se deve afagar e acalentar.
(A minha tristeza também!...)
Só não é dele a tua tristeza, ó minha triste amiga!
Porque ele não a quer.
-Manuel Bandeira
E voluptuosa, que eu saberia fazer
Sorrir em meio dos pesares e chorar em meio das alegrias,
A tua boca ingênua e triste
É dele quando ele bem quer.
Os teus seios miraculosos,
Que amamentaram sem perder
O precário frescor da pubescência,
Teus seios, que são como os seios intactos das virgens,
São dele quando ele bem quer.
O teu claro ventre,
Onde como no ventre da terra ouço bater
O mistério de novas vidas e de novos pensamentos,
Teu ventre, cujo contorno tem a pureza da linha de mar e
[céu ao pôr do sol,
É dele quando ele bem quer.
Só não é dele a tua tristeza.
Tristeza dos que perderam o gosto de viver.
Dos que a vida traiu impiedosamente.
Tristeza de criança que se deve afagar e acalentar.
(A minha tristeza também!...)
Só não é dele a tua tristeza, ó minha triste amiga!
Porque ele não a quer.
-Manuel Bandeira
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Instituição total
Olhos costumam ser hipnóticos
Na velhusca tradição poética
Mas em ti, não são só os olhos
Teu corpo inteiro, sem excessão
Seios. Braços. Pernas. Lábios.
Bunda. Barriga. Costas. Mãos.
Todos resolvem se dedicar
Ao velho truque de mágica.
Quando estalarás os dedos?
Na velhusca tradição poética
Mas em ti, não são só os olhos
Teu corpo inteiro, sem excessão
Seios. Braços. Pernas. Lábios.
Bunda. Barriga. Costas. Mãos.
Todos resolvem se dedicar
Ao velho truque de mágica.
Quando estalarás os dedos?
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
5x5
Cinco poetas líricos
Pushkin
Akhmatova
Auden
Bandeira
Rilke
Cinco narrativas autobiográficas
Confissões de uma Máscara (Kamen no Kokuhaku), de Mishima Yukio (Kimitake Hiraoda)
A Fazenda Africana (Den Afrikanske Farm), de Isak Dinesen (Karen von Blixen-Finecke)
Bastard out of Carolina, de Dorothy Allison
O Amante (L'Amant), de Marguerite Duras
Contrato com Deus (A Contract with God), de Will Eisner
Cinco obras vermelhas
State of the Art, de Iain M. Banks
Le Front Rouge, de Louis Aragon
O 18 Brumário de Luís Napoleão (Der 18te Brumaire des Louis Napoleon), de Karl Marx
Man in Black, de John Cash*
Fome (Sult), de Knut Hamsun*
Cinco novelas
Annam, de Christophe Bataille
O Santo Pecador (Der Erwählte), de Thomas Mann
De Ratos e Homens (of Mice and Men), de John Steinbeck
O Alienista, de Machado de Assis
Novela de Xadrez (Schachnovelle), de Stefan Zweig
Cinco esculturas
O Laocoonte, atribuído a Agensandro, Atenodoro, e Polidoro
La Spirale, de Alexander Calder
Marsyas, de Anish Kapoor
O totem K'Alyaan, dos índios Tlingit
A fonte Stravinsky, de Niki de St. Phalle
*Sim, eu sei que o Knut Hamsun era fascista e o Johnny Cash um evangélico conservador. Mas leiam o livro e ouçam a letra.
Pushkin
Akhmatova
Auden
Bandeira
Rilke
Cinco narrativas autobiográficas
Confissões de uma Máscara (Kamen no Kokuhaku), de Mishima Yukio (Kimitake Hiraoda)
A Fazenda Africana (Den Afrikanske Farm), de Isak Dinesen (Karen von Blixen-Finecke)
Bastard out of Carolina, de Dorothy Allison
O Amante (L'Amant), de Marguerite Duras
Contrato com Deus (A Contract with God), de Will Eisner
Cinco obras vermelhas
State of the Art, de Iain M. Banks
Le Front Rouge, de Louis Aragon
O 18 Brumário de Luís Napoleão (Der 18te Brumaire des Louis Napoleon), de Karl Marx
Man in Black, de John Cash*
Fome (Sult), de Knut Hamsun*
Cinco novelas
Annam, de Christophe Bataille
O Santo Pecador (Der Erwählte), de Thomas Mann
De Ratos e Homens (of Mice and Men), de John Steinbeck
O Alienista, de Machado de Assis
Novela de Xadrez (Schachnovelle), de Stefan Zweig
Cinco esculturas
O Laocoonte, atribuído a Agensandro, Atenodoro, e Polidoro
La Spirale, de Alexander Calder
Marsyas, de Anish Kapoor
O totem K'Alyaan, dos índios Tlingit
A fonte Stravinsky, de Niki de St. Phalle
*Sim, eu sei que o Knut Hamsun era fascista e o Johnny Cash um evangélico conservador. Mas leiam o livro e ouçam a letra.
