Stephen Spender (1909-1995)

What I expected, was
Thunder, fighting.
Long struggles with men
And climbing.
After continual straining
I should grow strong;
Then the rocks would shake
And I rest long.

What I had not foreseen
Was the gradual day
Weakening the will
Leaking the brightness away,
The lack of good to touch,
The fading of body and soul
Smoke before wind,
Corrupt, insubstantial.

The wearing of Time,
And the watching of cripples pass
With limbs shaped like questions
In their odd twist,
The pulverous grief
Melting bones with pity,
The sick falling from earth-
These, I could not foresee.

Expecting always
Some brightness to hold in trust
Some final innocence
Exempt from dust,
That, hanging solid,
Would dangle through all
Like the created poem,
Or the faceted crystal.

Stephen Spender

Ruy Belo (1933-1978)


TO HELENA

Acabo de inventar um novo advérbio: helenamente
A maneira mais triste de se estar contente
a de estar mais sozinho em meio de mais gente
de mais tarde saber alguma coisa antecipadamente
Emotiva atitude de quem age friamente
inalterável forma de se ser sempre diferente
maneira mais complexa de viver mais simplesmente
de ser-se o mesmo sempre e ser surpreendente
de estar num sítio tanto mais se mais ausente
e mais ausente estar se mais presente
de mais perto se estar se mais distante
de sentir mais o frio em tempo quente
O modo mais saudável de se estar doente
de se ser verdadeiro e revelar-se que se mente
de mentir muito verdadeiramente
de dizer a verdade falsamente
de se mostrar profundo superficialmente
de ser-se o mais real sendo aparente
de menos agredir mais agressivamente
de ser-se singular se mais corrente
e mais contraditório quanto mais coerente
A via enviesada para ir-se em frente
a treda actuação de quem actua lealmente
e é tão impassível como comovente
O modo mais precário de ser mais permanente
de tentar tanto mais quanto menos se tente
de ser pacífico e ao mesmo tempo combatente
de estar mais no passado se mais no presente
de não se ter ninguém e ter em cada homem um parente
de ser tão insensível como quem mais sente
de melhor se curvar se altivamente
de perder a cabeça mas serenamente
de tudo perdoar e todos justiçar dente por dente
de tanto desistir e de ser tão constante
de articular melhor sendo menos fluente
e fazer maior mal quando se está mais inocente
É sob aspecto frágil revelar-se resistente
é para interessar-se ser indiferente
Quando helena recusa é que consente
se tão pouco perdoa é por ser indulgente
baixa os olhos se quer ser insolente
Ninguém é tão inconscientemente consciente
tão inconsequentemente consequente
Se em tantos dons abunda é por ser indigente
e só convence assim por não ser muito convincente
e melhor fundamenta o mais insubsistente
Acabo de inventar um novo advérbio: helenamente
O mar a terra o fumo a pedra simultaneamente

Ruy Belo, Transporte no Tempo
.

Vercors (1902-1991)

Não vinha rigorosamente todas as noites, mas não me lembro de uma única noite em que ele nos tenha deixado sem falar. Inclinava-se para o fogo e enquanto oferecia ao calor das chamas um pouco de si próprio, a sua voz sussurrante fazia-se ouvir suavemente e esses serões foram um interminável monólogo sobre os assuntos que lhe povoavam o coração — o seu país, a música, a França. Nem uma só vez tentou obter de nós qualquer resposta, uma aprovação qual­quer, ou mesmo um sorriso. Não falava durante muito tempo — pelo menos, nunca durante mais tempo do que na primeira noite. Pronunciava algumas frases, por vezes interrompidas por silêncios, outras vezes encadeando-se com a continuidade monótona de uma oração. Ora se mantinha imóvel contra a lareira, como uma cariátide, ora se aproximava, sem deixar de falar, de um objecto ou de um desenho na parede. Depois, calava-se, inclinava-se e desejava-nos uma boa noite.

Uma vez (era no tempo das suas primeiras visitas), disse:
— O que haverá de diferente entre um fogo do meu país e este fogo? A lenha, as chamas, a chaminé são semelhantes naturalmente. Mas a luz, não. A luz depende dos objectos que ilumi­na, dos habitantes desta sala, dos móveis, das paredes, dos livros nas prateleiras...

— Porque gostarei tanto desta sala? — disse, pensativo. Não é que seja de uma grande beleza, desculpem-me!... — E riu: — Isto é, não é uma
sala de museu... Quanto aos móveis, não se pode dizer: que maravilha!... Não... Mas esta sala tem uma alma. Toda esta casa tem uma alma.

Estava voltado para as prateleiras da estante. Numa breve carícia, os seus dedos percorriam as lombadas dos livros.
— ... Balzac, Barres, Baudelaire, Beaumarchais, Boileau, Buffon... Chateaubriand, Corneille, Descartes, Fénelon, Flaubert... La Fontaine, France, Gautier, Hugo... Que convite! — disse com um ligeiro riso, abanando a cabeça. — E cheguei apenas à letra H!... Nem Molière, nem Rabelais, nem Racine, nem Pascal, nem Stendhal, nem Voltaire, nem Montaigne, nem todos os outros!... — Passava lentamente pelos livros e, de vez em quando, deixava escapar um imperceptível «Ha!» quando, suponho eu, lia um nome que não pensava encontrar. — Nos Ingleses —, continuou, — pensa-se imediata­mente: Shakespeare. Nos Italianos: Dante. Em Espanha: Cervantes. E nós, de imediato: Goethe. Depois, é necessário procurar. Mas, se dizemos: e a França? Então, quem surge imediatamente? Molière? Racine? Hugo? Voltaire? Rabelais? ou outro? Avolumam-se, qual multidão à entrada de um teatro. Quem se deve deixar entrar em primeiro lugar?

