Verdades- na fronteira da mentira

O céu de Stevens- e de Sacadura, quiçá...

Quando o meu sonho estava perto da lua,

As pregas brancas da sua túnica

 Encheram-se de luz amarela.

 As plantas dos seus pés

 Ficaram vermelhas.

 O seu cabelo encheu-se

 De certas cristalizações azuis

 De estrelas,

 Não distantes.

Wallace Stevens, EUA (1879-1955)

       (tradução de Luísa Campos)

Como dizer poesia

...The poem is nothing but information. It is the Constitution of the inner country. If you declaim it and blow it up with noble intentions then you are no better than the politicians whom you despise. You are just someone waving a flag and making the cheapest kind of appeal to a kind of emotional patriotism. Think of the words as science, not as art. They are a report. You are speaking before a meeting of the Explorers' Club of the National Geographic Society. These people know all the risks of mountain climbing. They honour you by taking this for granted. If you rub their faces in it that is an insult to their hospitality. Tell them about the height of the mountain, the equipment you used, be specific about the surfaces and the time it took to scale it. Do not work the audience for gasps and sighs. If you are worthy of gasps and sighs it will not be from your appreciation of the event but from theirs. It will be in the statistics and not the trembling of the voice or the cutting of the air with your hands. It will be in the data and the quiet organization of your presence.

Avoid the flourish. Do not be afraid to be weak. Do not be ashamed to be tired. You look good when you're tired. You look like you could go on forever. Now come into my arms. You are the image of my beauty.
 Leonard Cohen, ( excerto de How to speak poetry )

«Canta com aquilo que és»

Parou de chover

«Quyquyo»

La Oruga

Te he visto ondulando bajo las cucardas, penosamente, trabajosamente,
pero sé que mañana serás del aire.

Hace mucho supe que no eras un animal terminado
y como entonces
arrodillado y trémulo
te pregunto:
¿sabes que mañana serás del aire?
¿te han advertido que esas dos molestias aún invisibles
serán tus alas?
¿te han dicho cuánto duelen al abrirse
o sólo sentirás de pronto una levedad, una turbación
y un infinito escalofrío subiéndote desde el culo?

Tú ignoras el gran prestigio que tienen los seres del aire
y tal vez mirándote las alas no te reconozcas
y quieras renunciar,
pero ya no: debes ir al aire y no con nosotros.


Mañana miraré sobre las cucardas, o más arriba.
Haz que te vea,
quiero saber si es muy doloroso el aligerarse para volar.
Hazme saber
si acaso es mejor no despejar nunca la barriga de la tierra.

Jose Watanabe, Perú (1946-2007)

Mudança

A hora mudou

          a estação também,

mas o outono voltou.

Quando o frio for embora

deitarei a pele fora e ao sol

          me esticarei e

                            em pontas

             dançarei

             o vira das emoções.