"believe that I belong to you absolutely, and that I belong only to you"

Marta says she's sorry

she can't make it.

this particular girl

Now this particular girl
During a ceremonious april walk
With her latest suitor
Found herself, of a sudden, intolerably struck
By the birds' irregular babel
And the leaves' litter.

By this tumult afflicted, she
Observed her lover's gestures unbalance the air,
His gait stray uneven
Through a rank wilderness of fern and flower;
She judged petals in disarray,
The whole season, sloven.

How she longed for winter then! --
Scrupulously austere in its order
Of white and black
Ice and rock; each sentiment within border,
And heart's frosty discipline
Exact as a snowflake.

But here -- a burgeoning
Unruly enough to pitch her five queenly wits
Into vulgar motley --
A treason not to be borne; let idiots
Reel giddy in bedlam spring:
She withdrew neatly.

And round her house she set
Such a barricade of barb and check
Against mutinous weather
As no mere insurgent man could hope to break
With curse, fist, threat
Or love, either.

He said

"I miss the times without elevators".


Se souberes o que ele disse depois vais perceber que esta frase é bela.

Nenhuma Palavra e Nenhuma Lembrança

Há um ano e meio, antes de vir para a China, surripiei dois livros de Manuel António Pina - Os Livros e Nenhuma Palavra e Nenhuma Lembrança - da biblioteca da universidade. Um empréstimo vitalício, digo, que surripiar soa mal. É da Assírio, gosto sempre dos livros da Assírio. O mesmo fiz com Verso de Autografia. Tinha medo que quando voltasse não encontrasse estes livros e, afinal, poucos são os que requisitam livros na biblioteca de letras. Tantos, mas tantos livros ao abandono. E tanto foi o tempo que esperei pelos livros de Rilke - ainda espero - que me pareceu bem trazê-los comigo. Devo ter lido e relido pelo menos dez vezes estes dois livros, são poucos os livros em português na China, encontrei um sobre Giotto, ao acaso, custou-me pouco mais de três euros. Às vezes escrevo alguns dos seus versos no meu diário porque, como disse, são poucos os livros em português. Em Agosto escrevi aquela longa história que vem pouco depois de "Em prosa provalmente", e lembro-me das palavras do poeta, que sempre falou dos seus gatos, mas que desta vez contava a história do cão que fora enforcado pelo seu vizinho. Estava à beira do rio, sózinha desta vez. Ele estava quase a ir embora. Vou sempre ao rio ou ao parque quando quero pensar. Custou-me ler aquelas palavras, aqueles dois livros. Sabes que o inglês e o chinês me são artificias. Agora é Outubro, é o dia do meu aniversário, um ano passou desde que aqui estou, mudei de casa três vezes e não trouxe os livros comigo. Li sobre a morte do poeta. Recebi uma mensagem de parabéns da mãe. Está frio em Pequim. Um ano, um mês e vinte e dois dias sem ir a casa. Acho que ela tem saudades de mim. Às vezes sinto-me culpada por ficar aqui. Mas tenho de esperar por ele um ano. Ou três. Parece sempre que as pessoas só se lembram dos poetas quando eles morrem, não é? 

Origem dos sonhos esquecidos

Entre a bicicleta e a laranja
vai a distância de uma camisa branca

Entre o pássaro e a bandeira
vai a distância dum relógio solar

Entre a janela e o canto do lobo
vai a distância dum lago desesperado

Entre mim e a bola de bilhar
vai a distância dum sexo fulgurante

Qualquer pedaço de floresta ou tempestade
pode ser a distância
entre os teus braços fechados em si mesmos
e a noite encontrada para além do grito das panteras

qualquer grito de pantera
pode ser a distância
entre os teus passos
e o caminho em que eles se desfazem lentamente

Qualquer caminho
pode ser a distância
entre tu e eu

Qualquer distância
entre tu e eu
é a única e magnífica existência
do nosso amor que se devora sorrindo

(Mário Henrique Leiria, A Única Real Tradição Viva)

A strange kind of love

                   

