Saturday, 22 February 2014

"Tu Tens um Medo" by Cecília Meireles (in Portuguese)



Acabar.
Não vês que acabas todo o dia.
Que morres no amor.
Na tristeza.
Na dúvida.
No desejo.
Que te renovas todo dia.
No amor.
Na tristeza
Na dúvida.
No desejo.
Que és sempre outro.
Que és sempre o mesmo.
Que morrerás por idades imensas.
Até não teres medo de morrer.
E então serás eterno.
Não ames como os homens amam.
Não ames com amor.
Ama sem amor.
Ama sem querer.
Ama sem sentir.
Ama como se fosses outro.
Como se fosses amar.
Sem esperar.
Tão separado do que ama, em ti,
Que não te inquiete
Se o amor leva à felicidade,
Se leva à morte,
Se leva a algum destino.
Se te leva.
E se vai, ele mesmo...
Não faças de ti
Um sonho a realizar.
Vai.
Sem caminho marcado.
Tu és o de todos os caminhos.
Sê apenas uma presença.
Invisível presença silenciosa.
Todas as coisas esperam a luz,
Sem dizerem que a esperam.
Sem saberem que existe.
Todas as coisas esperarão por ti,
Sem te falarem.
Sem lhes falares.
Sê o que renuncia
Altamente:
Sem tristeza da tua renúncia!
Sem orgulho da tua renúncia!
Abre as tuas mãos sobre o infinito.
E não deixes ficar de ti
Nem esse último gesto!
O que tu viste amargo,
Doloroso, Difícil,
O que tu viste inútil
Foi o que viram os teus olhos
Humanos,
Esquecidos...
Enganados...
No momento da tua renúncia
Estende sobre a vida
Os teus olhos
E tu verás o que vias:
Mas tu verás melhor...
... E tudo que era efêmero se desfez.
E ficaste só tu, que é eterno.

Friday, 21 February 2014

"The Moor Ghost" by Robert E. Howard (in English)



They hauled him to the crossroads
As day was at its close;
They hung him to the gallows
And left him for the crows.

His hands in life were bloody,
His ghost will not be still
He haunts the naked moorlands
About the gibbet hill.

And oft a lonely traveler
Is found upon the fen
Whose dead eyes hold a horror
Beyond the world of men.

The villagers then whisper,
With accents grim and dour:
"This man has met at midnight
The phantom of the moor."

Thursday, 20 February 2014

"Como Sombras de Nuvens que Passam" (Canto XI) by José Thiesen (in Portuguese)

   Passara o temporal, mas ainda soprava um vento forte quando houve um apagão; por isso Mamma Rosa acendeu uma vela em meu quarto.
   Estava a despir a camisa quando ouvi um leve sussurrar na janela. Sorri a me lembrar dO Corvo e fui ver quem era.
   - Sou eu! Abra!
   Reconheci a voz de Berto. Abri a janela e ele entrou por ela com um pulo.
   - Se me pegam aqui, me matam!
   Voltei a vestir a camisa.
   Passou a mão por seus cabelos e disse: Quem  sou eu? Um bruto cheirando a terra e estrume de cavalo, o sr. sabe. Trabalho nessas terras desde que nasci e esse é o mundo que conheço. Não sou instruido nem pra explicar qualquer coisa. Olhe pra mim! sou desajeitado e digo blasfêmias e o sr. é tão educado e...
    Eu me sentei na cama e o puxei pra junto de mim. Berto não tirava os olhos de seus sapatos sujos.
    - Só queria dizer que... desde que o vi eu... não sei o que houve comigo, com meu coração que estremeceu e caiu no chão e... eu podia, talvez devesse ficar quieto, mas...
    - As flores que amanhecem na minha janela...
    - ...são minhas, sim, com meus suspiros.
    Ele estava rubro. Levantou-se e disse:
    - Eu tinha que dizer-lhe, desculpe. Agora preciso ir...
    E tornou para a janela, mas antes que a alcançasse, puxei-o para mim e um vento entrando pela ventana apagou o lume.

