versos de amor

(poema traduzido de Richard Brautigan)

nada como

acordar ao amanhecer

completamente sozinho

sem ter que dizer pra alguem

eu te amo

quando na verdade

ja deixei de amar

Waiting for Godot, something, anything.

christmas came just like that, one day

was wednesday and someone said, hey,

christmas is next saturday, this saturday-

and it was christmas, just like that.

Hank could not help thinking about war,

the end of the world, that something would

have to change. he was back to not having

internet anymore, and he felt like shit because

he really cared.

that either meant tv or silence,

and both meant thinking a great deal which meant

not having that pressure eased.

he tried parties and drinks, people,

loud talk and music, black expensive whisky

and the smell of perfume in smooth hair,

hours drowned in an oak cask of smoke.

the days afterwards were there to

remind him that he still had bills to pay,

and Hank walked all the way to the post

office eventhough he knew it would be closed,

as it was, just like the bank was too.

allright, nothing will get done today, again,

he thought. He crossed the street and walked into

the store and asked to use the computer. as he sat down,

he stared at the screen and saw a picture hanging

on the red wall behind.

it was the most glorious orange sunset

and it had the word dreams written in golden letters.

Hank felt like the little boy in Bukowski's poem,

staring at the ocean through the train window

and telling the old man beside him

that what he was looking at

just wasn't any beautiful.

Like fleas in a dog's ass

But didn't that old bloke die?

I heard he died last year,

got buried in the middle of

the fucking desert,

he says

looking at the man who spent

half his natural life in a jail cell;

Look buddy, the same man,

charged and locked up for murder, now in parole,

answers-

we all gonna die,

you just wait long enough

and you will too.

But it was not in the news

these were days when people

could hardly see any future;

they would walk the streets pretending

that they too, would live forever

and that each and every day did not matter.

these were times when people talked about

the end of the world, about we all living the eve

of a third world war; humanity against a button,

heart against clouds of radioactive smoke,

flesh, blood spilled against solid steel.

but no one wants to hear that; it is christmas time

while troops of soldiers are flying to Iran

and a gunman hits six on the spot, 129 wounded

in the city centre of Brussels; death and war all

over the world, I hear a friend read from his phone.

these were times when people thought about

giving all up and running away, but it seems like

they could not, they could not remember

where it all went wrong, they could not let all

these great new things go; and so they stayed, believing that

in the worst case money would have to save.

but it did not, and out in the streets

all we could see was desert, the sun shining over

an immensity of dead land; you could hear the sound of fire

and the cracking of explosions

and somewhere in the distance

you would see men fighting each other with stones and sticks,

like Einstein predicted,

and eventually killing with their bare hands.

there's always tomorrow, I remember they used to say,

hoping that time too, would have a stop, like

business and money, like the movement

in all the fish and chips shops, the old Chinese women

trying to smile the fear of poverty and misery away.

Lösch mir die Augen aus...

"halt mir das Herz zu, und mein Hirn wird schlagen,

und wirfst du in mein Hirn den Brand,

so werd ich dich auf meinem Blute tragen."

-Rainer Maria Rilke

the sounds of the night speak

for those who can no longer be heard.

police-car sirens mixed with shaking leaves,

the voice of the wind to say that god ain't dead.

yes, we see darkness ahead

and yet there's hope in the only thing that bears,

not buildings, radio waves and engines

but the only thing that carries

that only thing that lasts forever.

that we may live in god and that god

may find rest inside us

after so many rainy days. what Rilke knew was to come,

the struggle, the constant strive we would all live

in the search for that something more,

that love for an abandoned world.

“Extinguish my eyes, I'll go on seeing you.

Seal my ears, I'll go on hearing you.

And without feet I can make my way to you,

without a mouth I can swear your name.

Break off my arms, I'll take hold of you

with my heart as with a hand.

Stop my heart, and my brain will start to beat.

And if you consume my brain with fire,

I'll feel you burn in every drop of my blood.”

Extingue meus olhos, eu continuarei te vendo.

Sela meus ouvidos, eu seguirei te escutando.

E ainda que sem os pés, te alcanço

e mesmo sem boca hei-de jurar teu nome.

