Vai ver.
quinta-feira, 30 de setembro de 2010
O que resta depois da flor
O que resta depois da flor
é uma coisa sem dentes,
recordando
o mistério da flor, a medonha agulha
para gravar na pele as sílabas
da dor: e a vida
é como uma irritação, ou uma incomodidade
de ser ainda nada,
.............................como uma recordação.
Leopoldo María Panero, Conversação, Pedro Serra (trad.), Moby Dick - Inimigo Rumor, 2003.
é uma coisa sem dentes,
recordando
o mistério da flor, a medonha agulha
para gravar na pele as sílabas
da dor: e a vida
é como uma irritação, ou uma incomodidade
de ser ainda nada,
.............................como uma recordação.
Leopoldo María Panero, Conversação, Pedro Serra (trad.), Moby Dick - Inimigo Rumor, 2003.
Coisas que me fazem querer parar de ler um texto
Lendo sobre um filme, dar com chavões da categoria de «em glorioso preto e branco».
Quem andou na sombra
Quem andou na sombra, como o vento
descalço como se não andasse
como se sob a noite andasse
contente com as estrelas
silencioso como o milagre
de existir ainda, em frente das estrelas
e contra o milagre do ar.
Leopoldo María Panero, Conversação, Pedro Serra (trad.), Moby Dick - Inimigo Rumor, 2003.
descalço como se não andasse
como se sob a noite andasse
contente com as estrelas
silencioso como o milagre
de existir ainda, em frente das estrelas
e contra o milagre do ar.
Leopoldo María Panero, Conversação, Pedro Serra (trad.), Moby Dick - Inimigo Rumor, 2003.
E resta
E resta
..............detrás do nada um ofegar tão-só
perseguido pelas árvores, perseguido pelos
..........................bosques
que sussurram ao ouvido palavras obscenas
dizendo que não és homem és
menos que um sussuro.
Leopoldo María Panero, Conversação, Pedro Serra (trad.), Moby Dick - Inimigo Rumor, 2003.
..............detrás do nada um ofegar tão-só
perseguido pelas árvores, perseguido pelos
..........................bosques
que sussurram ao ouvido palavras obscenas
dizendo que não és homem és
menos que um sussuro.
Leopoldo María Panero, Conversação, Pedro Serra (trad.), Moby Dick - Inimigo Rumor, 2003.
quarta-feira, 29 de setembro de 2010
terça-feira, 28 de setembro de 2010
Sobre estas duas absolvições
Ésquilo escreveu duas trilogias que têm no seu centro uma absolvição: a Oresteia e as Danaides. A primeira chegou até nós completa, da outra restam apenas a tragédia inicial, as Suplicantes, e alguns fragmentos. Na Oresteia, Atena absolve Orestes de um crime que Orestes cometeu: o matricídio. Na outra, Afrodite absolve Hipermnestra da acusação de não ter cometido um crime, de não ter morto o seu esposo. Sobre estas duas absolvições se funda a Atenas clássica.
Roberto Calasso, As Núpcias de Cadmo e Harmonia, Maria Jorge Vilar de Figueiredo (trad.), Livros Cotovia, 1990.
segunda-feira, 27 de setembro de 2010
Long Poems
In favor of
podiatrists,
tippling
night nurses,
corpse washers, bathroom attendants.
Against
celebrity hairdressers,
society weddings,
Brecht LPs,
realistic literature.
Günter Eich, Angina Days: Selected Poems, Michael Hoffman (trad.), Princeton University Press, 2010.
podiatrists,
tippling
night nurses,
corpse washers, bathroom attendants.
Against
celebrity hairdressers,
society weddings,
Brecht LPs,
realistic literature.
domingo, 26 de setembro de 2010
Voyeurismo
Hesitei longamente mas decido-me a contar: hoje vi o Umberto Eco com uma primeira edição do Ulysses na mão. Por cima da cabeça (mas dentro da montra, bem certo) estava uma cópia do segundo fólio de Shakespeare. Ao nível da barriga uma primeira edição da Anatomy of Melancholy do Burton.
Como se faz nos anúncios a casas, contactem-me se estiverem interessados.
Vopli Vidopliassova - Dance-se (ou Dancem)
Pelo vídeo, a queda da União Soviética teve dedo destes senhores.
O nome da banda significa: "Os Gritos de Vidopliassov", sendo o tal do Vidopliassov uma personagem da novela de Dostoiévski A Aldeia de Stepantchikovo e os seus Habitantes que assim assina certas cartas previsivelmente lamechas. Disponível nas traduções do costume.
Chamo a atenção para o "no description available" do Youtube quanto ao vídeo em causa. Apropriado.
"I Fidanzati" de Ermanno Olmi, 1963
Deste filme, entre tantas imagens, guarda-se uma tarde de chuva na Sicília. Este diálogo final. A música no início. A festa de Carnaval.