Wednesday, 19 February 2014

"Amor Intellectualis" by Oscar Wilde (in English)



OFT have we trod the vales of Castaly
And heard sweet notes of sylvan music blown
From antique reeds to common folk unknown:
And often launched our bark upon that sea
Which the nine Muses hold in empery,
And ploughed free furrows through the wave and foam,
Nor spread reluctant sail for more safe home
Till we had freighted well our argosy.
Of which despoilèd treasures these remain,
Sordello's passion, and the honied line
Of young Endymion, lordly Tamburlaine
Driving his pampered jades, and more than these,
The seven-fold vision of the Florentine,
And grave-browed Milton's solemn harmonies.

Tuesday, 18 February 2014

"Night Coming Into A Garden" by Lord Alfred Douglas (in English)



Roses red and white,
Every rose is hanging her head,
Silently comes the lady Night,
Only the flowers can hear her tread.

All day long the birds have been calling,
Calling shrill and sweet,
They are still when she comes with her long robe falling
Falling down to her feet.

The thrush has sung to his mate,
' She is coming ! hush ! she is coming ! '
She is lifting the latch at the gate,
And the bees have ceased from their humming.

I cannot see her face as she passes
Through my garden of white and red ;
But I know she has walked where the daisies and grasses
Are curtseying after her tread.

She has passed me by with a rustle and sweep
Of her robe (as she passed I heard it sweeping),
And all my red roses have fallen asleep,
And all my white roses are sleeping.

Saturday, 15 February 2014

"The Hunting Of The Snark an Agony in Eight Fits" by Lewis Carroll (Fit the Fourth) (in English)


Fit the fourt

THE HUNTING

     The Bellman looked uffish, and wrinkled his brow.
          "If only you'd spoken before!
     It's excessively awkward to mention it now,
          With the Snark, so to speak, at the door!

     "We should all of us grieve, as you well may believe,
          If you never were met with again—
     But surely, my man, when the voyage began,
          You might have suggested it then?

     "It's excessively awkward to mention it now—
          As I think I've already remarked."
     And the man they called "Hi!" replied, with a sigh,
          "I informed you the day we embarked.

     "You may charge me with murder—or want of sense—
          (We are all of us weak at times):
     But the slightest approach to a false pretence
          Was never among my crimes!

     "I said it in Hebrew—I said it in Dutch—
          I said it in German and Greek:
     But I wholly forgot (and it vexes me much)
          That English is what you speak!"

     "'Tis a pitiful tale," said the Bellman, whose face
          Had grown longer at every word:
     "But, now that you've stated the whole of your case,
          More debate would be simply absurd.

     "The rest of my speech" (he explained to his men)
          "You shall hear when I've leisure to speak it.
     But the Snark is at hand, let me tell you again!
          'Tis your glorious duty to seek it!

     "To seek it with thimbles, to seek it with care;
          To pursue it with forks and hope;
     To threaten its life with a railway-share;
          To charm it with smiles and soap!

     "For the Snark's a peculiar creature, that won't
          Be caught in a commonplace way.
     Do all that you know, and try all that you don't:
          Not a chance must be wasted to-day!

     "For England expects—I forbear to proceed:
          'Tis a maxim tremendous, but trite:
     And you'd best be unpacking the things that you need
          To rig yourselves out for the fight."

     Then the Banker endorsed a blank cheque (which he crossed),
          And changed his loose silver for notes.
     The Baker with care combed his whiskers and hair,
          And shook the dust out of his coats.

     The Boots and the Broker were sharpening a spade—
          Each working the grindstone in turn:
     But the Beaver went on making lace, and displayed
          No interest in the concern:

     Though the Barrister tried to appeal to its pride,
          And vainly proceeded to cite
     A number of cases, in which making laces
          Had been proved an infringement of right.

     The maker of Bonnets ferociously planned
          A novel arrangement of bows:
     While the Billiard-marker with quivering hand
          Was chalking the tip of his nose.

     But the Butcher turned nervous, and dressed himself fine,
          With yellow kid gloves and a ruff—
     Said he felt it exactly like going to dine,
          Which the Bellman declared was all "stuff."

     "Introduce me, now there's a good fellow," he said,
          "If we happen to meet it together!"
     And the Bellman, sagaciously nodding his head,
          Said "That must depend on the weather."

     The Beaver went simply galumphing about,
          At seeing the Butcher so shy:
     And even the Baker, though stupid and stout,
          Made an effort to wink with one eye.

     "Be a man!" said the Bellman in wrath, as he heard
          The Butcher beginning to sob.
     "Should we meet with a Jubjub, that desperate bird,
          We shall need all our strength for the job!"