Arranque meus braços, eu seguirei te apertando

de coração como a própria mão.

Pare o peito, e o cérebro começará a bater.

E quando consumires minha mente no fogo

te sentirei queimando em cada gota de sangue.

-Rainer Maria Rilke

The Fixer

(to Malamud)

the rain fell for days with no end to them.

the sky turned grey, the clouds gathered

and then the sky turned a heavy blue, opening

as the clouds moved away.

I cannot remember having dreams lately

as I stare through the balcony door

at all the brick wall buildings surrounding,

the trees shaking among blasts of wind.

a motionless fan stares at me dead

and the only sound to be heard comes not

from the voiceless monday afternoon

but from cries

and the strike of the wings from the magpies.

books are spread all over the coffee table,

facing down, witnesses to years of silence,

an old stained half empty water bottle

and a crowded ashtray.

there's still time for greatness

and still time for a taste of triumphant glory;

time to live and be able to sing free, not for

money or fame, nor for any power.

just the bliss that is the rain falling

at 1:56pm right on top of the chair, now soaking wet,

and the knowing that time too has an end

when one ceases the yearning to be led.

a cara de um candidato político em um outdoor

(tradução de poema de Charles Bukowski,

"face of a political candidate on a street billboard")

lá está ele:

sem muitas ressacas

sem muitas brigas com mulheres

sem muitos pneus furados

nunca um pensamento sequer sobre suicídio

não mais de três dores de dente

nunca perdeu uma refeição

nunca foi pra cadeia

nunca amou

7 pares de sapatos

um filho na faculdade

um carro zero

apólices de seguro

a grama verde no jardim

latas de lixo com tampas que fecham

ele será eleito.

The Drill

by Charles Bukowski
(tradução minha)

nosso livro de casamento,
diz.

folheio as páginas.

durou dez anos.

foram jovens, um dia.

hoje durmo na cama dela.

ele telefona pra ela:

"quero a minha furadeira de volta.

fique com ela pronta.

passo pra pegar as crianças às

dez."

quando ele chega, espera do lado

de fora da porta.

as crianças vão embora com

ele.

ela volta pra cama

e eu estico uma perna

e a coloco sobre a dela.

também fui jovem um dia.

relações humanas simplesmente não 

duram.

penso nas mulheres

da minha vida.

elas nem parecem existir.

"ele pegou a furadeira dele?" pergunto.

"sim, pegou."

e me pergunto se um dia terei que voltar
pra pegar minha bermuda

e meu álbum de música

da The Academy of St.Martin in the

Fields? acho que

sim.

Corvus

Out of nothingness, walking the thin line between

sleeping and dying. Out of the void to the free fall,

head disquietly shaking, face rubbing against the pillow,

mouth open gasping for any air left. Running saliva,

warm and wet, touching while sliding through the pillowcase,

the bitter taste of smoke.

On the rooftops of the neighboring houses

the crows scream like children being tortured to death; it is horrible,

and it wakes one into a life of horror, for that second believing

a nightmare to be just true. As reality sinks down I somehow

manage to stand up and put myself together again. Good morning,

I look at the clock, a life of its own, beating away, and it tells me it is 7.35am.

As I walk out of the bedroom I look for a stone

but end up being satisfied with a baseball I see on the table. I grab it,

my back turned to the balcony, still nothing but the sound

of crows screaming like crazy monkeys going mad; so I throw the baseball at them,

and watch as they fly away through the trees and into the sky, screaming further,

three big black birds; all right now, I think, now I can make some coffee.

pedido de desculpas

e se o tempo não foi dividido e o agora
e o passado se encontrassem no amanhã
o futuro contido no que já passou
e se o tempo fosse todo o mesmo
para sempre presente
seria o tempo todo irrecuperável
o que poderia ter sido não passa de abstração
uma eterna promessa de possível
um mundo inteiro de especulação
o que poderia ter sido e o que de fato foi
não anuncia final algum
o que é portanto sempre presente
o som do toque dos passos ecoa na lembrança
por entre os caminhos que não tomamos
em direção à portas que nunca abrimos
ecoando
como palavras na cabeça de alguém.

