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#poesia (V)

por Fernando Melro dos Santos, em 21.02.13

Let me die a youngman's death


Let me die a youngman's death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death

When I'm 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party

Or when I'm 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber's chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns burst in
and give me a short back and insides

Or when I'm 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one

Let me die a youngman's death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
'what a nice way to go' death 

- Roger McGough

publicado às 19:55

#poesia (IV)

por Fernando Melro dos Santos, em 07.02.13
Drinking Sacrifice

Over rough red wine heavy foreheads bow.
It is not wine that weighs them down.
The wine that frees our thoughts the most,
it frees the least our tongue.
Like a secret blaze, sacrificial fire
is rough red wine.
I alone know before what powers
that smoke arises fine.
I alone know from what worlds
I derive my drunkenness.
Each and all stare past the rest
and listen to distant sighs.
Each and all raise their glasses to things
that none of the others see,
in dark lands where rejoicing and grief
scarce have meaning finally.
So in secret I raise here my red wine,
my sacrificial blaze,
to a pain that is mine and resembles most
the eternal consuming gale from the sea's waves.
-Karin Boye


publicado às 00:03

#poesia (III)

por Fernando Melro dos Santos, em 20.01.13

Quero a Fome de Calar-me

Quero a fome de calar-me. O silêncio. Único 
Recado que repito para que me não esqueça. Pedra 
Que trago para sentar-me no banquete 

A única glória no mundo — ouvir-te. Ver 
Quando plantas a vinha, como abres 
A fonte, o curso caudaloso 
Da vergôntea — a sombra com que jorras do rochedo 

Quero o jorro da escrita verdadeira, a dolorosa 
Chaga do pastor 
Que abriu o redil no próprio corpo e sai 
Ao encontro da ovelha separada. Cerco 

Os sentidos que dispersam o rebanho. Estendo as direcções, estudo-lhes 
A flor — várias árvores cortadas 
Continuam a altear os pássaros. Os caminhos 
Seguem a linha do canivete nos troncos 

As mãos acima da cabeça adornam 
As águas nocturnas — pequenos 
Nenúfares celestes. As estrelas como as pinhas fechadas 

Caem — quero fechar-me e cair. O silêncio 
Alveolar expira — e eu 
Estendo-as sobre a mesa da aliança 

- Daniel Faria, in "Dos Líquidos"


publicado às 12:09

#poesia (II)

por Fernando Melro dos Santos, em 08.01.13


From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.

- Edgar Allan Poe


publicado às 23:34


por Fernando Melro dos Santos, em 08.01.13

Autumn Day

Lord: it is time. The summer was immense.
Lay your shadow on the sundials
and let loose the wind in the fields.

Bid the last fruits to be full;
give them another two more southerly days,
press them to ripeness, and chase
the last sweetness into the heavy wine.

Whoever has no house now will not build one
Whoever is alone now will remain so for a long
will stay up, read, write long letters,
and wander the avenues, up and down,
restlessly, while the leaves are blowing.

- Rainer Maria Rilke


publicado às 23:29


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