Posts Tagged ‘Citações’

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29.10.1983

29 de Outubro de 2010

I
Enquanto leio meus seios estão a descoberto. É difícil concentrar-me ao ver seus bicos. Então rabisco as folhas deste álbum. Poética quebrada pelo meio.

II
Enquanto leio meus textos se fazem descobertos. É difícil escondê-los no meio dessas letras. Então me nutro das tetas dos poetas pensados no meu seio.

César, Ana Cristina
s/d Enquanto leio; ed. ut.: in Um beijo que Tivesse um Blue, ed. Joana Matos Frias, Vila Nova de Famalicão, Quasi, 2005, p. 42.

Anúncios
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27.10.1932

27 de Outubro de 2010

A birthday present

What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
It is shimmering, has it breasts, has it edges?

I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is just what I want.
When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking

‘Is this the one I am to appear for
Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?

Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus,
Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules.

Is this the one for the annunciation?
My god, what a laugh!’

But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me.
I would no mind if it was bones, or a pearl button.

I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year.
After all I am alive only by accident.

I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way.
Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,

The diaphanous satins of a January window
White as babies’ bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory!

It must be a tusk there, a ghost-column.
Can you not see I do not mind what it is.

Can you not give it to me?
Do not be ashamed — I do not mind if it is small.

Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity.
Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam,

The glaze, the mirrory variety of it.
Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate.

I know why you will not give it to me,
You are terrified

The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it,
Bossed, brazen, an antique shield,

A marvel to your great-grandchildren.
Do not be afraid, it is not so.

I will only take it and go aside quietly.
You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle,

No falling ribbons, no scream at the end.
I do not think you credit me with this discretion.

If only you knew how the veils were killing my days.
To you they are only transparencies, clear air.

But my god, the clouds are like cotton.
Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide.

Sweetly, sweetly I breath in,
Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million

Probable motes that tick the years off my life.
You are silver-suited for the occasion. O adding machine —

Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole?
Must you stamp each piece in purple,

Must you kill what you can?
There is this one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me.

It stands at my window, big as the sky.
It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center

Where spilt lives congeal and stiffen to history.
Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger.

Let it not come by word of mouth, I should be sixty.
By the time the whole of it was delivered, and too numb to use it.

Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil.
If it were death

I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes.
I would know you were serious.

There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday.
And the knife not carve, but enter

Pure and clean as the cry of a baby,
And the universe slide from my side.

Plath, Sylvia
1962 «A birthday present»; ed. ut.: in Complete Poems, New York, HarpperCollins, 206-208.

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Sylvia, II

11 de Setembro de 2010


Le Muse inquietanti (1916), Giorgio de Chirico

The Disquieting Muses

Mother, mother, what illbred aunt
Or what disfigured and unsightly
Cousin did you so unwisely keep
Unasked to my christening, that she
Sent these ladies in her stead
With heads like darning-eggs to nod
And nod and nod at foot and head
And at the left side of my crib?

Mother, who made to order stories
Of Mixie Blackshort the heroic bear,
Mother, whose witches always, always
Got baked into gingerbread, I wonder
Whether you saw them, whether you said
Words to rid me of those three ladies
Nodding by night around my bed,
Mouthless, eyeless, with stitched bald head.

In the hurricane, when father’s twelve
Study windows bellied in
Like bubbles about to break, you fed
My brother and me cookies and Ovaltine
And helped the two of us to choir:
‘Thor is angry: boom boom boom!
Thor is angry: we don’t care!’
But those ladies broke the panes.

When on tiptoe the schoolgirls danced,
Blinking flashlights like fireflies
And singing the glowworm song, I could
Not lift a foot in the twinkle-dress
But, heavy-footed, stood aside
In the shadow cast by my dismal-headed
Godmothers, and you cried and cried:
And the shadow stretched, the lights went out.

Mother, you sent me to piano lessons
And praised my arabesques and trills
Although each other found my touch
Oddly wooden in spite of scales
And the hours of practicing, my ear
Tone-deaf and yes, unteachable.
I learned, I learned, I learned elsewhere,
From muses unhired by you, dear mother.

I woke one day to see you, mother,
Floating above me in bluest air
On a green balloon bright with a million
Flowers and bluebirds that never were
Never, never, found anywhere.
But the little planet bobbed away
Like a soap-bubble as you called: Come here!
And I faced my traveling companions.

Day now, night now, at head, side, feet,
They stand their vigil in gowns of stone,
Faces blank as the day I was born,
Their shadows long in the setting sun
That never brightens or goes down.
And this kingdom you bore me to,
Mother, mother. But no frown of mine
Will betray the company I keep.

Plath, Sylvia
1957 «The disquieting muses»; ed. ut.: in Complete Poems, New York, HarpperCollins, 75-76.

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O homem morreu, a obra não.

20 de Junho de 2010

Além do seu nome próprio de José, o Sr. José também tem apelidos, dos mais correntes, sem extravagâncias onomásticas, um do lado do pai, outro do lado da mãe, segundo o normal, legitimamente transmitidos, como poderíamos comprovar no registo de nascimento existente na Conservatória se a substância do caso justificasse o interesse e se o resultado da averiguação pagasse o trabalho de confirmar o que já se sabe. No entanto, por algum desconhecido motivo, se é que não decorre simplesmente da insignificância da personagem, quando ao Sr. José se lhe pergunta como se chama, ou quando as circunstâncias lhe exigem que se apresente, Sou Fulano de Tal, nunca lhe serviu de nada pronunciar o nome completo, uma vez que os interlocutores só retêm na memória a primeira palavra dele, José, a que depois virão a acrescentar, ou não, dependendo do grau de confiança ou de cerimónia, a cortesia ou a familiaridade do tratamento.

SARAMAGO, José
1997 Todos os Nomes; ed. ut.: Lisboa, Planeta de Agostini, 2000, p.19.

Adeus Sr. José. Sinto já a tua falta.

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122 anos de Poeta

13 de Junho de 2010

Em mim todas as afeições se passam à superfície, mas sinceramente. Tenho sido actor sempre, e a valer. Sempre que amei, fingi que amei, e para mim mesmo o finjo.

Pessoa, Fernando / Soares, Bernardo
2006 Livro do Desassossego, ed. Richard Zenith [Obra Essencial de Fernando Pessoa], p. 233.
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Sinais de Fogo #11

19 de Maio de 2010

Sinais de fogo, os homens se despedem,
exaustos e tranquilos, destas cinzas frias.
E o vento que essas cinzas nos dispersa
não é de nós, mas é quem reacende
outros sinais ardendo na distância,
um breve instante, gestos e palavras,
ansiosas brasas que se apagam logo.

SENA, Jorge de
1979 Sinais de Fogo; ed. ut.: Porto, Público, p. 462.
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Sinais de Fogo #10

19 de Maio de 2010

Mas, entre mim e a inocência de estar com os outros, haveria, daí em diante, não um muro de palavras sentimentais e consoladoras como da poesia de que eu não gostava, mas um vácuo frígido, feito da eventualidade de elas criarem um sentido e uma relação em tudo, se eu deixasse que elas aparecessem. Era como se uma última virgindade que só alguns por acaso perdem me tivesse sido tirada, e eu ficasse isolado, contraditoriamente e irremediavelmente, sujo de essencial pureza, de tudo e de todos.

SENA, Jorge de
1979 Sinais de Fogo; ed. ut.: Porto, Público, p. 519.