Com ti, aprendi nova gramática
Desapareceram tempos antigos
Criaram-se novos. Formas
Nomes, cores palavras
Contigo aprendi a mudez
De amar em perfeições de futuros
Em teus olhos, uma dulcíssíssima embriagues
Descria e recria cada um de meus cansados ossos
Mariliamente, me vejo
Dançando entre as esferas
Afogando o mar e o Tejo
Queimando o Sol e as eras
Mariliamente chamando
A mim meu desconsolo
De só ter para te dar
Um corpo, uma alma, um mar
Friday, June 29, 2012
Monday, May 21, 2012
Pouco
De ti, me bastam poucos instantes
A eternidade, pra começar, basta.
Teus quero apenas, ocasionalmente
Todos os momentos.
Não peço muito - apenas tudo
Nada além disso.
(Se não for pedir demais.)
E prazeres negros e mornos
Venenos baudelairianos
Vertigens insuportáveis
A paixão de um momento.
A ti peço, tão somente, apenas
Tudo.
A eternidade, pra começar, basta.
Teus quero apenas, ocasionalmente
Todos os momentos.
Não peço muito - apenas tudo
Nada além disso.
(Se não for pedir demais.)
E prazeres negros e mornos
Venenos baudelairianos
Vertigens insuportáveis
A paixão de um momento.
A ti peço, tão somente, apenas
Tudo.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Pain
it's an old companion,
pain-
almost a friend.
pain is closer than your bones
throbs like a heart
follows your steps.
it's less than a lover, pain.
(if faithful to a fault, for sure.)
it keeps watch at night, all by its lonesome
it plays with you at noon, be the day cold or warm
it's there for you.
it's yours, of that no doubt at all.
it can don many masks, play many roles
soft as a courtesan, hard as a whore's lips smacking on crack
but always there, somewhere.
your dog will never be as faithful as it,
pain.
pain-
almost a friend.
pain is closer than your bones
throbs like a heart
follows your steps.
it's less than a lover, pain.
(if faithful to a fault, for sure.)
it keeps watch at night, all by its lonesome
it plays with you at noon, be the day cold or warm
it's there for you.
it's yours, of that no doubt at all.
it can don many masks, play many roles
soft as a courtesan, hard as a whore's lips smacking on crack
but always there, somewhere.
your dog will never be as faithful as it,
pain.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Réquiem
No foreign sky protected me,
no stranger's wing shielded my face.
I stand as witness to the common lot,
survivor of that time, that place.
Instead of a Preface
In the terrible years of Yezhov terror I spent seventeen months waiting in line outside the prison in Leningrad. One day somebody in the crowd identified me. Standing behind me was a woman with lips blue from the cold, who had, of course, never heard me called by name before. Now she started out of the torpor common to us all and asked me in a whisper (everyone whispered there):
"Can you describe this?"
And I said: "I can."
Then something like a smile passed fleetingly over what had once been her face.
— Leningrad, 1 April 1957
Such grief might make the mountain stoop,
reverse the waters where they flow,
but cannot burst these ponderous bolts
that block us from the prison cells
crowded with mortal woe...
For some the wind can fleshly blow,
for some the sunlight fade at ease,
but we, made partners in our dread,
hear but the grating of the keys,
and heavy-booted soldiers' tread.
As if for early mass, we rose
and each day walked the wilderness,
trudging through silent street and square,
to congregate, less live than dead.
Where are they now, my nameless friends
from those two years I spent in hell?
What specters mock them now, amid
the fury of Siberian snows,
or in the blighted circle of the moon?
To them I cry, Hail and Farewell!
-Anna Akhmatova
no stranger's wing shielded my face.
I stand as witness to the common lot,
survivor of that time, that place.
Instead of a Preface
In the terrible years of Yezhov terror I spent seventeen months waiting in line outside the prison in Leningrad. One day somebody in the crowd identified me. Standing behind me was a woman with lips blue from the cold, who had, of course, never heard me called by name before. Now she started out of the torpor common to us all and asked me in a whisper (everyone whispered there):
"Can you describe this?"
And I said: "I can."
Then something like a smile passed fleetingly over what had once been her face.