1909
La dame avait une robe
En ottoman violine
Et sa tunique brodée d’or
Etait composée de deux panneaux
S’attachant sur l’épaule
Les yeux dansants comme des anges
Elle riait elle riait
Elle avait un visage aux couleurs de France
Les yeux bleus les dents blanches et les lèvres très rouges
Elle avait un visage aux couleurs de France
Elle était décolletée en rond
Et coiffée à la Récamier
Avec de beaux bras nus
N’entendra-t-on jamais sonner minuit
La dame en robe d’ottoman violine
Et en tunique brodée d’or
Décolletée en rond
Promenait ses boucles
Son bandeau d’or
Et traînait ses petits souliers à boucles
Elle était si belle
Que tu n’aurais pas osé l’aimer
J’aimais les femmes atroces dans les quartiers énormes
Où naissaient chaque jour quelques êtres nouveaux
Le fer était leur sang la flamme leur cerveau
J’aimais j’aimais le peuple habile des machines
Le luxe et la beauté ne sont que son écume
Cette femme était si belle
Qu’elle me faisait peur
-Guillaume Apollinaire
En ottoman violine
Et sa tunique brodée d’or
Etait composée de deux panneaux
S’attachant sur l’épaule
Les yeux dansants comme des anges
Elle riait elle riait
Elle avait un visage aux couleurs de France
Les yeux bleus les dents blanches et les lèvres très rouges
Elle avait un visage aux couleurs de France
Elle était décolletée en rond
Et coiffée à la Récamier
Avec de beaux bras nus
N’entendra-t-on jamais sonner minuit
La dame en robe d’ottoman violine
Et en tunique brodée d’or
Décolletée en rond
Promenait ses boucles
Son bandeau d’or
Et traînait ses petits souliers à boucles
Elle était si belle
Que tu n’aurais pas osé l’aimer
J’aimais les femmes atroces dans les quartiers énormes
Où naissaient chaque jour quelques êtres nouveaux
Le fer était leur sang la flamme leur cerveau
J’aimais j’aimais le peuple habile des machines
Le luxe et la beauté ne sont que son écume
Cette femme était si belle
Qu’elle me faisait peur
-Guillaume Apollinaire
Friday, November 06, 2009
Cabaret 2
O Tell Me The Truth About Love
Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.
Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.
Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.
I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.
Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.
When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.
- WH Auden
Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.
Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.
Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.
I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.
Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.
When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.
- WH Auden
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Pangolin
Another armored animal--scale
lapping scale with spruce-cone regularity until they
form the uninterrupted central
tail-row! This near artichoke with head and legs and grit-equipped
gizzard,
the night miniature artist engineer is,
yes, Leonardo da Vinci's replica--
impressive animal and toiler of whom we seldom hear.
Armor seems extra. But for him,
the closing ear-ridge--
or bare ear lacking even this small
eminence and similarly safe
contracting nose and eye apertures
impenetrably closable, are not; a true ant-eater,
not cockroach eater, who endures
exhausting solitary trips through unfamiliar ground at night,
returning before sunrise, stepping in the moonlight,
on the moonlight peculiarly, that the outside
edges of his hands may bear the weight and save the claws
for digging. Serpentined about
the tree, he draws
away from danger unpugnaciously,
with no sound but a harmless hiss; keeping
the fragile grace of the Thomas-
of-Leighton Buzzard Westminster Abbey wrought-iron vine, or
rolls himself into a ball that has
power to defy all effort to unroll it; strongly intailed, neat
head for core, on neck not breaking off, with curled-in-feet.
