Palavras lidas #653

Nasce o sol e não dura mais que um dia
Gegório de Matos

Nasce o Sol, e não dura mais que um dia,
Depois da Luz se segue a noite escura,
Em tristes sombras morre a formosura,
Em contínuas tristezas a alegria.

Porém se acaba o Sol, por que nascia?
Se formosa a Luz é, por que não dura?
Como a beleza assim se transfigura?
Como o gosto da pena assim se fia?

Mas, no Sol, e na Luz, falte a firmeza,
Na formosura não se dê constância,
E na alegria sinta-se tristeza.

Começa o mundo enfim pela ignorância,
E tem qualquer dos bens por natureza
A firmeza somente na inconstância.

Palavras lidas #652

Outgrown
Penelope Shuttle

It is both sad and a relief to fold so carefully
her outgrown clothes and line up the little worn shoes
of childhood, so prudent, scuffed and particular.
It is both happy and horrible to send them galloping
back tappity-tap along the misty chill path into the past.

It is both a freedom and a prison, to be outgrown
by her as she towers over me as thin as a sequin
in her doc martens and her pretty skirt,
because just as I work out how to be a mother
she stops being a child.

Palavras lidas #651

A Velhice
by Rolf Jacobsen (trad. Amadeu Baptista)

Agradam-me os mais velhos.
Sentam-se por ai e olham-nos e não nos veem
e sempre metidos em si,
como os pescadores nas ribeiras dos grandes rios, imóveis como pedras
sob a noite estival.
Agradam-me muito os pescadores nas ribeiras dos rios e os velhos e os que saem à rua após uma longa enfermidade.

Têm algo nos olhos
que o mundo já não vê,
os velhos, como convalescentes
cujos pés ainda não são suficientemente fortes e seguros
e com a face pálida e anteriormente febril.

Os velhos
que voltam a ser eles mesmos lentamente
e se dissolvem lentamente,
como o fumo, e imperceptivelmente se transformam
em sonho
e luz.

Palavras lidas #650

The Disappearing
by Franz Wright

There is a heartbreaking beauty
about my crummy street
tonight, at 2 o’clock
in the first snow: I stand looking out

at this window, I think
how everything seen
is something seen for the last time.
At last I turn away,

I give up. I am tired,
I can’t mourn anymore
the loss of what I never asked for
and never understood.

_______________

In the middle of the latest sweltering heatwave in the UK I caught myself thinking of snow...

Palavras lidas #649

LXI

Não temo a morte. Prefiro esse ato inelutável
ao outro que me foi imposto no dia em que nasci.
O que é a vida, afinal? Um bem que me confiaram
sem me consultarem e que entregarei com indiferença.

Omar Khayyam

(tradução Alfredo Braga)

Palavras lidas #648

The More Loving One
By W. H. Auden

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime
Though this might take me a little time.

September 1957

Palavras lidas #647

Silogismos
Ana Luisa Amaral

A minha filha perguntou-me
o que era para a vida inteira
e eu disse-lhe que era para sempre.
Naturalmente, menti,
mas também os conceitos de infinito
são diferentes: é que ela perguntou depois
o que era para sempre

e eu não podia falar-lhe em universos
paralelos, em conjunções e disjunções
de espaço e tempo,
nem sequer em morte.

A vida inteira é até morrer,
mas eu sabia ser inevitável a questão
seguinte: o que é morrer?

Por isso respondi que para sempre
era assim largo, abri muito os braços,
distraí-a com o jogo que ficara a meio.

(No fim do jogo todo,
disse-me que amanhã
queria estar comigo para a vida inteira)

Palavras lidas #644

Trying to Pray
by Twyla Hansen

With my arms raised in a vee,
I gather the heavens and bring
my hands down slow together,
press palms and bow my head.

I try to forget the suffering,
the wars, the ravage of land
that threatens songbirds,
butterflies, and pollinators.

The ghosts of their wings flutter
past my closed eyes as I breathe
the spirit of seasons, the stirrings
in soil, trees moving with sap.

With my third eye, I conjure
the red fox, its healthy tail, recount
the good of this world, the farmer
tending her tomatoes, the beans

dazzled green al dente in butter,
salt and pepper, cows munching
on grass. The orb of sun-gold
from which all bounty flows.