— Leningrad, 1 April 1957
Such grief might make the mountain stoop,
reverse the waters where they flow,
but cannot burst these ponderous bolts
that block us from the prison cells
crowded with mortal woe...
For some the wind can fleshly blow,
for some the sunlight fade at ease,
but we, made partners in our dread,
hear but the grating of the keys,
and heavy-booted soldiers' tread.
As if for early mass, we rose
and each day walked the wilderness,
trudging through silent street and square,
to congregate, less live than dead.
Where are they now, my nameless friends
from those two years I spent in hell?
What specters mock them now, amid
the fury of Siberian snows,
or in the blighted circle of the moon?
To them I cry, Hail and Farewell!
-Anna Akhmatova
Wednesday, January 04, 2012
The Caravan
In the desert
it is cold
and a great mass of sound hits
you like an angry fist to the
stomach.
Again.
Again.
Jarring bones.
Shaking stone, it
is the tread of heavy beasts.
Their dim shapes like mountains at evening
capped with mahouts robed in dirty snow.
Amid those grey columns of heavy sound
flits the silver jingling of bells.
Laughter climbs their sides
festooned as they are with creakings and chortlings.
Again.
Again.
Jarring bones.
Rasing dust.
The caravan and its sounds pass you by.
You, who are
alone
in the desert.
it is cold
and a great mass of sound hits
you like an angry fist to the
stomach.
Again.
Again.
Jarring bones.
Shaking stone, it
is the tread of heavy beasts.
Their dim shapes like mountains at evening
capped with mahouts robed in dirty snow.
Amid those grey columns of heavy sound
flits the silver jingling of bells.
Laughter climbs their sides
festooned as they are with creakings and chortlings.
Again.
Again.
Jarring bones.
Rasing dust.
The caravan and its sounds pass you by.
You, who are
alone
in the desert.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Leitor hipócrita
Tenho um enorme tédio de mim.
Bastam-me alguns minutos com um amigo
contigo
com um mendigo, motorneiro, ascensorista
para que pense: meu deus! Que personagem
mais enfadonho, sem graça, enfastiado
é esse que lhes olha por trás desses óculos?
Por que não correm? Não repararam?
Têm o medo de que eu lhes persiga?
Será gentileza?
Bastam-me alguns minutos com um amigo
contigo
com um mendigo, motorneiro, ascensorista
para que pense: meu deus! Que personagem
mais enfadonho, sem graça, enfastiado
é esse que lhes olha por trás desses óculos?
Por que não correm? Não repararam?
Têm o medo de que eu lhes persiga?
Será gentileza?
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
A caravana
Como montanhas de sombra que avançam
Lentamente
Ritmicamente
Pesadamente
As bestas da caravana,
como neve suja as vestes de seus mahouts.
Dessas massas, vastos cumulonimbos,
indistintos contra o poente,
apreendes: primeiro os sons
o passo surdo, ouvido em teu peito
tremente de chãos e assustador.
Os sinos de prata.
O resfolegar.
O ranger de couros e cordas.
Os quase humanos gritos dos mahouts.
Vês uma cordilheira passar por ti
No frio do deserto.
Não vês os homens que comerciam e mercadejam
Não vês as bestas que sofrem e sangram
Não vês, tanto quanto ouves
Grandes massas de som à tua volta.
Se foi, a caravana. E estás só.
No frio.
No deserto.
Lentamente
Ritmicamente
Pesadamente
As bestas da caravana,
como neve suja as vestes de seus mahouts.
Dessas massas, vastos cumulonimbos,
indistintos contra o poente,
apreendes: primeiro os sons
o passo surdo, ouvido em teu peito
tremente de chãos e assustador.
Os sinos de prata.
O resfolegar.
O ranger de couros e cordas.
Os quase humanos gritos dos mahouts.
Vês uma cordilheira passar por ti
No frio do deserto.
Não vês os homens que comerciam e mercadejam
Não vês as bestas que sofrem e sangram
Não vês, tanto quanto ouves
Grandes massas de som à tua volta.
Se foi, a caravana. E estás só.
No frio.
No deserto.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)