28.3.15
O que cresce no Deserto
Perto de Ispaão há uma ameixeira que dá dois tipos de frutos: as ameixas que são doces e os espaços entre as ameixas que são silenciosos. São estes últimos que, ao fim da tarde, exibem o pôr-do-sol através dos ramos.
(Peter Stamboliski, Poesia)
Afonso Cruz, Enciclopédia da Estória Universal - Recolha de Alexandria
26.3.15
Conversation with a Stone
I knock at the stone’s front door.
"It’s only me, let me come in.
I want to enter your insides,
have a look round,
breathe my fill of you.”
"Go away," says the stone.
"I’m shut tight.
Even if you break me to pieces,
we’ll all still be closed.
You can grind us to sand,
we still won’t let you in.”
I knock at the stone’s front door.
"It’s only me, let me come in.
I’ve come out of pure curiosity.
Only life can quench it.
I mean to stroll through your palace,
then go calling on a leaf, a drop of water.
I don’t have much time.
My mortality should touch you.”
"I’m made of stone," says the stone,
"and must therefore keep a straight face.
Go away.
I don’t have the muscles to laugh.”
I knock at the stone’s front door.
"It’s only me, let me come in.
I hear you have great empty halls inside you,
unseen, their beauty in vain,
soundless, not echoing anyone’s steps.
Admit you don’t know them well yourself.”
"Great and empty, true enough," says the stone,
"but there isn’t any room.
Beautiful, perhaps, but not to the taste
of your poor senses.
You may get to know me, but you’ll never know me through.
My whole surface is turned toward you,
all my insides turned away.”
I knock at the stone’s front door.
"It’s only me, let me come in.
I don’t seek refuge for eternity.
I’m not unhappy.
I’m not homeless.
My world is worth returning to.
I’ll enter and exit empty-handed.
And my proof I was there
will be only words,
which no one will believe.”
"You shall not enter," says the stone.
"You lack the sense of taking part.
No other sense can make up for your missing sense of taking part.
Even sight heightened to become all-seeing
will do you no good without a sense of taking part.
You shall not enter, you have only a sense of what that sense should be,
only its seed, imagination.”
I knock at the stone’s front door.
"It’s only me, let me come in.
I haven’t got two thousand centuries,
so let me come under your roof.”
"If you don’t believe me," says the stone,
"just ask the leaf, it will tell you the same.
Ask a drop of water, it will say what the leaf has said.
And, finally, ask a hair from your own head.
I am bursting with laughter, yes, laughter, vast laughter,
although I don’t know how to laugh.”
I knock at the stone’s front door.
"It’s only me, let me come in."
"I don’t have a door," says the stone.
[poema traduzido aqui]
"It’s only me, let me come in.
I want to enter your insides,
have a look round,
breathe my fill of you.”
"Go away," says the stone.
"I’m shut tight.
Even if you break me to pieces,
we’ll all still be closed.
You can grind us to sand,
we still won’t let you in.”
I knock at the stone’s front door.
"It’s only me, let me come in.
I’ve come out of pure curiosity.
Only life can quench it.
I mean to stroll through your palace,
then go calling on a leaf, a drop of water.
I don’t have much time.
My mortality should touch you.”
"I’m made of stone," says the stone,
"and must therefore keep a straight face.
Go away.
I don’t have the muscles to laugh.”
I knock at the stone’s front door.
"It’s only me, let me come in.
I hear you have great empty halls inside you,
unseen, their beauty in vain,
soundless, not echoing anyone’s steps.
Admit you don’t know them well yourself.”
"Great and empty, true enough," says the stone,
"but there isn’t any room.
Beautiful, perhaps, but not to the taste
of your poor senses.
You may get to know me, but you’ll never know me through.
My whole surface is turned toward you,
all my insides turned away.”
I knock at the stone’s front door.
"It’s only me, let me come in.
I don’t seek refuge for eternity.
I’m not unhappy.
I’m not homeless.
My world is worth returning to.
I’ll enter and exit empty-handed.
And my proof I was there
will be only words,
which no one will believe.”
"You shall not enter," says the stone.
"You lack the sense of taking part.
No other sense can make up for your missing sense of taking part.
Even sight heightened to become all-seeing
will do you no good without a sense of taking part.
You shall not enter, you have only a sense of what that sense should be,
only its seed, imagination.”
I knock at the stone’s front door.
"It’s only me, let me come in.
I haven’t got two thousand centuries,
so let me come under your roof.”
"If you don’t believe me," says the stone,
"just ask the leaf, it will tell you the same.
Ask a drop of water, it will say what the leaf has said.
And, finally, ask a hair from your own head.
I am bursting with laughter, yes, laughter, vast laughter,
although I don’t know how to laugh.”
I knock at the stone’s front door.
"It’s only me, let me come in."
"I don’t have a door," says the stone.
[poema traduzido aqui]
24.3.15
Outro Tempo
Não há ninguém que contemple
O mais belo dos ocasos
Após um quarto de hora.
Portanto, amor, passo o tempo,
Até te ver, a escrever
Todo e qualquer disparate
Que à cabeça me vem.
W. H. Auden
Após um quarto de hora.
Portanto, amor, passo o tempo,
Até te ver, a escrever
Todo e qualquer disparate
Que à cabeça me vem.
W. H. Auden
10.3.15
8.3.15
4.3.15
A sombra
A um dia assim como o de hoje costumo chamar, no meu calão, de poeta em férias, dia «incoincidente».
O céu desde manhã que se conserva azul com gradações cruas de quadro mau; as árvores escorrem verde e chilreios de pássaros; as ruas riscam-se da rapidez das sombras. (...)
Pois foi precisamente hoje - dia de sol, de andorinhas, de árvores azuis, etc. - que os homens resolveram não coincidir com a natureza.
José Gomes Ferreira
Minha alma é um cadáver pálido, desfeito.
As suas ossadas
Quem sabe onde estão?
Trago as mãos cruzadas,
Pesam-me no peito.
Quem sabe se a lama onde hoje me deito
Dará flor aos vivos que dizem que não?
[obrigada, querida Sónia]
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