Nevertheless he has sting-proof scales; and nest
of rocks closed with earth from inside, which can thus
darken.
Sun and moon and day and night and man and beast
each with a splendor
which man in all his vileness cannot
set aside; each with an excellence!
"Fearfull yet to be feared," the armored
ant-eater met by the driver-ant does not turn back, but
engulfs what he can, the flattened sword-
edged leafpoints on the tail and artichoke set leg- and body-plates
quivering violently when it retaliates
and swarms on him. Compact like the furled fringed frill
on the hat-brim of Gargallo's hollow iron head of a
matador, he will drop and will
then walk away
unhurt, although if unintruded on,
he cautiously works down the tree, helped
by his tail. The giant-pangolin-
tail, graceful tool, as a prop or hand or broom or ax, tipped like
an elephant's trunkwith special skin,
is not lost on this ant- and stone-swallowing uninjurable
artichoke which simpletons thought a living fable
whom the stones had nourished, whereas ants had done
so. Pangolins are not aggressive animals; between
dusk and day they have not unchain-like machine-like
form and frictionless creep of a thing
made graceful by adversities, con-
versities. To explain grace requires
a curious hand. If that which is at all were not forever,
why would those who graced the spires
with animals and gathered there to rest, on cold luxurious
low stone seats--a monk and monk and monk--between the thus
ingenious roof supports, have slaved to confuse
grace with a kindly manner, time in which to pay a debt,
the cure for sins, a graceful use
of what are yet
approved stone mullions branching out across
the perpendiculars? A sailboat
was the first machine. Pangolins, made
for moving quietly also, are models of exactness,
on four legs; on hind feet plantigrade,
with certain postures of a man. Beneath sun and moon, man slaving
to make his life more sweet, leaves half the flowers worth having,
needing to choose wisely how to use his strength;
a paper-maker like the wasp; a tractor of foodstuffs,
like the ant; spidering a length
of web from bluffs
above a stream; in fighting, mechanicked
like the pangolin; capsizing in
disheartenment. Bedizened or stark
naked, man, the self, the being we call human, writing-
masters to this world, griffons a dark
"Like does not like like that is abnoxious"; and writes error with four
r's. Among animals, one has sense of humor.
Humor saves a few steps, it saves years. Unignorant,
modest and unemotional, and all emotion,
he has everlasting vigor,
power to grow,
though there are few creatures who can make one
breathe faster and make one erecter.
Not afraid of anything is he,
and then goes cowering forth, tread paced to meet an obstacle
at every step. Consistent with the
formula--warm blood, no gills, two pairs of hands and a few hairs--
that
is a mammal; there he sits on his own habitat,
serge-clad, strong-shod. The prey of fear, he, always
curtailed, extinguished, thwarted by the dusk, work partly
done,
says to the alternating blaze,
"Again the sun!
anew each day; and new and new and new,
that comes into and steadies my soul."
- Marianne Moore.
lapping scale with spruce-cone regularity until they
form the uninterrupted central
tail-row! This near artichoke with head and legs and grit-equipped
gizzard,
the night miniature artist engineer is,
yes, Leonardo da Vinci's replica--
impressive animal and toiler of whom we seldom hear.
Armor seems extra. But for him,
the closing ear-ridge--
or bare ear lacking even this small
eminence and similarly safe
contracting nose and eye apertures
impenetrably closable, are not; a true ant-eater,
not cockroach eater, who endures
exhausting solitary trips through unfamiliar ground at night,
returning before sunrise, stepping in the moonlight,
on the moonlight peculiarly, that the outside
edges of his hands may bear the weight and save the claws
for digging. Serpentined about
the tree, he draws
away from danger unpugnaciously,
with no sound but a harmless hiss; keeping
the fragile grace of the Thomas-
of-Leighton Buzzard Westminster Abbey wrought-iron vine, or
rolls himself into a ball that has
power to defy all effort to unroll it; strongly intailed, neat
head for core, on neck not breaking off, with curled-in-feet.
Nevertheless he has sting-proof scales; and nest
of rocks closed with earth from inside, which can thus
darken.
Sun and moon and day and night and man and beast
each with a splendor
which man in all his vileness cannot
set aside; each with an excellence!
