«Pode a vida ser boa,
quando se acorda para a fome? Que sentido tem Ser?»


John Updike. Ponto Último e outros poemas. Tradução de Ana Luísa Amaral. Civilização Editora, Porto, 2009., p. 77

«Esta gente teve uma guerra,
e a paz aqui compartilha do tédio do mar.»


John Updike. Ponto Último e outros poemas. Tradução de Ana Luísa Amaral. Civilização Editora, Porto, 2009., p. 75

«as árvores são de dia nossas mães,
mas de noite lamentam-nos a inquietação.»


John Updike. Ponto Último e outros poemas. Tradução de Ana Luísa Amaral. Civilização Editora, Porto, 2009., p. 65

The Olive Tree

Save for a lusterless honing-stone of moon
The sky stretches its flawless canopy
Blue as the blue silk of the Jewish flag
Over the valley and out to sea.
It is bluest just above the olive tree.
You cannot find in twisted Italy
So straight a one; it stands not on a crag,
Is not humpbacked with bearing in scored stone,
But perfectly erect in my front yard,
Oblivious of its fame. The fruit is hard,
Multitudinous, acid, tight on the stem;
The leaves ride boat-like in the brimming sun,
Going nowhere and scooping up the light.
It is the silver tree, the holy tree,
Tree of all attributes.

Now on the lawn
The olives fall by thousands, and I delight
To shed my tennis shoes and walk on them,
Pressing them coldly into the deep grass,
In love and reverence for the total loss.


Karl Shapiro

9

As grandes portas do celeiro estão todas abertas,
A erva seca da ceifa amontoa-se na carroça lentamente puxada,
A luz límpida brinca com os matizes do cinzento e do verde,
As braçadas empilham-se na meda de feno que se inclina.

Estou lá, ajudo, vim deitado em cima da carga,
Senti os seus solavancos suaves, uma perna sobre a outra,
Salto das traves e apodero-me do trevo e da erva dos prados,
E dou cambalhotas e o meu cabelo fica todo emaranhado com
             pedaços de palha.




Walt Whitman. Folhas de Erva. Tradução de Maria de Lourdes Guimarães. Círculo de Leitores., p. 36

5

Acredito em ti, minha alma, o outro que sou não se deve rebaixar
              perante ti,
E tu não te deves rebaixar ao outro.

Entrega-te comigo ao ócio sobre a erva, liberta o nó que tens na
            garganta,
Não quero palavras, música ou rimas, nem regras ou prelecções,
           nem mesmo as melhores.
Apenas gosto da quietude, do sussurro da tua voz velada.


Recordo como numa manhã límpida de Verão em que estávamos
         deitados,
Tu pousaste a tua cabeça nas minhas ancas e te voltaste sobre mim
         com toda a suavidade,
E afastaste a camisa do meu peito e mergulhaste a língua no
         meu coração desnudado,
E te estendes até sentir a minha barba e te estendeste até agarrares
         os meus pés.


De repente surgiram e rodearam-me a paz e o conhecimento que
        ultrapassam todas as polémicas da terra,
E sei que a mão de Deus é a minha promessa,
E sei que o espírito de Deus é meu irmão,
E que todos os homens alguma vez nascidos são também meus
         irmãos e as mulheres minhas irmãs e amantes,
E que o amor é o suporte da criação,
E que são inúmeras as folhas firmes ou a cair nos campos,
E por baixo delas as formigas escuras nos seus pequenos poços,
E crostas musgosas da cerca em ziguezague, pedras amontoadas, o
                sabugueiro, o verbasco e a erva-tintureira.





Walt Whitman. Folhas de Erva. Tradução de Maria de Lourdes Guimarães. Círculo de Leitores., p. 32/3

(...)

Exercitaste-te tanto tempo para aprender a ler?
Sentiste-te muito orgulhoso ao compreender o significado dos
        poemas?

Fica comigo este dia e esta noite e possuirás a origem de todos os
        poemas,
Quero que possuas o que há de bom na Terra e no sol (há milhões
        de outros sóis),
Não quero que recebas mais coisas em segunda mão ou em terceira
        mão, nem que olhes através dos olhos dos mortos, nem
        que te alimentes dos espectros dos livros,
Também não quero que olhes através dos meus olhos, nem que
        recebas de mim coisas,
Quero que tudo escutes e as filtres a partir de ti mesmo.



