Painting by Vuillard


Two dumpy women with buns were drinking coffee
In a narrow kitchen—at least I think a kitchen
And I think it was whitewashed, in spite of all the shade.
They were flat brown, they were as brown as coffee.
Wearing brown muslin? I really could not tell.
How I loved this painting, they had grown so old
That everything had got less complicated,
Brown clothes and shade in a sunken whitewashed kitchen.

But it’s not like that for me: age is not simpler
Or less enjoyable, not dark, not whitewashed.
The people sitting on the marble steps
Of the national gallery, people in the sunlight,
A party of handsome children eating lunch
And drinking chocolate milk, and a young woman
Whose t-shirt bears the defiant word WHATEVER,
And wrinkled folk with visored hats and cameras
Are vivid, they are not browned, not in the least,
But if they do not look like coffee they look
As pungent and startling as good strong coffee tastes,
Possibly mixed with chicory. And no cream.

Thom Gunn

.

Exit


Just when hope withers, the visa is granted.
The door opens to a street like in the movies,
clean of people, of cats; except it is your street
you are leaving. A visa has been granted,
"provisionally"-a fretful word.
The windows you have closed behind
you are turning pink, doing what they do
every dawn. Here it's gray. The door
to the taxicab waits. This suitcase,
the saddest object in the world.
Well, the world's open. And now through
the windshield the sky begins to blush
as you did when your mother told you
what it took to be a woman in this life.

Rita Dove
.

Pauline Barrett

Almost the shell of a woman after the surgeon’s knife!

And almost a year to creep back into strength,

Till the dawn of our wedding decennial

Found me my seeming self again.

We walked the forest together,

By a path of soundless moss and turf.

But I could not look in your eyes,

And you could not look in my eyes,

For such sorrow was ours—the beginning of gray in your hair,

And I but a shell of myself.

And what did we talk of?—sky and water,

Anything, ’most, to hide our thoughts.

And then your gift of wild roses,

Set on the table to grace our dinner.

Poor heart, how bravely you struggled

To imagine and live a remembered rapture!

Then my spirit drooped as the night came on,

And you left me alone in my room for a while,

As you did when I was a bride, poor heart.

And I looked in the mirror and something said:

“One should be all dead when one is half-dead—”

Nor ever mock life, nor ever cheat love.”

And I did it looking there in the mirror—

Dear, have you ever understood?

Edgar Lee Masters, Spoon River Anthology

.

EL DESCAMPADO

A Dámaso Alonso

Tú estás en ese taxi parado, sí, eres Tú
—un bulto en el crepúsculo— junto al bordillo blanco
donde se acaba el campo de enfrente o descampado.
Lo sé, aunque no te he visto (y aunque dentro del taxi
no hay nadie). Está lloviendo con fuerza. Está empezando
a oler en la ciudad a campo de muy lejos...
Y tú estás en el taxi como en una capilla
que fuera entre las hazas ermita solitaria.
(Lo sé, porque esos trigos que se iluminan, lejos...,
y ese río parado, con sus aguas crecidas
de pronto...) Llueve fuerte y estás dentro del taxi
(tal vez junto a ese chófer fatigado al volante).
Sé que dentro del taxi no hay nadie, pero huele
a lluvia de muy lejos. Suena esa luvia. Y pienso
sin ganas: ser poeta, suspender en el aire
laborioso de un día y otro día unas pocas
palabras necesarias, y quitarse de en medio.
Porque uno —su difícil vivir— ya no hace falta
si quedan las palabras. Ser poeta: orientarse,
como esa luz dudosa cruzando el descampado
y en vez de una existencia brillante, tener alma.
Por eso, algo me quito de en medio: estoy viviendo
como un taxi parado junto al bordillo blanco
(y hay un cerco de alegres sonrisas y de manos
fieles a sus celestes contactos en la sombra).
Porque Tú, el más activo —y el más ocioso— estabas
aquí, junto al farol de luz verde en la noche.
Tú, sin libros; Tú, libre con brazos, con miradas,
estabas sin testigos y medías —ocioso—
mis pasos por mi cuarto (donde caben mis años).
Y los trigos en éxtasis de Castilla la Vieja,
los ríos llameantes con sus aguas crecidas,
seguían a lo lejos relevándote (mientras
detrás de mis cristales aparece el retraso
de ese barro, esos charcos del ancho descampado,
¡yo también descampado, desterrado del campo!) Porque Tú, el más activo —y el más ocioso— estabas
aquí, junto al farol de luz verde en lan oche.
Tú, sin libros; Tú, libre con brazos, con miradas,
estabas sin testigos y medías —ocioso—
mis pasos por mi cuarto (donde caben mis años).
Y los trigos en éxtasis de Castilla la Vieja,
los ríos llameantes con sus aguas crecidas,
seguían a lo lejos relevándote (mientras
detrás de mis cristales aparece el retraso
de ese barro, esos charcos del ancho descampado,
¡yo también descampado, desterrado del campo!)