"Fearfull yet to be feared," the armored
ant-eater met by the driver-ant does not turn back, but
engulfs what he can, the flattened sword-
edged leafpoints on the tail and artichoke set leg- and body-plates
quivering violently when it retaliates
and swarms on him. Compact like the furled fringed frill
on the hat-brim of Gargallo's hollow iron head of a
matador, he will drop and will
then walk away
unhurt, although if unintruded on,
he cautiously works down the tree, helped
by his tail. The giant-pangolin-
tail, graceful tool, as a prop or hand or broom or ax, tipped like
an elephant's trunkwith special skin,
is not lost on this ant- and stone-swallowing uninjurable
artichoke which simpletons thought a living fable
whom the stones had nourished, whereas ants had done
so. Pangolins are not aggressive animals; between
dusk and day they have not unchain-like machine-like
form and frictionless creep of a thing
made graceful by adversities, con-
versities. To explain grace requires
a curious hand. If that which is at all were not forever,
why would those who graced the spires
with animals and gathered there to rest, on cold luxurious
low stone seats--a monk and monk and monk--between the thus
ingenious roof supports, have slaved to confuse
grace with a kindly manner, time in which to pay a debt,
the cure for sins, a graceful use
of what are yet
approved stone mullions branching out across
the perpendiculars? A sailboat
was the first machine. Pangolins, made
for moving quietly also, are models of exactness,
on four legs; on hind feet plantigrade,
with certain postures of a man. Beneath sun and moon, man slaving
to make his life more sweet, leaves half the flowers worth having,
needing to choose wisely how to use his strength;
a paper-maker like the wasp; a tractor of foodstuffs,
like the ant; spidering a length
of web from bluffs
above a stream; in fighting, mechanicked
like the pangolin; capsizing in
disheartenment. Bedizened or stark
naked, man, the self, the being we call human, writing-
masters to this world, griffons a dark
"Like does not like like that is abnoxious"; and writes error with four
r's. Among animals, one has sense of humor.
Humor saves a few steps, it saves years. Unignorant,
modest and unemotional, and all emotion,
he has everlasting vigor,
power to grow,
though there are few creatures who can make one
breathe faster and make one erecter.
Not afraid of anything is he,
and then goes cowering forth, tread paced to meet an obstacle
at every step. Consistent with the
formula--warm blood, no gills, two pairs of hands and a few hairs--
that
is a mammal; there he sits on his own habitat,
serge-clad, strong-shod. The prey of fear, he, always
curtailed, extinguished, thwarted by the dusk, work partly
done,
says to the alternating blaze,
"Again the sun!
anew each day; and new and new and new,
that comes into and steadies my soul."
- Marianne Moore.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
ee emo
tenho tantos cadernos
e nada que neles escreva
e minh'alma, vazia,
se enche de demônios
inveja, cobiça, orgulho
Legião, descarnado
se posta no meu ombro
sussurrando sua letargia
as páginas, nem sempre brancas:
bege, amarelas, recicladas
mas todas imaculadas
me olham-não-olham,
a reprovação delas é muda
os cadernos vazios. quase.
soam forte quando fechados
de novo e de novo e de novo.
e nada que neles escreva
e minh'alma, vazia,
se enche de demônios
inveja, cobiça, orgulho
Legião, descarnado
se posta no meu ombro
sussurrando sua letargia
as páginas, nem sempre brancas:
bege, amarelas, recicladas
mas todas imaculadas
me olham-não-olham,
a reprovação delas é muda
os cadernos vazios. quase.
soam forte quando fechados
de novo e de novo e de novo.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Assombração II
Wie soll ich meine Seele halten, daß
sie nicht an deine rührt? Wie soll ich sie
hinheben über dich zu andern Dingen?
Ach gerne möcht ich sie bei irgendwas
Verlorenem im Dunkel unterbringen
an einer fremden stillen Stelle, die
nicht weiterschwingt, wenn deine Tiefen schwingen.
Doch alles, was uns anrührt, dich und mich,
nimmt uns zusammen wie ein Bogenstrich,
der aus zwei Saiten eine Stimme zieht.
Auf welches Instrument sind wir gespannt?