Open House
(poema traduzido de Theodore Roethke)

Meus segredos lamentam-se gritando.

Não tenho necessidade de fala.

Meu coração mantém-se abrindo,

Minha porta escancarada.

Um épico do olhar

Meu amor, sem disfarçar.

Minhas verdades todas descobertas,

Essa angústia que revela a si mesma.

Estou exposto até os ossos,

Com desnudo como escudo.

Meu ser é o que visto:

Mantenho o espírito omisso.

A raiva há de resistir,

O dever há de a verdade dizer

Em linguagem firme e pura.

Eu interrompo a boca que mente:

O ódio urra a mais límpida melodia

Do sem-sentido da agonia.

I too search for lost time, he thought. Just like the book.

But the title isn't mine, nor the words for that matter.

And it's the way it goes, thinking, pondering on whether

I should give in, the writer I've never been,

the one and only story that does never come to life.

Half the time, and the clock still tickin' away, bit by bit.

Something honest that could bring hope to where there's none.

Just write 'bout what you know, keep it simple, and don't ever forget

that glory lives in every heart that does not deny it being there.

How simple could it be, to just be able to believe, in something, anything at all.

I got god with me somewhere, nights ago that turned years, corners

of doomed streets back when I heard, when I found out

it just wasn't up to me, or you, or anyone anymore.

Don't you worry now, 'cause it is still hard to hold one to that one belief,

that one single thing that keeps you glued to the platform, as

in Sunset Limited . I never read the bible. I should.

I just can't help it - Chekhov, Kafka, Cormac, the feeling of pressure

buildin' up as another year goes by, another name in another book,

someone else to somehow tell me I can, but somehow I won't,

somewhere in my head telling me it will never be.

But it didn't go on rainin' after almost a week, last week.

How long can it last, this idea that it does never have to be more than it is,

that it shouldn't ever be more, never money, never the cover of magazines.

How long can one survive on that, on silence, on the aloneness of never restin' sure.

Conrad, am I ever going to write something like Heart of Darkness ?

Good god, please don't tell me, I would not be able to take this no.

The one belief, indestructible at first glance, maybe frail or even broken tomorrow-

but to live for that everlasting instant, that holding that something for a second,

life itself, the end of me at last, of asking and wondering, of not wanting not knowing.

I look for and end where there's none. No way to finish but to go on. No other

issues to deal with, really, but Life and Death.

Soneto ao Sunset Limited

de que vale todo o saber,

tantos livros, palavras ou um verso verdadeiro

se nada te traz a fé de poder manter

presos os pés, ao chão do desfiladeiro.

tanta busca por algo concreto

e esse anseio por qualquer resposta

terminou por deixar sem teto

quem já nem tinha encosta.

e as cousas aquelas em que acreditava

assim aos poucos perderam tom, perderam cor,

e até as cousas que mais amava

ganharam traços de dor.

e que aquele que sem nada, algum sentindo viu no sofrimento,

te faça esquecer a hora do trem, e também seus trilhos testamento.

At rawson place

It is strange how a simple kiss,

even the sight of the kiss only, for that matter,

like a moment's silence when one's unable

to say a word, a whisper, shut; for evermore

lost inside, within - can arise a vision to the mind

of plain cold suicide; a glass of old kentucky

bourbon and a shot, a bullet put dead center

between the eyes.

In the lane where the rats go by

Is it still not time to

find peace amongst torned yellowed pages,

some sort of asylum in between depths of ink ?

The blackness of letters pressed against the paper in

sorrow,

mournfull imprisonment.

Not money, and no such thing as a car or a big house

can ever hold this world together.

The inner world

collapsing, the madness of that crossed vision,

the eyes searching for nowhere.

The outter world just goes on, the sun

coming out today after the rain, free

as we should be.

no coração da escuridão

(tradução livre de trechos de Heart of Darkness,

de Joseph Conrad)

"As luzes dos navios se moviam no horizonte enquanto para além do oeste a monstruosa cidade permanecia estendida sobre o céu, um leve breu no brilho do sol, o olhar ofuscante das estrelas.