Walt Whitman. Folhas de Erva. Tradução de Maria de Lourdes Guimarães. Círculo de Leitores., p. 30

«Hei-de ir para o talude junto do bosque e tirar todos os disfarces e
               ficar nu,
Estou louco por lhe sentir o contacto.»



Walt Whitman. Folhas de Erva. Tradução de Maria de Lourdes Guimarães. Círculo de Leitores., p. 29

«Vós, oceanos que tendes permanecido calmos dentro de mim!
           como vos sinto, insondáveis, agitados, preparando vagas e
           tempestades sem precedentes.»



Walt Whitman. Folhas de Erva. Tradução de Maria de Lourdes Guimarães. Círculo de Leitores., p. 27

12

Democracia! próxima de ti uma garganta enche-se agora de ar e
           canta alegremente.

Ma femme! para os filhos que vêm de nós e depois de nós,
Para aqueles que são daqui e aqueles que hão-de vir,
Eu, exultante por estar pronto para eles lanço cá fora canções
             mais vigorosas e altivas do que qualquer outras alguma
             vez ouvidas na terra.

Hei-de escrever canções de paixão para lhes mostrar o seu caminho,
E as vossas canções, transgressores proscritos, porque vos observo
             com olhos de pai e vos levo comigo como a qualquer outro.

Hei-de escrever o verdadeiro poema da riqueza,
Alcançar para o corpo e para o espírito tudo o que se lhe prenda e
             progrida e não seja abandonado pela morte;
Hei-de derramar o egotismo e revelá-lo subjacente a tudo e ser o
             bardo da personalidade,
E hei-de mostrar do macho e da fêmea que um é apenas igual ao
            outro,
E os órgão e actos sexuais! Concentrai-vos em mim pois estou
           decidido a dizer-vos com uma voz límpida e corajosa para
           mostrar que sois gloriosos,
E hei-de mostar que não existe qualquer imperfeição no presente
           e nenhuma pode existir no futuro,
E hei-de mostrar que, seja o que for que aconteça a alguém, pode
           transformar-se em belos resultados,
E hei-de mostrar que nada existe de mais belo que a morte,
E hei-de passar um fio através dos meus poemas para que o tempo
           e os acontecimentos fiquem unidos,
E todas as coisas do universo sejam milagres perfeitos, cada um tão
           profundo como os outros.

Não irei escrever poemas que se refiram a partes,
Mas hei-de escrever poemas, canções, pensamentos que se refiram
           ao todo,
E não hei-de cantar referindo-me a um dia, mas sim referindo-me
          a todos os dias,
E não hei-de fazer um poema ou a mínima parte de um poema
          que não se refira à alma.

Porque, após ter olhado para os objectos do Universo, vi que não
           existe um, nem uma partícula de um que não se refira à
          alma.




Walt Whitman. Folhas de Erva. Tradução de Maria de Lourdes Guimarães. Círculo de Leitores., p. 23/4

Ao partir de Paumanok

1



Ao partir de Paumanok, a ilha em forma de peixe, onde nasci,
Bem gerado e educado por uma mãe perfeita,
Após ter percorrido muitas terras, enamorado pelos passeios
            cheios de gente,
E ter habitado em Mannahatta, a minha cidade, ou nas savanas do
             Sul,
Ou ter acampado como soldado e carregado com a minha mochila
             e a espingarda, ou sido um mineiro na Califórnia,
Ou, rústico, ter vivido na minha terra, nas florestas de Dacota,
             alimentando-me de carne e bebendo nas fontes,
Ou ter-me retirado para devanear e meditar num profundo recanto
Longe do mundo das multidões, momentos cheios de enlevo e
             felicidade,
Conhecendo o fresco e o generoso curso do Missuri, conhecendo o
            importante Niágara,
As manadas de búfalos que pastam nas planícies, o hirsuto e o
           corpulento touro,
Com a experiência da terra, das rochas, das flores de Maio,
           maravilhado com as estrelas, a chuva, a neve,
Atento aos vários cantos do mimo e ao voo do falcão da montanha
E ouvindo de madrugada o incomparável tordo eremita a cantar
           nos cedros do pântano,
Eu, solitário no Oeste, entoo o meu canto para um Novo Mundo.


