30 de março de 2006

La tristesse durera toujours
Vincent Van Gogh (1853-1890)
Quarto em Arles


26 de março de 2006

Robert Frost (1874-1936)

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost


18 de março de 2006


Desistir do rosto, dos propósitos, das
palavras. Há sílabas assim.
Com a vergonha do afecto
emprestada ao desalinho das mesas.

Por ali, encenando a imobilidade,
a rudeza de haver dor.
Eu sei que não virás.
Bebo por ti, sem ti, contra ti,
com o coração no bengaleiro
a fingir que não, não faz diferença.

E o pior é que até faz,
por muito que ninguém o saiba.

Manuel de Freitas


11 de março de 2006

Sebastião Alba (1940-2000)

fim de poema


Para que nem tudo vos seja sonegado,
cultivai a surdina.
Eu fico em surdina.
Em surdina aparo
os utensílios,
em surdina me preparo
para morrer.
Amo, chut!, em surdina;
a minha vida,
nesga entre dois ponteiros, fecha-se
em surdina.

Sebastião Alba, A Noite Dividida

2 de março de 2006

Edgar Bowers (1924-2000)

Living Together

Of you I have no memory, keep no promise.
But, as I read, drink, wait, and watch the surf,
Faithful, almost forgotton, your demand
Becomes all others, and this loneliness
The need that is your presence. In the dark,
Beneath the lamp, attentive, like a sound
I listen for, you draw near -- closer, surer
Than speech, or sight, or love, or love returned.

Edgar Bowers

1 de março de 2006

Robert Lowell (1917-1977)


It was a Maine lobster town-
each morning boatloads of hands
pushed off for granite
quarries on the islands,

and left dozens of bleak
white frame houses stuck
like oyster shells
on a hill of rock,

and below us, the sea lapped
the raw little match-stick
mazes of a weir,
where the fish for bait were trapped.

Remember?We sat on a slab of rock.
>From this distance in time
it seems the color
of iris, rotting and turning purpler,

but it was only
the usual gray rock
turning the usual green
when drenched by the sea.

The sea drenched the rock
at our feet all day,
and kept tearing away
flake after flake.

One night you dreamed
you were a mermaid clinging to a wharf-pile,
and trying to pull
off the barnacles with your hands.

We wished our two souls
might return like gulls
to the rock.In the end,
the water was too cold for us.

Robert Lowell