A mente humana é capaz de tudo - pois tudo é contido nela, todo o passado assim como todo o futuro. O que restou depois, no fim? Alegria, medo, miséria, entrega, valor, raiva - quem pode dizer? - Mas a verdade - a verdade nua, despida da capa do tempo. Deixe que o tolo trema - o homem sabe, e segue olhando sem jamais piscar. E é preciso que encontre aquela verdade com a sua própria forma - a própria força com que nasceu. Princípios? Princípios não serão o bastante. Aquisições, roupas, panos bonitos - panos que voariam ao primeiro balanço do vento. Não; algo mais é preciso, uma crença de total consciência.

Eu não gosto de trabalho - homem nenhum gosta - mas gosto do que há nele - a chance de encontrar a sí próprio. Sua própria realidade - para sí mesmo, não para outros - o que outro homem nenhum jamais saberá.

Além da cerca jazia a floresta, imperturbável à luz da lua, e através da neblina, por entre ruídos do pátio em lamento, o silêncio da terra encontrando refúgio no peito de cada um - seus mistérios, sua imensidão, a realidade absurda de toda a vida alí contida.

Então ocorreu-me que tanto discurso quanto silêncio, ou até mesmo qualquer tentativa de ação, seria mera futilidade. Não há medo que tolere a fome, nem paciência que a canse e, onde há fome, desgosto nenhum é capaz de existir; quanto a superstições, crenças, ou o que alguns chamam de princípios, são nada mais que um grão de trigo na brisa.

É impossível absorver de todo a sensação de vida de uma época qualquer da existência de alguém - aquilo que a torna verdade, o sentido - a sútil e última essência. É impossível. Vivemos, como sonhamos - sozinhos...

Coisa curiosa é a vida - esse misterioso arranjo de uma lógica sem misericórdia e de propósito absurdo. A ambição máxima a se esperar, algum conhecimento de sí mesmo - que vem tarde demais - uma fonte de infinitos arrependimentos. Eu lutei contra a morte. É o mais sem graça dos combates. Ocorre em um local de um cinza impalpável, nada abaixo dos pés, nada ao redor, nenhum espectador, nenhum clamor, glória nenhuma, vontade nenhuma de vitória ou o medo absoluto da derrota, uma atmosfera doentia de cepticismo, pouca fé no próprio direito, e ainda menos no de seu adversário. Se é essa a forma do conhecimento final então a vida é um enigma ainda muito maior do que se pensa.

Ela sabia. Ela tinha certeza. Ouvi ela chorando. Ela havia escondido o rosto nas mãos. Tive a impressão que a casa desabaria ainda antes que eu pudesse escapar, que o céu desabaria sobre a minha cabeça. Mas nada aconteceu. Não tive forças pra falar. Teria sido horrível - absolutamente horrível. "

Journey

To tell the story of what that did to men

and how they reacted to it, what they thought

and how they felt, how they found themselves empty

in the face of evil, nights of the most profound darkness

finding refuge inside us. Down rivers and jungles, deserts

and dust. To face one's moment of absolute despair, a taste of death

in the afternoon, the loss of all hope. To tell the story

of what was left of them after days spent in gloom, the madness

of giving oneself fully letting it all go. Blood bathed in alcohol,

young lives lost forever in smoke, no time for fear, no time at all.

To tell the story of how we've always felt, how we've always known

that the sun came up, and then went down, just to come up again.

It was life and death, and that's what it has always been.

To face oneself naked in the worst of times, dreams and fears and desires,

to find your own, good and evil, to give up and be reborn,

never forgetting.

Um Álamo

by William Faulkner
(tradução minha)

Por que você treme aí

Entre o rio branco e a estrada?

Frio não sente,

Com a luz do sol sonhando contigo;

E ainda assim você ergue os braços elásticos e suplicantes como que

Para trazer as nuvens do céu para esconder a tua magreza.

Você é uma garota jovem

Tremendo com os espasmos de uma modéstia em êxtase,

Uma garota branca e objetiva

Cujas roupas foram arrancadas à força.

Wanting

it is not that I am what I am

but I played this part for way

too long,

I am what I taught myself to be,

what I believed I was

and still believe I am;

the only way I know, really.