A strange kind of love

A strange kind of feeling

Swims through your eyes

And like the doors

To a wide vast dominion

They open to your prise

This is no terror ground

Or place for the rage

No broken hearts

White wash lies

Just a taste for the truth

Perfect taste choice and meaning

A look into your eyes

Blind to the gemstone alone

A smile from a frown circles round

Should he stay or should he go

Let him shout a rage so strong

A rage that knows no right or wrong

And take a little piece of you

There is no middle ground

Or that's how it seems

For us to walk or to take

Instead we tumble down

Either side left or right

To love or to hate

(Peter Murphy, A Strange Kind Of Love)

Language is a virus from outer space

                               

Seria o Amor Português

Muitas vezes te esperei, perdi a conta,
longas manhãs te esperei tremendo
no patamar dos olhos. Que me importa
...
que batam à porta, façam chegar
jornais, ou cartas, de amizade um pouco
— tanto pó sobre os móveis tua ausência.

Se não és tu, que me pode importar?
Alguém bate, insiste através da madeira,
que me importa que batam à porta,
a solidão é uma espinha
insidiosamente alojada na garganta.
Um pássaro morto no jardim com neve.

Nada me importa; mas tu enfim me importas.
Importa, por exemplo, no sedoso
cabelo poisar estes lábios aflitos.
Por exemplo: destruir o silêncio.
Abrir certas eclusas, chover em certos campos.
Importa saber da importância
que há na simplicidade final do amor.
Comunicar esse amor. Fertilizá-lo.
«Que me importa que batam à porta...»
Sair de trás da própria porta, buscar
no amor a reconciliação com o mundo.

Longas manhãs te esperei, perdi a conta.
Ainda bem que esperei longas manhãs
e lhes perdi a conta, pois é como se
no dia em que eu abrir a porta
do teu amor tudo seja novo,
um homem uma mulher juntos pelas formosas
inexplicáveis circunstâncias da vida.

Que me importa, agora que me importas,
que batam, se não és tu, à porta?

(Fernando Assis Pacheco, A Musa Irregular)

Como é que se espera mais de dois anos por ti, num lugar estranho, e sem te perder?

23 anos

23 anos passaram desde o Massacre de Tian'an men. Sente-se o medo no ar, o número de palavras proíbidas no Weibo (Twitter chinês) ascende a quase trinta, há mais polícia na rua, ninguém discute sobre o assunto, ninguém pode sequer prestar respeito aos estudantes.  O controlo feito nas últimas semanas a estrangeiros é inaceitável, todos, sem igual, são tratados como ilegais. Há duas semanas vieram a minha casa verificar o meu passaporte, nunca me senti tão mal, nunca me senti como se fosse uma criminosa. Sou só uma estudante aqui e percebo a necessidade de controlarem o número de imigrantes ilegais, mas não vejo a necessidade de criar sentimenos racistas entre a população. Tenho apelidado este governo de ditadura, porque se o silêncio que se sente só pode ser fruto de uma ditadura do medo. Os jovens têm conhecimento da data, não gostam do governo, mas também não estão de todo descontentes com ele. É-lhes indiferente. E eu, tentando estar tão ou mais indiferente do que eles, porque no fundo os meus pais temem que eu fale, que eu critique, que eu discorde, não consigo evitar escrever sobre a data de hoje, de assinalar que há 23 anos ocorreu uma massacre. Ninguém sabe o nome do homem que teve o acto estóico de fazer parar os tanques e é, porventura, é talvez a imagem mais marcante de todas. Hoje, no mesmo lugar, o transito segue normalmente. Está calor em Pequim, não vou apanhar a linha um do metro e visitar a Praça, fi-lo uma vez, o retrato grande de Mao Zedong permanece no centro, há camaras de video-vigilância quase de dois em dois metros, a policia está em todo o lado, é preciso passar os nossos pertences por um scanner. Nunca me tinhas questionado sobre a minha estadia aqui. Sinto-me independente, tenho bons amigos. Mas, há duas semanas, pela primeira vez, questionei-me se estar aqui é correcto. E lembrei-me do sentimento de estar naquele lugar. Náusea, foi uma espécie de náusea. Foi a primeira e última vez que visitei aquele lugar. Não falo, escrevo.

do período da loucura

The god
Is near, and hard to grasp.
But where there is danger,
A rescuing element grows as well.
Eagles live in the darkness,
And the sons of the Alps
Cross over the abyss without fear
On lightly-built bridges.
Therefore, since the summits
Of Time are heaped about,
And dear friends live near,
Growing weak on the separate mountains —
Then give us calm waters;
Give us wings, and loyal minds
To cross over and return.