From: Dreams
I envy all those who are capable of forgetting,
who calmly go off into dreamless sleep.
I even envy myself for odd moments of blind contentment,
reaching a vacation destination, whether North Sea spa or Notre
Dame,
or with a nice drop of Burgundy on pay day.
But basically I’m of the view that even a clear conscience is not
sufficient,
and I doubt the quality of the sleep in which we all rock ourselves.
There is no such thing as pure happiness any more (was there
ever?),
and I should like to rouse this or that sleeper,
and say, there, that’s enough.
Where you once leaped up out of the arms of love
because a scream reached your ear, the scream
that the earth utters incessantly, which you
take to be the patter of raindrops or the soughing of wind.
Look at what’s happening: prison and torture,
blindness and amputation, death in many guises,
disembodied pain and dread that stands in for life.
Th e earth collects up the groans from many mouths,
and the expressions of people you love are full of horror.
Everything that happens concerns you.
*
At the given hour, I will nonetheless think that the world was
beautiful.
I will think of friends, of the kindness that can beautify an ugly face,
of love that causes the eyes to light up.
I will think of the dog, my playmate when I was a boy,
of the blue lupins on the coast of East Prussia where I once went on
holiday.
I will revisit the long shadows of the firs on the Bauernschmied
meadow,
and climb the Gederer once more with Emmy Gruber,
I will remember the flights of migrating birds over the airfi eld at
Märkisch-Friedland,
and the smell of the beer cellar of the Inn zum Hirschen which
belonged to my grandfather,
of elderfl ower, rapeseed and poppy, glimpsed from the window of a
train,
of the blush on the face of the fourteen year old Gabriele Dembitza,
of the red and green lights of an airplane fl ying under the
constellation of Cassiopeia,
of dancing under paper lanterns on Bastille Day,
the smell of fruit in the morning on the stands in front of the castle
at Celle,
I will think of the quivering heart of the lizard that spotted me,
and a poem in Goethe’s “West-East Divan” that gave me comfort.
*
There are road signs,
and easily discernable river courses,
lookout points in elevated positions,
maps where the lakes are in blue and the forests in green —
it’s easy to find one’s way around in the world.
But you, companion at my side, how hidden from me
is the landscape of your heart!
Feeling my way in the fog, I am oft en overcome with fear
of the thickets and the hidden precipice.
I know you don’t like your thoughts to be traced,
the echo of your words is intended to mislead —
roads going nowhere,
pathless terrain, lapsed signage.
Each century provides us with new things to conceal,
a territory that off ers no purchase to the curious eye of affection,
overgrown with loneliness, its ever denser leaves.
Günter Eich, Angina Days: Selected Poems, Michael Hoffman (trad.), Princeton University Press, 2010.
who calmly go off into dreamless sleep.
I even envy myself for odd moments of blind contentment,
reaching a vacation destination, whether North Sea spa or Notre
Dame,
or with a nice drop of Burgundy on pay day.
But basically I’m of the view that even a clear conscience is not
sufficient,
and I doubt the quality of the sleep in which we all rock ourselves.
There is no such thing as pure happiness any more (was there
ever?),
and I should like to rouse this or that sleeper,
and say, there, that’s enough.
Where you once leaped up out of the arms of love
because a scream reached your ear, the scream
that the earth utters incessantly, which you
take to be the patter of raindrops or the soughing of wind.
Look at what’s happening: prison and torture,
blindness and amputation, death in many guises,
disembodied pain and dread that stands in for life.
Th e earth collects up the groans from many mouths,
and the expressions of people you love are full of horror.
Everything that happens concerns you.
*
At the given hour, I will nonetheless think that the world was
beautiful.
I will think of friends, of the kindness that can beautify an ugly face,
of love that causes the eyes to light up.
I will think of the dog, my playmate when I was a boy,
of the blue lupins on the coast of East Prussia where I once went on
holiday.
I will revisit the long shadows of the firs on the Bauernschmied
meadow,
and climb the Gederer once more with Emmy Gruber,
I will remember the flights of migrating birds over the airfi eld at
Märkisch-Friedland,
and the smell of the beer cellar of the Inn zum Hirschen which
belonged to my grandfather,
of elderfl ower, rapeseed and poppy, glimpsed from the window of a
train,
of the blush on the face of the fourteen year old Gabriele Dembitza,
of the red and green lights of an airplane fl ying under the
constellation of Cassiopeia,
of dancing under paper lanterns on Bastille Day,
the smell of fruit in the morning on the stands in front of the castle
at Celle,
I will think of the quivering heart of the lizard that spotted me,
and a poem in Goethe’s “West-East Divan” that gave me comfort.
*
There are road signs,
and easily discernable river courses,
lookout points in elevated positions,
maps where the lakes are in blue and the forests in green —
it’s easy to find one’s way around in the world.
But you, companion at my side, how hidden from me
is the landscape of your heart!