Walt Whitman. Folhas de Erva. Tradução de Maria de Lourdes Guimarães. Círculo de Leitores., p. 16

«Sou um homem que deambula sem parar totalmente, por acaso
                olha para ti e de seguida desvia o rosto,
Deixando que sejas tu quem venha prová-lo e defini-lo,
E espera de ti as coisas principais.»


Walt Whitman. Folhas de Erva. Tradução de Maria de Lourdes Guimarães. Círculo de Leitores., p. 15

QUANDO LI ESTE LIVRO

«Quando li este livro, a famosa biografia,
E então é isto (disse eu) aquilo a que o autor chama a vida de um
                  homem?
E é assim que, depois de eu ter morrido e desaparecido, alguém
                  irá escrever a minha vida?
(Como se alguém soubesse na verdade qualquer coisa da minha vida,
Na realidade eu próprio muitas vezes penso pouco da minha vida,
                  da minha vida real,
Apenas algumas suspeitas, alguns indícios difusos e vagos ou
                  sugestões dissimuladas
Que procuro para meu próprio uso descobrir aqui.)



Walt Whitman. Folhas de Erva. Tradução de Maria de Lourdes Guimarães. Círculo de Leitores., p.11

Directive

Back out of all this now too much for us,
Back in a time made simple by the loss
Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off
Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather,
There is a house that is no more a house
Upon a farm that is no more a farm
And in a town that is no more a town.
The road there, if you’ll let a guide direct you
Who only has at heart your getting lost,
May seem as if it should have been a quarry—
Great monolithic knees the former town
Long since gave up pretense of keeping covered.
And there’s a story in a book about it:
Besides the wear of iron wagon wheels
The ledges show lines ruled southeast-northwest,
The chisel work of an enormous Glacier
That braced his feet against the Arctic Pole.
You must not mind a certain coolness from him
Still said to haunt this side of Panther Mountain.
Nor need you mind the serial ordeal
Of being watched from forty cellar holes
As if by eye pairs out of forty firkins.
As for the woods’ excitement over you
That sends light rustle rushes to their leaves,
Charge that to upstart inexperience.
Where were they all not twenty years ago?
They think too much of having shaded out
A few old pecker-fretted apple trees.
Make yourself up a cheering song of how
Someone’s road home from work this once was,
Who may be just ahead of you on foot
Or creaking with a buggy load of grain.
The height of the adventure is the height
Of country where two village cultures faded
Into each other. Both of them are lost.
And if you’re lost enough to find yourself
By now, pull in your ladder road behind you
And put a sign up CLOSED to all but me.
Then make yourself at home. The only field
Now left’s no bigger than a harness gall.
First there’s the children’s house of make-believe,
Some shattered dishes underneath a pine,
The playthings in the playhouse of the children.
Weep for what little things could make them glad.
Then for the house that is no more a house,
But only a belilaced cellar hole,
Now slowly closing like a dent in dough.
This was no playhouse but a house in earnest.
Your destination and your destiny’s
A brook that was the water of the house,
Cold as a spring as yet so near its source,
Too lofty and original to rage.
(We know the valley streams that when aroused
Will leave their tatters hung on barb and thorn.)
I have kept hidden in the instep arch
Of an old cedar at the waterside
A broken drinking goblet like the Grail
Under a spell so the wrong ones can’t find it,
So can’t get saved, as Saint Mark says they mustn’t.
(I stole the goblet from the children’s playhouse.)
Here are your waters and your watering place.
Drink and be whole again beyond confusion.

Robert Frost. From Steeple Bush | Holt, 1947

«Quando o galho da amendoeira dá a sua chama,
Quando os rebentos novos são trazidos ao altar,»


Ezra Pound. Do caos à ordem (Visões de sociedade dos cantares de Ezra Pound). Tradução e Prefácio de Daniel Pearlman e Luísa Campos. Edição Bilingue. Assírio&Alvim, Lisboa, 1983, p. 49

Primeiro terás de seguir o caminho
                                                  do inferno


Ezra Pound. Do caos à ordem (Visões de sociedade dos cantares de Ezra Pound). Tradução e Prefácio de Daniel Pearlman e Luísa Campos. Edição Bilingue. Assírio&Alvim, Lisboa, 1983, p. 41

«Que apesar de morto tem ainda a mente intacta!»