Und welcher Geiger hat uns in der Hand?
O süßes Lied.
-Rilke
sie nicht an deine rührt? Wie soll ich sie
hinheben über dich zu andern Dingen?
Ach gerne möcht ich sie bei irgendwas
Verlorenem im Dunkel unterbringen
an einer fremden stillen Stelle, die
nicht weiterschwingt, wenn deine Tiefen schwingen.
Doch alles, was uns anrührt, dich und mich,
nimmt uns zusammen wie ein Bogenstrich,
der aus zwei Saiten eine Stimme zieht.
Auf welches Instrument sind wir gespannt?
Und welcher Geiger hat uns in der Hand?
O süßes Lied.
-Rilke
Monday, September 21, 2009
Assombração
I thought you had forgotten, heart,
Your ability to suffer pain.
That easy gift would come, I thought,
No more again! No more again!
Gone were the raptures and the griefs
And the dreams you half-believed. . .
But now I know, while beauty lives
so long will live my power to grieve.
-Pushkin
Your ability to suffer pain.
That easy gift would come, I thought,
No more again! No more again!
Gone were the raptures and the griefs
And the dreams you half-believed. . .
But now I know, while beauty lives
so long will live my power to grieve.
-Pushkin
Thursday, September 03, 2009
Mighty Mightor
minha mequetrefe maldade
será, tão-somente
negar-te meu não
agindo assim
aliteradamente
direi das minhas dúvidas
dos teus desejos
de doçuras e dissabores
para então, enfim
beijar tua boca,
beliscar tua bunda
e, nos teus cabelos,
cafuné
será, tão-somente
negar-te meu não
agindo assim
aliteradamente
direi das minhas dúvidas
dos teus desejos
de doçuras e dissabores
para então, enfim
beijar tua boca,
beliscar tua bunda
e, nos teus cabelos,
cafuné
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Law, Like Love
Do WH Auden, que é pra mim o melhor poeta do inglês:
Law, say the gardeners, is the sun,
Law is the one
All gardeners obey
To-morrow, yesterday, to-day.
Law is the wisdom of the old,
The impotent grandfathers feebly scold;
The grandchildren put out a treble tongue,
Law is the senses of the young.
Law, says the priest with a priestly look,
Expounding to an unpriestly people,
Law is the words in my priestly book,
Law is my pulpit and my steeple.
Law, says the judge as he looks down his nose,
Speaking clearly and most severely,
Law is as I've told you before,
Law is as you know I suppose,
Law is but let me explain it once more,
Law is The Law.
Yet law-abiding scholars write:
Law is neither wrong nor right,
Law is only crimes
Punished by places and by times,
Law is the clothes men wear
Anytime, anywhere,
Law is Good morning and Good night.
Others say, Law is our Fate;
Others say, Law is our State;
Others say, others say
Law is no more,
Law has gone away.
And always the loud angry crowd,
Very angry and very loud,
Law is We,
And always the soft idiot softly Me.
If we, dear, know we know no more
Than they about the Law,
If I no more than you
Know what we should and should not do
Except that all agree
Gladly or miserably
That the Law is
And that all know this
If therefore thinking it absurd
To identify Law with some other word,
Unlike so many men
I cannot say Law is again,
No more than they can we suppress
The universal wish to guess
Or slip out of our own position
Into an unconcerned condition.
Although I can at least confine
Your vanity and mine
To stating timidly
A timid similarity,
We shall boast anyway:
Like love I say.
Like love we don't know where or why,
Like love we can't compel or fly,
Like love we often weep,
Like love we seldom keep.
Law, say the gardeners, is the sun,
Law is the one
All gardeners obey
To-morrow, yesterday, to-day.
Law is the wisdom of the old,
The impotent grandfathers feebly scold;
The grandchildren put out a treble tongue,
Law is the senses of the young.
Law, says the priest with a priestly look,
Expounding to an unpriestly people,
Law is the words in my priestly book,
Law is my pulpit and my steeple.
Law, says the judge as he looks down his nose,
Speaking clearly and most severely,
Law is as I've told you before,
Law is as you know I suppose,
Law is but let me explain it once more,
Law is The Law.
Yet law-abiding scholars write:
Law is neither wrong nor right,
Law is only crimes
Punished by places and by times,
Law is the clothes men wear
Anytime, anywhere,
Law is Good morning and Good night.