Luis Felipe Vivanco

.

Ed è subito sera

Ognuno sta solo sul cuor della terra
Trafitto da un raggio di sole:
ed è subito sera.

Salvatore Quasimodo,Ed è subito sera

A HISTÓRIA DE UMA HISTÓRIA



Era uma vez uma história

acabava antes de começar
e começava depois do fim

os seus heróis entravam nela
depois de terem morrido
e abandonavam-na
antes de nascerem

os seus heróis falavam
de um certo mundo e de um certo céu
diziam toda a espécie de coisas

só não diziam
o que eles próprios não sabiam
que eram apenas heróis de uma história

de uma história que acaba
antes de começar

e começa
antes de acabar


Ted Hughes, O Fazer da Poesia (tradução de Helder Moura Pereira)
.

Bluebird


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 pur 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?


Charles Bukowski

.

Tempo


Não sei se te nomeie ou nomeie o vento,
isto que passa
e procura os outros lugares onde o pólen cai.
Talvez uma colmeia confie ao seu mel o que
ficou de um ano
em que a tempestade não se fez ouvir sobre
as corolas.
O que viste antes de Setembro perdeu-se,
apagou-se,
afastou-se sem dizer nada,
como os barcos que pouco a pouco se
afastaram da nossa vida,
calados e brancos,
com as suas gaivotas de asas fechadas,
envelhecendo lado a lado, sobre o convés.

.

José Agostinho Baptista

.

Words For Departure
.

1
Nothing was remembered, nothing forgotten.

When we awoke, wagons were passing on the warm summer pavements,

The window-sills were wet from rain in the night,

Birds scattered and settled over chimneypots

As among grotesque trees.

Nothing was accepted, nothing looked beyond.

Slight-voiced bells separated hour from hour,

The afternoon sifted coolness

And people drew together in streets becoming deserted.

There was a moon, and light in a shop-front,

And dusk falling like precipitous water.

Hand clasped hand

Forehead still bowed to forehead--

Nothing was lost, nothing possessed

There was no gift nor denial.

.

2

I have remembered you.

You were not the town visited once,

Nor the road falling behind running feet.

You were as awkward as flesh

And lighter than frost or ashes.

You were the rind,

And the white-juiced apple,

The song, and the words waiting for music.

.

3

You have learned the beginning;

Go from mine to the other.

Be together; eat, dance, despair,

Sleep, be threatened, endure.

You will know the way of that.

But at the end, be insolent;

Be absurd--strike the thing short off;

Be mad--only do not let talk

Wear the bloom from silence.

And go away without fire or lantern

Let there be some uncertainty about your departure.

.

.

Louise Bogan

LBLouise Bogan

Homenagem a Cesário Verde

Aos pés do burro que olhava para o mar
depois do bolo rei comeram-se sardinhas
com as sardinhas um pouco de goiabada
e depois do pudim, para um último cigarro
um feijão branco em sangue e rolas cozidas

Pouco depois cada qual procurou
com cada um o poente que convinha.
Chegou a noite e foram todos para casa ler Cesário Verde
Que ainda há passeios ainda há poetas cá no país!

Mário Cesariny, Pena Capital
.

Dejo correr la sangre de las manos.

Acostado en la cama la examino.

Las sábanas la sorben dulcemente

con la quieta avidez de su blancura.

Brota incesantemente. A borbotones.

Tibia y curiosa asoma a mis muñecas

y escapa presurosa de mis manos.

Son manos de vencido. Ellas debían

coger la gloria, amor, coger dinero.

Un día las creí capaces de ello.

Pero nada aprehendieron. No eran hábiles.

O el empeño excedió su exigua fuerza.

Pobres manos humildes y vacías.

Tiemblan un poco. Tiemblan asustadas.

Asustadas y débiles parecen

pedir excusas porque son mediocres.

Les sonrío a mis manos. Las levanto

y las uno. Las siento desvalidas.

Y atisbo como repta sigiloso

ese zumo tan rojo de la vida.

José María Fonollosa, Destrucción de la mañana

.

Nos mains au jardin

Nous avons eu cette idée
de planter nos mains au jardin

Branches des dix doigts
Petits arbres d'ossements
Chère plate-bande.

Tout le jour
Nous avons attendu l'oiseau roux
Et les feuilles fraîches
A nos ongles polis.

Nul oiseau
Nul printemps
Ne se sont pris au piège de nos mains coupées.

Pour une seule fleur
Une seule minuscule étoile de couleur
Un seul vol d'aile calme
Pour une seule note pure
Répétée trois fois.

Il faudra la saison prochaine
Et nos mains fondues comme l'eau.

Anne Hébert, Poèmes