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.