Vercors, O Silêncio do Mar
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Pierre Auguste Renoir (1847-1919)

W. H. Auden ( 1907-1973)

As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
“Love has no ending.

“I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you
Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street,

“I’ll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.

“The years shall run like rabbits,
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
And the first love of the world.”

But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
“O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.

“In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.

“In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.

“Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver’s brilliant bow.

“O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you’ve missed.

“The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.

“Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
And Jill goes down on her back.

“O look, look in the mirror?
O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.

“O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.”

It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.

W.H. Auden

.

Carson McCullers (1917-1967)

.

In the town there were two mutes, and they were always together. Early every morning they would come out from the house where they lived and walk arm in arm down the street to work. The two friends were very different. The one who always steered the way was an obese and dreamy Greek. In the summer he would come out wearing a yellow or green polo shirt stuffed sloppily into his trousers in front and hanging loose behind. When it was colder he wore over this a shapeless gray sweater. His face was round and oily, with half-closed eyelids and lips that curved in a gentle, stupid smile. The other mute was tall. His eyes had a quick, intelligent expression. He was always immaculate and very soberly dressed.

Every morning the two friends walked silently together until they reached the main street of the town. Then when they came to a certain fruit and candy store they paused for a moment on the sidewalk outside. The Greek, Spiros Antonapoulos, worked for his cousin, who owned this fruit store. His job was to make candies and sweets, uncrate the fruits, and to keep the place clean. The thin mute, John Singer, nearly always put his hand on his friend's arm and looked for a second into his face before leaving him. Then after this good-bye Singer crossed the street and walked on alone to the jewelry store where he worked as a silverware engraver.

In the late afternoon the friends would meet again. Singer came back to the fruit store and waited until Antonapoulos was ready to go home. The Greek would be lazily unpacking a case of peaches or melons, or perhaps looking at the funny paper in the kitchen behind the store where he cooked. Before their departure Antonapoulos always opened a paper sack he kept hidden during the day on one of the kitchen shelves. Inside were stored various bits of food he had collected - a piece of fruit, samples of candy, or the butt-end of a liverwurst. Usually before leaving Antonapoulos waddled gently to the glassed case in the front of the store where some meats and cheeses were kept. He glided open the back of the case and his fat hand groped lovingly for some particular dainty inside which he had wanted. Sometimes his cousin who owned the place did not see him. But if he noticed he stared at his cousin with a warning in his tight, pale face. Sadly Antonapoulos would shuffle the morsel from one corner of the case to the other. During these times Singer stood very straight with his hands in his pockets and looked in another direction. He did not like to watch this little scene between the two Greeks. For, excepting drinking and a certain solitary secret pleasure, Antonapoulos loved to eat more than anything else in the world.

In the dusk the two mutes walked slowly home together. At home Singer was always talking to Antonapoulos. His hands shaped the words in a swift series of designs. His face was eager and his gray-green eyes sparkled brightly. With his thin, strong hands he told Antonapoulos all that had happened during the day.

Antonapoulos sat back lazily and looked at Singer. It was seldom that he ever moved his hands to speak at all --- and then it was to say that he wanted to eat or to sleep or to drink. These three things he always said with the same vague, fumbling signs. At night, if he were not too drunk, he would kneel down before his bed and pray awhile. Then his plump hands shaped the words ‘Holy Jesus,' or ‘God,' or ‘Darling Mary.' These were the only words Antonapoulos ever said. Singer never knew just how much his friend understood of all the things he told him. But it did not matter.

Carson McCullers, The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

A. R. Ammons (1926-2001)



Eyesight

It was May before my
attention came
to spring and

my word I said
to the southern slopes
I've

missed it, it
came and went before
I got right to see:

don't worry, said the mountain,
try the later northern slopes
or if

you can climb, climb
into spring: but
said the mountain

it's not that way
with all things, some
that go are gone

A.R. Ammons

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer (1836-1870)

Como se arranca el hierro de una herida
su amor de las entrañas me arranqué,
aunque sentí al hacerlo que la vida
me arrancaba con él.

Del altar que le alcé en el alma mía
la voluntad su imagen arrojó,
y la luz de la fe que en ella ardía
ante el ara desierta se apagó.

Aun para combatir mi firme empeño
viene a mi mente su visión tenaz...
¡Cuándo podré dormir con ese sueño
en que acaba el soñar!

Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer

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Elisabeth Bishop (1911-1979)

One Art


The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.


--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Elisabeth Bishop

Padre António Vieira (1608-1697)


Para quem não recear um duelo com um dos mais hábeis esgrimistas da prosa portuguesa, recomenda-se, por exemplo, este sermão...
.

hipóteses individuais

Habituo-me, self-service, a fazer da visão
um modo de não ver. Guardo o tédio
como alguns jóias velhas. Talvez um dia,
quem sabe. Às vezes creio que também
sou um filho de Deus, embora nada no
bilhete de identidade ou no ritmo diário
o faça prever. Pressinto, desastrado coração,
que há um talvez e que o tédio, afinal,
é tão-só um modo de ter e ser dono,
de poder abrir e fechar portas e janelas
como quem fica à espera de que
a insónia dê lugar ao sono. Com essas
manchas de inteligência, com os relâmpagos
dessa lucidez, levanto-me e procuro
um horóscopo diferente, em que ninguém
crê, nem eu. Curiosamente, habituo-me
a morrer como se fosse um café na hora
de fechar: periscas no chão, mesas e cadeiras
— vazias, empilhadas —, uma luz verde
que chega a ser bela quando alguém
acende um cigarro.

Carlos Bessa
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