Feeling my way in the fog, I am oft en overcome with fear
of the thickets and the hidden precipice.
I know you don’t like your thoughts to be traced,
the echo of your words is intended to mislead —
roads going nowhere,
pathless terrain, lapsed signage.
Each century provides us with new things to conceal,
a territory that off ers no purchase to the curious eye of affection,
overgrown with loneliness, its ever denser leaves.
Günter Eich, Angina Days: Selected Poems, Michael Hoffman (trad.), Princeton University Press, 2010.
sábado, 25 de setembro de 2010
The rain in Eltville
The rain in Eltville,
same rain as everywhere else,
drops of water mingled with dust
evaporated from God knows what reservoir,
the same rain but different, as I listen to its drumming:
this rain is for me.
While the tin windowsill echoes the other side of the wall,
someone is taking twenty veronal,
my heart shakes at the tenderness in someone’s eyes,
and there are always the scrawny arms of my nephews in Berlin.
I sit here in the lee of the roof
and I can put on a coat to go outside,
but it’s hit me long ago, it will drown me,
the rain of madness, of love, the rain of poverty,
the rain in Eltville.
Günter Eich, Angina Days: Selected Poems, Michael Hoffman (trad.), Princeton University Press, 2010.
same rain as everywhere else,
drops of water mingled with dust
evaporated from God knows what reservoir,
the same rain but different, as I listen to its drumming:
this rain is for me.
While the tin windowsill echoes the other side of the wall,
someone is taking twenty veronal,
my heart shakes at the tenderness in someone’s eyes,
and there are always the scrawny arms of my nephews in Berlin.
I sit here in the lee of the roof
and I can put on a coat to go outside,
but it’s hit me long ago, it will drown me,
the rain of madness, of love, the rain of poverty,
the rain in Eltville.
Günter Eich, Angina Days: Selected Poems, Michael Hoffman (trad.), Princeton University Press, 2010.
Northern sigh
To the left, the road to the harbor. It’s not the inhabitants
that matter so much as the topographical features.
The walk to the reformed church, red and white
surveyors’ poles constitute the idea of God.
The way the road bends at a zoological negotiation—
the addressee of my lettergrams might be pleased to call it love.
People don’t go to Kyoto or Venice. The world
happens in out of the way places.
Just mind you don’t leave any tracks.
Günter Eich, Angina Days: Selected Poems, Michael Hoffman (trad.), Princeton University Press, 2010.
that matter so much as the topographical features.
The walk to the reformed church, red and white
surveyors’ poles constitute the idea of God.
The way the road bends at a zoological negotiation—
the addressee of my lettergrams might be pleased to call it love.
People don’t go to Kyoto or Venice. The world
happens in out of the way places.
Just mind you don’t leave any tracks.
Günter Eich, Angina Days: Selected Poems, Michael Hoffman (trad.), Princeton University Press, 2010.
Confined to bed
Angina days, blue snow,
time tucked away
in cut-out arches,
time is blue, time is snow,
red sleeves, black hat,
time is a yellow woman.
Angina days, Swiss,
blue Devon, black Cambrium,
commedia dell’arte time,
slipper red and Silurian red,
wall map of England yellow and time.
Angina days, blue Kent,
time so yellow that none can tell it,
a black index finger protrudes
from a blue glove and points you
the way home along the red wall.
Günter Eich, Angina Days: Selected Poems, Michael Hoffman (trad.), Princeton University Press, 2010.
time tucked away
in cut-out arches,
time is blue, time is snow,
red sleeves, black hat,
time is a yellow woman.
Angina days, Swiss,
blue Devon, black Cambrium,
commedia dell’arte time,
slipper red and Silurian red,
wall map of England yellow and time.
Angina days, blue Kent,
time so yellow that none can tell it,
a black index finger protrudes
from a blue glove and points you
the way home along the red wall.
Günter Eich, Angina Days: Selected Poems, Michael Hoffman (trad.), Princeton University Press, 2010.
A dedicatória que não podia ser*
AO VERME
QUE
PRIMEIRO ROEU AS FRIAS CARNES
DO MEU CADÁVER
DEDICO
COMO SAUDOSA LEMBRANÇA
ESTAS MEMÓRIAS
PÓSTUMAS
Machado de Assis in As Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas, Livros Cotovia, 2008 (terceira edição).
*Estou a reescrever a dedicatória.
Fevereiro. Os hectares da memória
estão vazios. O futuro já passou
há anos. Mas agora também o passado.
(Levaste-o contigo). A luz de inverno
torna os factos duros. O mar ofende tudo à volta
O vento estala. O frio é audível.
A língua fica presa, já não sei das palavras.
Congela-se em sílabas fechadas.
Nada. E ver.
O vazio claro, como muito para além da vírgula
nas divisões do número dez.
Herman de Coninck, Os Hectares da Memória, Nuno Júdice (rev., tradução colectiva), Quetzal Editores, Mateus, 1994.
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