Others say, Law is our Fate;
Others say, Law is our State;
Others say, others say
Law is no more,
Law has gone away.
And always the loud angry crowd,
Very angry and very loud,
Law is We,
And always the soft idiot softly Me.
If we, dear, know we know no more
Than they about the Law,
If I no more than you
Know what we should and should not do
Except that all agree
Gladly or miserably
That the Law is
And that all know this
If therefore thinking it absurd
To identify Law with some other word,
Unlike so many men
I cannot say Law is again,
No more than they can we suppress
The universal wish to guess
Or slip out of our own position
Into an unconcerned condition.
Although I can at least confine
Your vanity and mine
To stating timidly
A timid similarity,
We shall boast anyway:
Like love I say.
Like love we don't know where or why,
Like love we can't compel or fly,
Like love we often weep,
Like love we seldom keep.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Bocage
A frouxidão no amor é uma ofensa,
Ofensa que se eleva a grau supremo;
Paixão requer paixão, fervor e extremo;
Com extremo e fervor se recompensa.
Vê qual sou, vê qual és, vê que diferença!
Eu descoro, eu praguejo, eu ardo, eu gemo;
Eu choro, eu desespero, eu clamo, eu tremo;
Em sombras a razão se me condensa.
Tu só tens gratidão, só tens brandura,
E antes que um coração pouco amoroso
Quisera ver-te uma alma ingrata e dura.
Talvez me enfadaria aspecto iroso,
Mas de teu peito a lânguida ternura
Tem-me cativo e não me faz ditoso.
Ofensa que se eleva a grau supremo;
Paixão requer paixão, fervor e extremo;
Com extremo e fervor se recompensa.
Vê qual sou, vê qual és, vê que diferença!
Eu descoro, eu praguejo, eu ardo, eu gemo;
Eu choro, eu desespero, eu clamo, eu tremo;
Em sombras a razão se me condensa.
Tu só tens gratidão, só tens brandura,
E antes que um coração pouco amoroso
Quisera ver-te uma alma ingrata e dura.
Talvez me enfadaria aspecto iroso,
Mas de teu peito a lânguida ternura
Tem-me cativo e não me faz ditoso.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
Madrigal Triste
I
Que m'importe que tu sois sage?
Sois belle! Et sois triste! Les pleurs
Ajoutent un charme au visage,
Comme le fleuve au paysage;
L'orage rajeunit les fleurs.
Je t'aime surtout quand la joie
S'enfuit de ton front terrassé;
Quand ton coeur dans l'horreur se noie;
Quand sur ton présent se déploie
Le nuage affreux du passé.
Je t'aime quand ton grand oeil verse
Une eau chaude comme le sang;
Quand, malgré ma main qui te berce,
Ton angoisse, trop lourde, perce
Comme un râle d'agonisant.
J'aspire, volupté divine!
Hymne profond, délicieux!
Tous les sanglots de ta poitrine,
Et crois que ton coeur s'illumine
Des perles que versent tes yeux.
II
Je sais que ton coeur, qui regorge
De vieux amours déracinés,
Flamboie encor comme une forge,
Et que tu couves sous ta gorge
Un peu de l'orgueil des damnés;
Mais tant, ma chère, que tes rêves
N'auront pas reflété l'Enfer,
Et qu'en un cauchemar sans trêves,
Songeant de poisons et de glaives,
Éprise de poudre et de fer,
N'ouvrant à chacun qu'avec crainte,
Déchiffrant le malheur partout,
Te convulsant quand l'heure tinte,
Tu n'auras pas senti l'étreinte
De l'irrésistible Dégoût,
Tu ne pourras, esclave reine
Qui ne m'aimes qu'avec effroi,
Dans l'horreur de la nuit malsaine
Me dire, l'âme de cris pleine:
«Je suis ton égale, ô mon Roi!»
— Charles Baudelaire
Que m'importe que tu sois sage?
Sois belle! Et sois triste! Les pleurs
Ajoutent un charme au visage,
Comme le fleuve au paysage;
L'orage rajeunit les fleurs.