Ezra Pound. Do caos à ordem (Visões de sociedade dos cantares de Ezra Pound). Tradução e Prefácio de Daniel Pearlman e Luísa Campos. Edição Bilingue. Assírio&Alvim, Lisboa, 1983, p. 41

Asking for Roses

A HOUSE that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master,
With doors that none but the wind ever closes,
Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster;
It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses.
I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary;
'I wonder,' I say, 'who the owner of those is.
'Oh, no one you know,' she answers me airy,
'But one we must ask if we want any roses.'
So we must join hands in the dew coming coldly
There in the hush of the wood that reposes,
And turn and go up to the open door boldly,
And knock to the echoes as beggars for roses.
'Pray, are you within there, Mistress Who-were-you?'
'Tis Mary that speaks and our errand discloses.
'Pray, are you within there? Bestir you, bestir you!
'Tis summer again; there's two come for roses.
'A word with you, that of the singer recalling--
Old Herrick: a saying that every maid knows is
A flower unplucked is but left to the falling,
And nothing is gained by not gathering roses.'
We do not loosen our hands' intertwining
(Not caring so very much what she supposes),
There when she comes on us mistily shining
And grants us by silence the boon of her roses.


Robert Frost

A Servant to Servants

I didn't make you know how glad I was
To have you come and camp here on our land.
I promised myself to get down some day
And see the way you lived, but I don't know!
With a houseful of hungry men to feed
I guess you'd find.... It seems to me
I can't express my feelings any more
Than I can raise my voice or want to lift
My hand (oh, I can lift it when I have to).
Did ever you feel so? I hope you never.
It's got so I don't even know for sure
Whether I am glad, sorry, or anything.
There's nothing but a voice-like left inside
That seems to tell me how I ought to feel,
And would feel if I wasn't all gone wrong.
You take the lake. I look and look at it.
I see it's a fair, pretty sheet of water.
I stand and make myself repeat out loud
The advantages it has, so long and narrow,
Like a deep piece of some old running river
Cut short off at both ends. It lies five miles
Straight away through the mountain notch
From the sink window where I wash the plates,
And all our storms come up toward the house,
Drawing the slow waves whiter and whiter and whiter.
It took my mind off doughnuts and soda biscuit
To step outdoors and take the water dazzle
A sunny morning, or take the rising wind
About my face and body and through my wrapper,
When a storm threatened from the Dragon's Den,
And a cold chill shivered across the lake.
I see it's a fair, pretty sheet of water,
Our Willoughby! How did you hear of it?
I expect, though, everyone's heard of it.
In a book about ferns? Listen to that!
You let things more like feathers regulate
Your going and coming. And you like it here?
I can see how you might. But I don't know!
It would be different if more people came,
For then there would be business. As it is,
The cottages Len built, sometimes we rent them,
Sometimes we don't. We've a good piece of shore
That ought to be worth something, and may yet.
But I don't count on it as much as Len.
He looks on the bright side of everything,
Including me. He thinks I'll be all right
With doctoring. But it's not medicine--
Lowe is the only doctor's dared to say so--
It's rest I want--there, I have said it out--
From cooking meals for hungry hired men
And washing dishes after them--from doing
Things over and over that just won't stay done.
By good rights I ought not to have so much
Put on me, but there seems no other way.
Len says one steady pull more ought to do it.
He says the best way out is always through.
And I agree to that, or in so far
As that I can see no way out but through--
Leastways for me--and then they'll be convinced.
It's not that Len don't want the best for me.
It was his plan our moving over in
Beside the lake from where that day I showed you
We used to live--ten miles from anywhere.
We didn't change without some sacrifice,
But Len went at it to make up the loss.
His work's a man's, of course, from sun to sun,
But he works when he works as hard as I do--
Though there's small profit in comparisons.
(Women and men will make them all the same.)
But work ain't all. Len undertakes too much.
He's into everything in town. This year
It's highways, and he's got too many men
Around him to look after that make waste.
They take advantage of him shamefully,
And proud, too, of themselves for doing so.
We have four here to board, great good-for-nothings,
Sprawling about the kitchen with their talk