Palavras lidas #643

Na hora de pôr a mesa, éramos cinco
José Luís Peixoto, in A Criança em Ruínas

Na hora de pôr a mesa, éramos cinco:
o meu pai, a minha mãe, as minhas irmãs e eu. 

Depois, a minha irmã mais velha casou-se. 

Depois, a minha irmã mais nova casou-se. 

Depois, o meu pai morreu. 

Hoje, na hora de pôr a mesa, somos cinco,
menos a minha irmã mais velha que está
na casa dela, menos a minha irmã mais
nova que está na casa dela, menos o meu
pai, menos a minha mãe viúva. 

Cada um deles é um lugar vazio nesta mesa onde como sozinho. 

Mas irão estar sempre aqui.
Na hora de pôr a mesa, seremos sempre cinco.
Enquanto um de nós estiver vivo, seremos sempre cinco.

Palavras lidas #642

What Lips My Lips Have Kissed
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

Palavras lidas #641

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Palavras #640

Bluebird
by Charles Bukowski

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

Palavras lidas #639

Introduction to Poetry
by Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

Palavras lidas #638

Politness, by A. A. Milne

Palavras lidas #637

Sins of the Fathers
by Mark Vinz

My daughter wants the car tonight, no,
needs the car tonight—to go somewhere,
to do some things, you know, be back
before it gets too late, of course,
if I say so, which I always do,
of course. I trust her—it's the others
I don't trust, the others I worry about,
and round we go again.

Headlights pass the driveway—
I study every shadow on the wall,
each voice from the dark street,
and laughter—faint, familiar
laughter, rising and falling
on every breath of wind.

Palavras lidas #636

Her Sweet Deceit
by James Laughlin

Love has many joys
and best are the

surprises as when
you changed the col-

or of your hair to
make me think you

were someone else
not that you fooled

me with your sweet
deceit I had only

to hear you laugh
to know both girls

were you & that I
loved you both alike.

Palavras lidas #635

Again
by Rosie King

I’m on my knees among the crisp brown crunch
then stand in time to see
two boys slim teens in shorts white t-shirts
faces glowing talking quietly
bounce of a tennis ball fading as they pass
and I’m filled again
with a crush of old sweetness
at how giving a moment can be as it vanishes
the roughened grey branches of the pear
small knobby fingers flung out at every tip
fresh clutch of weeds at my chest

Palavras lidas #634

Breakfast Song
by Elizabeth Bishop

My love, my saving grace,
your eyes are awfully blue.
I kiss your funny face,
your coffee-flavored mouth.
Last night I slept with you.
Today I love you so
how can I bear to go
(as soon I must, I know)
to bed with ugly death
in that cold, filthy place,
to sleep there without you,
without the easy breath
and nightlong, limblong warmth
I've grown accustomed to?
—Nobody wants to die;
tell me it is a lie!
But no, I know it's true.
It's just the common case;
there's nothing one can do.
My love, my saving grace,
your eyes are awfully blue
early and instant blue.

Palavras lidas #633

Pilgrims
by G.E. Johnson

Out of the flat dry country where I seem to be
Stuck these days I'd like to sail up the West Coast
On a cruise ship with strangers and you and me
Lying in bed, feeling the engines vibrate far below.
We'd dress up for dinner in the grand salon
And dine on champagne and oysters like tycoons
And when the ship comes to port, we'd stay on
Board and walk the decks and hear old tunes
Drift across the water as we promenade
Like "If I Had You" which Bucky Weil played
So beautifully. God rest his elegant spirit.
And here we are, so lucky to be able to hear it:
We are pilgrims afforded room and board.
And each day, my darling, is its own reward.

Palavras lidas #632

Woman with a Hole in Her Stocking
by Anya Krugovoy Silver

Such a universal female gesture,
a woman grabbing the seam of her stocking,
tugging it forward over the exposed toe,
tucking it under her foot so the tear won’t show.
There’s something graceful and humble
about the way she will balance, crane-like,
on one foot, cradling the other in her hand,
her back bent, her face tilted downward,
trying to hide the damage of the splintered
floorboard, or untrimmed toenail.
Sometimes, while she’s leaning over,
a strand will float loose from its ponytail.
Then she’ll stand, recombing her hair
with her hands, repair after tiny repair.