IP
no cabeçalho, pintura de Paul Béliveau
Self under self, a pile of selves I stand
Threaded on time, and with metaphysic hand
Lift the farm like a lid and see
Farm within farm, and in the centre, me.
“Summer Farm”, Norman MacCaig
Lars van de Goor
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
(…)
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Robert Frost
Aleksandr Blok
........."All perished, All!..."
1900
All perished, all! The sun, in flame and brilliance,
As did it long before, the years’ circle fulfils.
A sorrow grave deplores the past existence –
That was so beautiful – under the solemn hills.
And in the black night a white specter-mist
Waits other shades, the silent one and grievous.
Oh, whitening shade, again you will obtain
Crowds of others, lost of past, entire.
A night will pass, come a long day again –
Again will rise, in its self-scorching mire,
Sun of the day, the sun of golden fire,
And will again burn the sad hills and plain.
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, October, 2002
(from poetry lovers page)
There is another sky
by Emily Dickinson
There is another sky,
Ever serene and fair,
And there is another sunshine,
Though it be darkness there;
Never mind faded forests, Austin,
Never mind silent fields -
Here is a little forest,
Whose leaf is ever green;
Here is a brighter garden,
Where not a frost has been;
In its unfading flowers
I hear the bright bee hum:
Prithee, my brother,
Into my garden come!
imagem da net
(...)
And if when I died fully
I cannot say,
And changed into the corpse-thing
I am to-day,
Yet is it that, though whiling
The time somehow
In walking, talking, smiling,
I live not now.
The Dead Man Walking by Thomas Hardy
Two separate divided silences,
Which, brought together, would find loving voice;
Two glances which together would rejoice
In love, now lost like stars beyond dark trees;
Two hands apart whose touch alone gives ease;
Two bosoms which, heart-shrined with mutual flame,
Would, meeting in one clasp, be made the same;
Two souls, the shores wave-mocked of sundering seas:
—Such are we now. Ah! may our hope forecast
Indeed one hour again, when on this stream
Of darkened love once more the light shall gleam?
An hour how slow to come, how quickly past,
Which blooms and fades, and only leaves at last,
Faint as shed flowers, the attenuated dream.
(Dante Gabriel Rosetti, Two separate divided silences)
"In Pound's version of this tradition, translation is meant to transform one literature into another. A good poem translated should become another good poem- one belonging as much to the translator as to the original author." (quoted by Amanda)
A blonde girl is bent over a poem, With a stiletto-sharp pencil she transfers the words to a sheet of paper and changes them into stresses, accents, caesuras. The lament of a fallen poet now looks like a salamander eaten away by ants. - from Episode in a Library (translated by Peter Dale Scott, 1963)
Argument
Days that cannot bring you near
or will not,
Distance trying to appear
something more obstinate,
argue argue argue with me
endlessly
neither proving you less wanted nor less dear.
Distance: Remember all that land
beneath the plane;
that coastline
of dim beaches deep in sand
stretching indistinguishably
all the way,
all the way to where my reasons end?
Days: And think
of all those cluttered instruments,
one to a fact,
canceling each other's experience;
how they were
like some hideous calendar
"Compliments of Never & Forever, Inc."
The intimidating sound
of these voices
we must separately find
can and shall be vanquished:
Days and Distance disarrayed again
and gone...
Elizabeth Bishop
As The Sparrow
.
To give life you must take life,
and as our grief falls flat and hollow
upon the billion-blooded sea
I pass upon serious inward-breaking shoals rimmed
with white-legged, white-bellied rotting creatures
lengthily dead and rioting against surrounding scenes.
Dear child, I only did to you what the sparrow
did to you; I am old when it is fashionable to be
young; I cry when it is fashionable to laugh.
I hated you when it would have taken less courage
to love.
and as our grief falls flat and hollow
upon the billion-blooded sea
I pass upon serious inward-breaking shoals rimmed
with white-legged, white-bellied rotting creatures
lengthily dead and rioting against surrounding scenes.
Dear child, I only did to you what the sparrow
did to you; I am old when it is fashionable to be
young; I cry when it is fashionable to laugh.
I hated you when it would have taken less courage
to love.
.
foto da net
When you find a man
Who transforms
Every part of you
Into poetry,
Who makes each one of your hairs
Into a poem,
When you find a man,
Capable,
As I am
Of bathing and adorning you
With poetry,
I will beg you
To follow him without hesitation,
It is not important
That you belong to me or him
But that you belong to poetry.
Translation by Bassam K. Frangieh
and Clementina R. Brown
Eating Poetry
Mark Strand
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.
I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
Ben Okri (1959 -)
Living is a Fire
Living is a cross
That any one of the rock-faces
Comprehends.
We are drawn
To many seas.
We drown wholesomely
In the failures of confrontation.
The rain
Drenching
Our doorsteps
Has nothing to do
With the simplest desires
And lacerations
We bring
To the smallest acts
Of living.
The child
On the broken catwalk
Hearing the sounds of our hunger
Without understanding
Throws echoes back
To the earliest abandonments
Of love.
Minor devastations preceding
Horror
Resonate the ineffable.
The mothers that wake
At the slightest sound
And the fathers that
Smoke all night
And the rest of us who are
Vigilantes from the demons
Of oppressed sleep
Find at dawn the clearest
Images of bewilderment.
Even the best things
Collapse beneath the weight
Of ignorance.
Living is a fire
That any one of the wave-lashes
Comprehends.
Jameela Nishat > WEARING A BURKHA
Wearing a burkha
I took a degree,
Also took to computers
And outshone others easily.
Ammi was happy,
Abba was very happy.
Hadn’t I lifted Sinai single-handedly?
To crush the world underfoot
was my heart’s desire.
Each breath said,
become a conqueror,
an Alexander in burkha!
I went out to have fun.
Entering the cinema
I was stopped by the moral squad
wagging their rods.
Hey young girl,
burkhas not allowed entry.
Black smoke rose from my black mask
and off the burkha went!
Purgatory |
||
| by Maxine Kumin | ||
And suppose the darlings get to Mantua, |
||
Beyond the Years |
||
| by Paul Laurence Dunbar | ||
I Beyond the years the answer lies, |
||
Alone
Lying, thinking
Last night
How to find my soul a home
Where water is not thirsty
And bread loaf is not stone
I came up with one thing
And I don't believe I'm wrong
That nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
There are some millionaires
With money they can't use
Their wives run round like banshees
Their children sing the blues
They've got expensive doctors
To cure their hearts of stone.
But nobody
No, nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Now if you listen closely
I'll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
'Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.
Alone, all alone
Nobody, but nobody
Can make it out here alone
Maya Angelou
no cabeçalho, pintura de Paul Béliveau.
mail b.alcobia@sapo.pt
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