Je t'aime surtout quand la joie
S'enfuit de ton front terrassé;
Quand ton coeur dans l'horreur se noie;
Quand sur ton présent se déploie
Le nuage affreux du passé.
Je t'aime quand ton grand oeil verse
Une eau chaude comme le sang;
Quand, malgré ma main qui te berce,
Ton angoisse, trop lourde, perce
Comme un râle d'agonisant.
J'aspire, volupté divine!
Hymne profond, délicieux!
Tous les sanglots de ta poitrine,
Et crois que ton coeur s'illumine
Des perles que versent tes yeux.
II
Je sais que ton coeur, qui regorge
De vieux amours déracinés,
Flamboie encor comme une forge,
Et que tu couves sous ta gorge
Un peu de l'orgueil des damnés;
Mais tant, ma chère, que tes rêves
N'auront pas reflété l'Enfer,
Et qu'en un cauchemar sans trêves,
Songeant de poisons et de glaives,
Éprise de poudre et de fer,
N'ouvrant à chacun qu'avec crainte,
Déchiffrant le malheur partout,
Te convulsant quand l'heure tinte,
Tu n'auras pas senti l'étreinte
De l'irrésistible Dégoût,
Tu ne pourras, esclave reine
Qui ne m'aimes qu'avec effroi,
Dans l'horreur de la nuit malsaine
Me dire, l'âme de cris pleine:
«Je suis ton égale, ô mon Roi!»
— Charles Baudelaire
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Conto de fadas
Você:
Bruxa bonita
Princesa pirata
Bicho Papão
Cuca que pega
Fada (foda) errada
Assombração
Você, que só se vê com o canto do
olho, assim de lado, repente, esguelha
que, se olhada de frente, enlouquece
Nada. Teu conto de fadas é outro
nele não há cegos nem nada
Há sim, e muito melhor,
uma bela menina levada.
Bruxa bonita
Princesa pirata
Bicho Papão
Cuca que pega
Fada (foda) errada
Assombração
Você, que só se vê com o canto do
olho, assim de lado, repente, esguelha
que, se olhada de frente, enlouquece
Nada. Teu conto de fadas é outro
nele não há cegos nem nada
Há sim, e muito melhor,
uma bela menina levada.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Poema do café à noite
Teus olhos são tão límpidos...
Neles, não há o veneno verde
Da dama crioula de Baudelaire.
O que há, e me arranca os ossos
É uma sutil clareza de mistério
Que nenhuma luz do dia deixa ver
Escrita clara que não entendo
Incógnita absoluta, mistério solar
E ,me perco. Como alguém
Que se afogasse em pleno ar.
Neles, não há o veneno verde
Da dama crioula de Baudelaire.
O que há, e me arranca os ossos
É uma sutil clareza de mistério
Que nenhuma luz do dia deixa ver
Escrita clara que não entendo
Incógnita absoluta, mistério solar
E ,me perco. Como alguém
Que se afogasse em pleno ar.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Poema byez Gheroia
O poema a seguir consiste inteiramente de frases cometidas pelo Bush, arrumadas em versos pelo colunista Richard Thompson, do Washington Post.
------
MAKE THE PIE HIGHER
by George W. Bush
I think we all agree, the past is over.
This is still a dangerous world.
It's a world of madmen and uncertainty
and potential mental losses.
Rarely is the question asked
Is our children learning?
Will the highways of the internet
become more few?
How many hands have I shaked?
They misunderestimate me.
I am a pitbull on the pantleg of opportunity.
I know that the human being
and the fish can coexist.
Families is where our nation finds hope,
where our wings take dream.
Put food on your family!
Knock down the tollbooth!
Vulcanize Society!
Make the pie higher! Make the pie higher!
------
MAKE THE PIE HIGHER
by George W. Bush
I think we all agree, the past is over.
This is still a dangerous world.
It's a world of madmen and uncertainty
and potential mental losses.
Rarely is the question asked
Is our children learning?
Will the highways of the internet
become more few?
How many hands have I shaked?
They misunderestimate me.
I am a pitbull on the pantleg of opportunity.
I know that the human being
and the fish can coexist.
Families is where our nation finds hope,
where our wings take dream.
Put food on your family!
Knock down the tollbooth!
Vulcanize Society!
Make the pie higher! Make the pie higher!
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