Thus I spoke, when faster
Than I could imagine a spirit
Led me forth from my own home
To a place I thought I'd never go.
The shaded forests and yearning
Brooks of my native country
Were glowing in the twilight.
I couldn't recognize the lands
I passed through, but then suddenly
In fresh splendor, mysterious
In the golden haze, quickly emerging
In the steps of the sun,
Fragrant with a thousand peaks,
Asia rose before me.

Dazzled I searched for something
Familiar, since the broad streets
Were unknown to me: where the gold-bejeweled
Patoklos comes rushing down from Tmolus,
Where Taurus and Messogis stand,
And the gardens are full of flowers,
Like a quiet fire. Up above
In the light the silver snow
Thrives, and ivy grows from ancient
Times on the inaccessible walls,
Like a witness to immortal life,
While the solemn god-built palaces
Are borne by living columns
Of cypress and laurel.

But around Asia's gates
Unshaded sea-paths rush
About the unpredictable sea,
Though sailors know where
The islands are. When I heard
that one of these close by
Was Patmos, I wanted very much
To put in there, to enter
The dark sea-cave. For unlike
Cyprus, rich with springs,
Or any of the others, Patmos
Isn't splendidly situated,

But it's nevertheless hospitable
In a more modest home. And if
A stranger should come to her,
Shipwrecked or homesick
Or grieving for a departed friend,
She'll gladly listen, and her
Offspring as well, the voices
In the hot grove, so that where sands blow
and heat cracks the tops of the fields,
They hear him, these voices,
And echo the man's grief.
Thus she once looked after
The prophet that was loved by God,
Who in his holy youth

Had walked together inseparably
With the Son of the Highest,
Because the Storm-Bearer loved
The simplicity of his disciple.
Thus that attentive man observed
The countenance of the god directly,
There at the mystery of the wine,
Where they sat together at the hour
Of the banquet, when the Lord with
His great spirit quietly foresaw his
Own death, and forespoke it and also
His final act of love, for he always
Had words of kindness to speak,
Even then in his prescience,
To soften the raging of the world.
For all is good. Then he died. Much
Could be said about it. At the end
His friends recognized how joyous
He appeared, and how victorious.

And yet the men grieved, now that evening
Had come, and were taken by surprise,
Since they were full of great intentions,
And loved living in the light,
And didn't want to leave the countenance
Of the Lord, which had become their home.
It penetrated them like fire into hot iron,
And the one they love walked beside them
Like a shadow. Therefore he sent
The Spirit upon them, and the house
Shook and God's thunder rolled
Over their expectant heads, while
They were gathered with heavy hearts,
Like heroes under sentence of death,

When he again appeared to them
At his departure. For now
The majestic day of the sun
Was extinguished, as he cast
The shining scepter from himself,
Suffering like a god, but knowing
He would come again at the right time.
It would have been wrong
To cut off disloyally his work
With humans, since now it pleased
Him to live on in loving night,
And keep his innocent eyes
Fixed upon depths of wisdom.
Living images flourish deep
In the mountains as well,

Yet it is fearful how God randomly
Scatters the living, and how very far.
And how fearsome it was to leave
The sight of dear friends and walk off
Alone far over the mountains, where
The divine spirit was twice
Recognized, in unity.
It hadn't been prophesied to them:
In fact it seized them right by the hair
Just at the moment when the fugitive
God looked back, and they called out to him
To stop, and they reached their hands to
One another as if bound by a golden rope,
And called it bad —

But when he dies —he whom beauty
Loved most of all, so that a miracle
Surrounded him, and he became
Chosen by the gods —
And when those who lived together
Thereafter in his memory, became
Perplexed and no longer understood
One another; and when floods carry off
The sand and willows and temples,
And when the fame of the demi-god
And his disciples is blown away
And even the Highest turns aside his
Countenance, so that nothing
Immortal can be seen either
In heaven or upon the green earth —
What does all this mean?