I learned to accept

what I learned to believe in

and I became just that -

no more than

a dream of a life.

Ash-Monday

the day's that warm and humid

one can't help but hear

oneself thinking -

like delirium

or a fever under water;

" kid's dead ", he says.

" died at about 7:30 this morning mate. "

but the truck still gotta be loaded

and then unloaded afterwards, knowing,

that nothing's as real as losing.

there's gonna be a funeral

tomorrow or the next day, or maybe friday,

The Burial of the Dead;

we're all gonna be wearing black suits,

smoking cigarettes and telling each other

how sad it all is

and how life just goes on -

our last goodbye,

nothing there left to be done.

Lost in Longing

even a tired body doesn't know sleep

when the mind, aware and awake, disturbs

hands and arms and legs. what's there to be thought

in days like days like these, warm, the air so

heavy and humid one can barely breathe

without feeling the head pulse and veins beating away,

drum-like, a day-time trance. you got sweat

pouring off your forehead, ideas and memories,

notions of a lost, long forgotten world. the streets are not

what they used to be anymore, and people

no longer care for other people -

barely noticing we all share one single, common fate,

the same destiny since the earth is earth,

solid ground covered in dust, days to live

reaching closer to death, and the leaving of all things behind,

the long lost goodbye. November days, as I ask

myself what makes time now other than waiting to be past.

age of concrete. god was dead a long time ago, now men

can no longer believe in men either, alone, half the story

left untold, that yes we're individuals but as humans

we are just the one, single idea that we can endure,

suffer and wish to die, and love, and feel the rain like

no one ever felt before, redemption and resurrection,

the glory of losing everything

and still have a reason to live.

onde haviam morado

(poema traduzido de Raymond Carver)

em todos os lugares que passou aquele dia ele andou

no seu próprio passado. atirado sobre pilhas

de lembranças. viu através de janelas

que já não lhe pertenciam mais.

trabalho e pobreza e pouco trocado.

naqueles dias haviam vivido por vontade,

determinados a jamais serem vencidos.

nada poderia pará-los. não

pelo mais longo instante.

no quarto de motel

aquela noite, nas horas primeiras da manhã,

quando abriu a cortina. viu nuvens

amontoadas ao redor da lua. se aproximou

do vidro. um sopro frio de ar passou

através e colocou a mão sobre o seu coração.

eu te amei, ele pensou.

te amei bem.

antes de não te amar mais.

Haverá Tempo.

"We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown."

- T.S.Eliot

foi que o rio subiu demais

e em questão de hora ou outra

foi tomar conta do que era terra.

foi que o que era rua virou rota,

leito de rio corrente,

uma angústia de água doce

que só descansa no mar.

porque eu também pude 

medir a vida em colheres de café

e retratos de janelas de ônibus.

foi que as árvores no outono

e a passagem dos meses e o fim do ano,

o fim do mundo...

dar chance de a chance ser

ou a dúvida, e o talvez de pouco tempo,

um tanto tarde, não baste pra nascer.

Doomed

it is midnight

but there's still people on the bus,

in pairs, groups, talking, laughing -

while she rides alone, in silence.

she probably feels like crying, and she

does try, but not a tear drops down.

people dry up too, just like dead grass.

the same train goes through the same

station, the same motions, the

opening and closing of doors, the sound

of the pressure of the air.

she walks the same streets,

but at night, nobody around now,

nothing but a full mind

and the heavy weight of being, breathing sometimes.

the way home again. another city, country,

another continent. she barely looks at the sky.

it is dark, and it's saturday, and quiet

and capable of nothing -

I have to watch her go away.

Me recuso a aceitar o fim do homem.

Acredito que ele não só sobreviverá

mas que ele há de prevalecer. Imortal,

não porque ele sozinho, dentre todas as criaturas,

possuí voz inextinguível, mas porque possuí alma,

um espírito capaz de compaixão, sacrifício

e acima de tudo de resistir. O dever do poeta, do

escritor, é o de escrever sobre isso.

