"até segunda ordem não me risque nada."
6 anos
O Papel de Rascunho ficou mais velhinho ontem. 6 anos de idade. Celebrei o aniversário em trânsito, deste blog canceriano com sol e lua em escorpião. Emotivo e intenso, mas criativo e muito versátil com fortes aspectos de urano (na casa 3, da escrita) e uma vênus em gêmeos na casa 7 (sempre tentando renovar a atenção dos leitores).
STORY WATER
A story is like water
that you heat for your bath.
It takes messages between the fire
and your skin. It lets them meet
and it cleans you!
Very few can sit down
in the middle of the fire itself
like a salamander or Abraham
We need intermediaries.
A feeling of fullness comes,
but usually it takes some bread
to bring it.
Beauty surrounds us,
but usually we need to be walking
in a garden to know it.
The body itself is a screen
to shield and partially reveal
the light that is blazing
inside your presence.
Water, stories, the body,
all the things we do, are mediums
that hide and show what’s hidden.
Study them,
and enjoy this being washed
with a secret we sometimes know,
and then not.
Rumi
Tradução: Coleman Barks
Hagia Sofia, Istambul
Message
My fellow
My fellowpatients
My fellow patientsyou’ll get well
The aches and pains will cease.
Ease will come
My fellow patientssoftly, like a warm summer evening
My fellow patientsdescending from heavy green branches.
My fellow patients,
hold on a bit longer, hang on.
What awaits outside the door is not death
What awaits outside the door is not deathbut life.
Outside the door
Outside the dooris the whole bustling world.
You will rise from your beds
You will rise from your bedsand walk.
You will discover all over again
the taste of salt, bread, and the sun.
To turn yellow as a lemon, melt like a candle,
or collapse suddenly like a rotted sycamore -
my fellow patients,
we’re not lemons, candles, or sycamores;
we’re people, thank goodness.
We know how to mix hope with our medicine-
how to put our feet down,
how to put our feetstand our ground,
how to put our feet stand ourand say
how to put our feet stand our and s“We must live!”
My fellow
My fellowpatients,
My fellow patientswe’ll get well.
The aches and pains will cease.
Ease will come
ease will softly,
ease will like a warm summer evening
ease will descending from heavy green branches.
Nazim Hikmet
30 June 1954
Frantishkovy-Lazny
Tradução: Randy Blasing e Mutlu Konuk
Homenagem
Esta terça (dia 15) haverá um homenagem ao Wilson Bueno, com leitura de poemas e trechos do seu trabalho, por poetas e amigos do escritor. A partir de 19h30, na Casa das Rosas.
Planets
The planets move, and earth is one, I know.
Blue with endlessly moving seas,
white with clouds endlessly moving
and the continents creep on plates
endlessly moving soundlessly.
How should we be exempt
or safe from change, we walk
on mercury from birth to death.
A face comes through the crowd, lips move, new eyes,
and the house of roots trembles,
its doors are slack, its windows yawn
a place not known to be defenceless
undefended. Who wants sedge
at the streak of the kingfisher?
Now you have almost worn out my tape
of ‘the planets’, but I don’t know yours,
or your sign, though Mars the Bringer of War
is what you play most. We’ve talked
of Jenghiz Khan, of Christ, of Frankenstein.
I don’t know whether you believe
in the fate I can’t not believe in,
simply to watch you swinging
in my black vinyl chair,
even bringing war.
Planetas
Os planetas se movem, um deles é a terra, eu sei.
Azul com mares que movem-se infinitamente,
branca com nuvens que infinitamente se movem
e os continentes deslizam sobre placas
que infinitamente movem-se silenciosamente.
Como ficaríamos isentos
ou livres da mudança, caminhamos
sobre mercúrio do nascimento à morte.
Uma face surge na multidão, os lábios se movem, novos olhos,
e a casa de raízes treme,
suas portas são caídas, as janelas têm lacunas
um lugar que sempre foi defensivo
sem defesas. Quem quer caniço
no rasto do martim-pescador?
Agora você quase já esgotou minha fita
de ‘Os planetas’, mas não conheço a sua,
ou o seu signo, embora Marte o Mensageiro da Guerra
é o que você toca mais. Conversamos
sobre Jenghiz Khan, Cristo, Frankenstein.
Não sei se você acredita
no destino em que eu não posso não acreditar,
apenas observar você balançando
na minha cadeira preta de vinil,
mesmo que traga a guerra.
Edwin Morgan
Tradução: Virna Teixeira
Em: Na Estação Central, coleção “poetas do mundo”, editora UnB, 2006.
As pessoas que dizem que não conseguem amar, não é porque tenham o coração vazio. Os sentimentos, como num congelador, acumulam-se, anestesiados. Neste acto psicomágico, em vez de procurar dar o que se deseja obter, provoca-se, através de uma sucessão de situações perigosas, o despertar do sentimento positivo base: o amor à própria vida.
Alejandro Jodorowsky
Breve pistolário psicomágico. Em: A dança da realidade. Esfera dos livros, 2006.
MEETING AT AN AIRPORT
You asked me once,
on our way back
from the midmorning
trip to the spring:
“What do you hate,
and who do you love?”