It is the action of the winnower,
When he shovels the wheat
And casts it up into the clear air
And swings it across the threshing floor.
The chaff falls to his feet, but
The grain emerges finally.
It's not bad if some of it gets lost,
Or if the sounds of his living speech
Fade away. For the work
Of the gods resembles our own:
The Highest doesn't want it
Accomplished all at once.
As mineshafts yield iron,
And Etna its glowing resins,
Then I'd have sufficient resources
To shape a picture of him and see
What the Christ was like.

But if somebody spurred himself on
Along the road and, speaking sadly,
Fell upon me and surprised me, so that
Like a servant I'd make an image of the god —
Once I saw the lords
Of heaven visibly angered, not
That I wanted to become something different,
But that I wanted to learn something more.
The lords are kind, but while they reign
They hate falsehood most, when humans become
Inhuman. For not they, but undying Fate
It is that rules, and their activity
Spins itself out and quickly reaches an end.
When the heavenly procession proceeds higher
Then the joyful Son of the Highest
Is called like the sun by the strong,

As a watchword, like a staff of song
That points downwards,
For nothing is ordinary. It awakens
The dead, who aren't yet corrupted.
And many are waiting whose eyes are
Still too shy to see the light directly.
They wouldn't do well in the sharp
Radiance: a golden bridle
Holds back their courage.
But when quiet radiance falls
From the holy scripture, with
The world forgotten and their eyes
Wide open, then they may enjoy that grace,
And study the light in stillness.

And if the gods love me,
As I now believe,
Then how much more
Do they love yourself.
For I know that the will
Of the eternal Father
Concerns you greatly.
Under a thundering sky
His sign is silent.
And there is one who stands
Beneath it all his life.
For Christ still lives.
But the heroes, all his sons
Have come, and the holy scriptures
Concerning him,
While earth's deeds clarify
The lightning, like a footrace
That can't be stopped.
And he is there too,
Aware of his own works
From the very beginning.

For far too long
The honor of the gods
Has been invisible.
They practically have to
Guide our fingers as we write,
And with embarrassment the energy
Is torn from our hearts.
For every heavenly being
Expects a sacrifice,
And when this is neglected,
Nothing good can come of it.
Without awareness we've worshipped
Our Mother the Earth, and the Light
Of the Sun as well, but what our Father
Who reigns over everything wants most
Is that the established word be
Carefully attended, and that
Which endures be interpreted well.
German song must accord with this.



(Friedrich Holderlin, Patmos)

“For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror
which we are barely able to endure, and it amazes us so,
because it serenely disdains to destroy us.
Every angel is terrible.”

 (Rainer Maria Rilke, Duino Elegies)

The Stranger Song

It's true that all the men you knew were dealers
who said they were through with dealing
Every time you gave them shelter
I know that kind of man
It's hard to hold the hand of anyone
who is reaching for the sky just to surrender,
who is reaching for the sky just to surrender.
And then sweeping up the jokers that he left behind
you find he did not leave you very much
not even laughter
Like any dealer he was watching for the card
that is so high and wild
he'll never need to deal another
He was just some Joseph looking for a manger
He was just some Joseph looking for a manger

And then leaning on your window sill
he'll say one day you caused his will
to weaken with your love and warmth and shelter
And then taking from his wallet
an old schedule of trains, he'll say
I told you when I came I was a stranger
I told you when I came I was a stranger.

But now another stranger seems
to want you to ignore his dreams
as though they were the burden of some other
O you've seen that man before
his golden arm dispatching cards
but now it's rusted from the elbows to the finger
And he wants to trade the game he plays for shelter
Yes he wants to trade the game he knows for shelter.

Ah you hate to see another tired man
lay down his hand
like he was giving up the holy game of poker
And while he talks his dreams to sleep
you notice there's a highway
that is curling up like smoke above his shoulder.
It is curling just like smoke above his shoulder.

You tell him to come in sit down
but something makes you turn around
The door is open you can't close your shelter
You try the handle of the road
It opens do not be afraid
It's you my love, you who are the stranger
It's you my love, you who are the stranger.

Well, I've been waiting, I was sure
we'd meet between the trains we're waiting for
I think it's time to board another
Please understand, I never had a secret chart
to get me to the heart of this
or any other matter
When he talks like this
you don't know what he's after
When he speaks like this,
you don't know what he's after.