É seu privilégio fazer com que o homem possa resistir

elevando o seu coração, lembrando-o de sua coragem

e sua honra e esperança e seu orgulho e

compaixão e piedade e sacrifício,

marcas de toda glória de seu passado.

A voz do poeta deve ser mais que um testemunho,

deve ser um pilar, uma única última estrutura

que ajude o homem a resistir a qualquer custo

e enfim prevalecer, eterno.

William Faulkner

When it's still not time

the middle of town when still dark

but not night anymore. Saturday began

Friday

and it's still too cold early in the morning

as he goes up the stairs,

the station as the only place warm enough to read.

That is so so he does not really wake up

and dreams long lost in sleep are fetched back,

brought to reality under new light,

eyes not yet that clouded by the feel

of life passing.

He knows there's people living

in hospitals, suitcases all over the floor,

take-away food

and that even children are waiting to die;

they kill a man and ask us to forget there was ever a war.

But ten years are gone now

and nothing brings anything back. Not now,

not anymore. Then the phone rings

and everything stops -- it is 7:20, time

to wake up! says the machine as he

stands up trying desperately not to think

about anything now, finally and almost sadly

awake for the world.

This Morning

(poema traduzido de Raymond Carver)

Por um minuto ou dois

tornaram-se nebulosos os usuais devaneios

sobre o que era certo,

e o que era errado -- dever,

doces lembranças, pensamentos de morte, como eu deveria

tratar minha ex-mulher. Todas as coisas

que eu esperava que desaparecessem essa manhã.

Coisas com as quais vivo todos os dias. O que

eu passei por cima pra permanecer vivo.

Mas por um ou dois minutos esquecí sim

meu próprio eu e o resto todo. Eu sei que sim.

Pois quando voltei

não sabia onde estava. Até que alguns pássaros alçaram voo

acima das árvores. E se foram

na direção que eu necessitava ir.

Grief

(poema traduzido de Raymond Carver)

Acordei cedo esta manhã e de minha cama

lancei o olhar distante sobre o Canal e vi

um pequeno barco cruzando as águas agitadas,

uma só luz de navegação. Lembrei

de meu amigo que costumava gritar

o nome da esposa morta do topo do morro

ao redor de Perugia. Que colocou um prato

pra ela em sua simples mesa muito tempo

depois que ela se foi. E abriu as janelas

pra que ela respirasse o ar puro. Tais coisas

que me sentia embarassado. Assim como

outros amigos. Eu não conseguia ver.

Não até essa manhã.

The day the sun looked sad over the bridge.

" I answered the phone and became quiet.

A few seconds later I felt life leaving me behind,

every drop of every death becoming larger,

harder, every smile I had ever seen suddenly

disappearing, vanishing, abandoning my soul for good,

leaving no trace of any hope. The illness

was back. Spread through the hole body, each

and every little bone condemned. Just a kid.

Two years old, no clear words and nothing but

strength and happiness. Now he's got two months

to live. And I'm the one that feels like giving up.

Too weak for this world I am, too weak...

When have I earned any right to live? God.

I think of god and I pray for mercy, forgiveness,

salvation. I think of my dear friend, the kid's

father, and I just wanna hold him tight

through the darkness of this times. And I

feel like I'm losing the ground and every last

breath of love for a world bound to nothing

but dust, dry tears in lonely unforgiving nights.

People call all this life but I just don't know

what else to call it anymore. Nothing makes any

sense when you don't have any faith and I

believe I lost that a long time ago. Restless

I keep on searching for that glimpse of the eyes

suddenly appearing out of shadow, a touch

of the palm of your hand, to hear your heart

reassuring me, for once, that everything

will be okay. "

English Literature

As I walk up the long hill heading home,

sweating under the midday sun,

I see a girl seating cross-legged upon the grass

near a tree, an empty coffee mug beside her.

She not even once looks up;

all I can see is her black silky hair

on top of her head, facing down,

her eyes lost among words and pages of a book.

George Orwell's 1984.

For a second I believe I try to mutter something

but nothing comes out of it

just pure silence,

the mutual understanding that we, both,

suffer from the same illness,

senseless reaching for something to grab,

something to hold us beneath the surface

of a world we can no longer touch.