While I fry their bacon. Much they care!
No more put out in what they do or say
Than if I wasn't in the room at all.
Coming and going all the time, they are:
I don't learn what their names are, let alone
Their characters, or whether they are safe
To have inside the house with doors unlocked.
I'm not afraid of them, though, if they're not
Afraid of me. There's two can play at that.
I have my fancies: it runs in the family.
My father's brother wasn't right. They kept him
Locked up for years back there at the old farm.
I've been away once--yes, I've been away.
The State Asylum. I was prejudiced;
I wouldn't have sent anyone of mine there;
You know the old idea--the only asylum
Was the poorhouse, and those who could afford,
Rather than send their folks to such a place,
Kept them at home; and it does seem more human.
But it's not so: the place is the asylum.
There they have every means proper to do with,
And you aren't darkening other people's lives--
Worse than no good to them, and they no good
To you in your condition; you can't know
Affection or the want of it in that state.
I've heard too much of the old-fashioned way.
My father's brother, he went mad quite young.
Some thought he had been bitten by a dog,
Because his violence took on the form
Of carrying his pillow in his teeth;
But it's more likely he was crossed in love,
Or so the story goes. It was some girl.
Anyway all he talked about was love.
They soon saw he would do someone a mischief
If he wa'n't kept strict watch of, and it ended
In father's building him a sort of cage,
Or room within a room, of hickory poles,
Like stanchions in the barn, from floor to ceiling,--
A narrow passage all the way around.
Anything they put in for furniture
He'd tear to pieces, even a bed to lie on.
So they made the place comfortable with straw,
Like a beast's stall, to ease their consciences.
Of course they had to feed him without dishes.
They tried to keep him clothed, but he paraded
With his clothes on his arm--all of his clothes.
Cruel--it sounds. I 'spose they did the best
They knew. And just when he was at the height,
Father and mother married, and mother came,
A bride, to help take care of such a creature,
And accommodate her young life to his.
That was what marrying father meant to her.
She had to lie and hear love things made dreadful
By his shouts in the night. He'd shout and shout
Until the strength was shouted out of him,
And his voice died down slowly from exhaustion.
He'd pull his bars apart like bow and bow-string,
And let them go and make them twang until
His hands had worn them smooth as any ox-bow.
And then he'd crow as if he thought that child's play--
The only fun he had. I've heard them say, though,
They found a way to put a stop to it.
He was before my time--I never saw him;
But the pen stayed exactly as it was
There in the upper chamber in the ell,
A sort of catch-all full of attic clutter.
I often think of the smooth hickory bars.
It got so I would say--you know, half fooling--
"It's time I took my turn upstairs in jail"--
Just as you will till it becomes a habit.
No wonder I was glad to get away.
Mind you, I waited till Len said the word.
I didn't want the blame if things went wrong.
I was glad though, no end, when we moved out,
And I looked to be happy, and I was,
As I said, for a while--but I don't know!
Somehow the change wore out like a prescription.
And there's more to it than just window-views
And living by a lake. I'm past such help--
Unless Len took the notion, which he won't,
And I won't ask him--it's not sure enough.
I 'spose I've got to go the road I'm going:
Other folks have to, and why shouldn't I?
I almost think if I could do like you,
Drop everything and live out on the ground--
But it might be, come night, I shouldn't like it,
Or a long rain. I should soon get enough,
And be glad of a good roof overhead.
I've lain awake thinking of you, I'll warrant,
More than you have yourself, some of these nights.
The wonder was the tents weren't snatched away
From over you as you lay in your beds.
I haven't courage for a risk like that.
Bless you, of course, you're keeping me from work,
But the thing of it is, I need to be kept.
There's work enough to do--there's always that;
But behind's behind. The worst that you can do
Is set me back a little more behind.
I sha'n't catch up in this world, anyway.
I'd rather you'd not go unless you must.


Robert Frost

THE SOUND OF THE TREES

I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace,
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the floor
And my head sways to my shoulder
Sometimes when I watch trees sway,
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say,
But I shall be gone.


Robert Frost