Let's meet tomorrow if you choose
upon the shore, beneath the bridge
that they are building on some endless river
Then he leaves the platform
for the sleeping car that's warm
You realize, he's only advertising one more shelter
And it comes to you, he never was a stranger
And you say ok the bridge or someplace later.

And then sweeping up the jokers that he left behind ...

And leaning on your window sill ...

I told you when I came I was a stranger.



um campo minado de corações tristes

o coração que me deixaste
é uma casa difícil de habitar.

Pound

A man of no furtune,
and with name to come.

Flora

 

A total stranger one black day
knocked living the hell out of me(E.E. Cummings)

'That's a beauty'

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

(The Laughing Heart, Charles Bukowski)

Eat your heart out

Berlin Babylon

.

Dear, dear, were they really sad for me?
Dear, dear, will they really laugh at me?

Dobrou-se sobre ela puxou-lhe fogo

Escancarou-lhe os olhos puxou-lhe fogo

Cerziu-se-lhe no peito puxou-lhe fogo

Tirou-lhe pó de cima puxou-lhe fogo

Sentiu-se tão pesado puxou-lhe fogo

Cobriu-a de ar; destapou-lhe a carne; mordeu.




Era fim de tarde era depressa era comprido

Verteu palavras tenras até já não ter voz

Chorou, soletrou-lhe o corpo membro a membro

E foi no soalho a solidão de a desventrar

Tremeu tremeu puxou-lhe fogo




E ela ardeu






(Manuel Cintra)

从天明天起，我只愿面朝大海，春暖花开

It's been a cold summer

The Oval Portrait

“She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee. And evil was the hour when she saw, and lovely, and wedded the painter. He, passionate, studious, austere, and having already a bride in his Art: she a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee; all light and smiles, and frolicsome as the young fawn; loving and cherishing all things; hating only the Art which was her rival; dreading only the pallet and brushes and other untoward instruments which deprived her of the countenance of her lover. It was thus a terrible thing for this lady to hear the painter speak of his desire to portray even his young bride. But she was humble and obedient, and sat meekly for many weeks in the dark, high turret-chamber where the light dripped upon the pale canvas only from overhead. But he, the painter, took glory in his work, which went on from hour to hour, and from day to day. And he was passionate, and wild, and a moody man, who become lost in reveries; so that he would not see that the light which fell so ghastly in that lone turret withered the health and the spirits of his bride, who pined visibly to all but him. Yet she smiled on and still on, uncomplainingly, because she saw that the painter (who had high renown) took a fervid and burning pleasure in his task, and wrought day and night to depict her  who so loved him, yet who grew daily more dispirited and weak. And in sooth some who beheld the portrait spoke of its resemblance in low words, as of a mighty marvel, and a proof not less of the power of the painter than of his deep love for her whom he depicted so surpassingly well. But at length, as the labor drew nearer to its conclusion, there were admitted none into the turret; for the painter had grown wild with the ardor of his work, and turned his eyes from canvas merely, even to regard the countenance of his wife. And he would not see that the tints which he spread upon the canvas were drawn from the cheeks of her who sat beside him. And when many weeks had passed, and but little remained to do, save one brush upon the mouth and one tint upon the eye, the spirit of the lady again flickered up as the flame within the socket of the lamp. And then the brush was given, and then the tint was placed; and, for one moment, the painter stood entranced before the work which he had wrought; but in the next, while he yet gazed, he grew tremulous and very pallid, and aghast, and crying with a loud voice, ‘This is indeed life itself!’ turned suddenly to regard his beloved: - She was dead!”

(Edgar Allen Poe, The Oval Portrait, in Selected Short Stories of Edgar Allen Poe)

Impossible Memory, insane memory

Em prosa provavelmente

"...Quando acordares lembra-te de mim. Eu sou aquele que te pegou na mão, e o que te acariciou os cabelos. Estavas cheio de medo e o sono não conseguia arrastar-te para dentro de ti, nem o tempo para dentro de tua mais íntima idade. Precisavas de alguém que te amparasse a cabeça e te falasse em voz alta. Tantas vozes, lembras-te? Tanto silêncio, lembras-te? Eu estava lá e só eu te ouvia...."

(Manuel António Pina, Nenhuma Palavra e Nenhuma Lembrança)

(Lucian Freud, Girl with Roses, 1947-1948)