And I answered,
from behind the eyelashes
of my surprise,
my blood rushing
like the shadow
cast by a cloud of starlings:
“I hate departure…
I love the spring
and the path to the spring,
and I worship the middle
hours of morning.”
And you laughed…
and the almond tree blossomed
and the thicket grew loud with nightingales.
…A question
now four decades old:
I salute that question’s answer;
and an answer,
as old as your departure;
I salute that answer’s question…
…And today,
it’s preposterous,
here we are at a friendly airport
by the slimmest of chances,
and we meet.
Ah, Lord!
we meet.
And here you are
asking—again,
it’s absolutely preposterous—
I recognized you
but you didn’t recognize me.
“Is it you?!”
But you wouldn’t believe it.
And suddenly
you burst out and asked:
“If you’re really you,
What do you hate
and who do you love?!”
And I answered—
my blood
fleeing the hall,
rushing in me
like the shadow
cast by a cloud of starlings:
“I hate departure,
and I love the spring,
and the path to the spring,
and I worship the middle
hours of morning.”
And you wept,
and flowers bowed their heads,
and doves in the silk of their sorrow stumbled.
Taha Muhammad Ali
Poeta palestino, nascido em uma vila na Galiléia, em 1931. A tradução é de Peter Cole, Yahya Hijazi e Gabriel Levin, da antologia bilingue “So what, new and selected poems (1971-2005)”, editada na Grã-Betanha pela Bloodaxe.
NO ACEPTES
No aceptes estas lluvias que llegan con retraso.
Es mejor resistir. Haz el dolor
a imagen del desierto. Decídete.
Y no mires a Occidiente. Niégate
a rendirte. Intenta también este año
vivir solo durante el largo verano,
come tu pan duro y abstente
de las lágrimas. Y no aprendas de
la experiencia. Toma como ejemplo mi juventud,
mi vuelta por la noche, lo que estaba escrito
en la lluvia del pasado año. Eso no es importante
ahora. Mira tu destino como mi destino,
todo será como antes. Abraham volverá
a ser Abram*. Sara volverá a ser Saray**.
Génesis 17,5
Génesis 17,15
Yehuda Amichai
Traduzido do hebraico por Raquel García Lozano
Wilson Bueno no Instituto Cervantes. Festival Tordesilhas, São Paulo (2007).
AQUIDAUANA AFTERNOON
(from Paraguayan Sea)
La fatigue des métals, l’oeuf de l’oegg du scorpion, the vigil, the tacit meat made a yoke, inheritance d’adulthood, what’s spent, les years, moitié ville, moitié vie, the scorched alley, rivière ébulliante de cinquante winteres, the dark face of exhausted blood, kidneys already failing, la pression artérial, nettle and paprika, the point, the sea, le cap, la mer, the facte and the cape of good hope, those lost in the brambles, the fact, the arc du sinistre, les pallid ones, dusk, our chambre, notre maison, all khe’kenhren’stha’, the humblest lamp, our bed, the amputated sexe that still itches. And I choke it, the flaccid, le flou, the hollow of the hollowe of the middle, it’s all in half-light. And there’s worse: demain il faut que je me chante a new zany chanson, and maybe I will feel complete as are toutes the stations of the Hour of Disgraces. Aquidauana, Dorados, Puerto Soledad, cities of rivières and dust, of bones languid at exactement two in the afternoon, sieste et feu, it dumbfounds us febrile in an imponderable viscosité, it all goes sweaty and sucks, it all blanches emolient in a death shudder of innards éclatés and more, the post-colic collapse made of rips and vomit, the tree ne move pas tout seule, the taste of sex on the tongue, la langue, le sexe in idiomes multiples, owen:na’, almost like a deflowered rose, death and sex don’t talk but how splendide it feels — the belly that lifts its hackles, resounding tremor of the skin touched par desire and coma, the air, all the air as it was, choked, a thirst that can’t be slaked by water and fear prêt just as, after un peu, le dur soleil can dry out les rues où reign only bordelles and bars de port — dead and vide from this fatigue de personne et de no-one. Aquidauana. How tristes, how mélancoliques sont les soirs qui s’attardent brûlants et encore mutes, notre maison des femmes, a maindrag on the frontière, our bedrooms suffocantes, sheet and sex and cette punishing chaleur. All of it in ce temps-là, de forgetting, so it makes up a kind of destin — a way of suffering less what God does not give only today to recognize cette inclination de nous à martyrdom and jubilation. Deux couteaux et deux blades. May thy great Hand ever save us so it doesn’t sink in our souls, the definitive cristal or his splendid shard, in the spume de blood et grass. The seas tinged ruby. Kania:tare: onehshon. Kaniatara’ko:wa’.
kania:tare: large body of water
kaniatara’ko:wa’ ocean
khe’kenhren’stha’ I humiliate someone
onehshon abyss
owen:na’ word
Wilson Bueno
Tradução de um fragmento de “Mar Paraguayo”, pela poeta canadense Erin Moure - para uma língua híbrida entre o inglês, o francês e o idioma indígena mohwac. A tradução foi publicada algum tempo atrás na revista Zunái e faz parte do livro homônimo que será publicado no Canadá. O autor, Wilson Bueno, foi encontrado morto na sua casa ontem, vítima de homicídio. Uma triste perda para a literatura brasileira.
