Untitled Poem by José Thiesen (in Portuguese)

Era uma vez
que não será mais.
Era uma vez
outra das histórias
tristes de que não
quero lembrar.

Era uma vez
quando topei
co'a fúlgida
luz do teu olhar
d'estrela azul.

Foi mesmo uma vez
e a estrela foi correr
pelo céu, deixando
meus olhos cegados
por sua luz brilhante.

"The Death Car" by Unknown Writer (in English)

 art by Giovanni Ticci and Alberto Giolitti- The Twilight Zone #14 – Gold Key,  Feb. 1966.

“Rosas” by Alphonsus de Guimaraens (in Portuguese)

Rosas que já fostes, desfolhadas

Por mãos também que já se foram; rosas

Suaves e tristes! Rosas que as amadas

Mortas também, beijaram suspirosas...

Umas rubras e vãs, outras fanadas,

Mas cheias do calor das amorosas...

Sois aroma de alfombra silenciosas

Onde dormiram tranças destrançadas.

Umas brancas, da cor das pobres freiras,

Outras cheias de viço e de frescura,

Rosas primeiras, rosas derradeiras!

Ai! quem melhor que vós, se a dor perdura,

Para coroar-me, rosas passageiras,

O sonho que se esvai na desventura?

“Epigrama n. 2” by Cecília Meireles (in Portuguese)

És precária e veloz, Felicidade.

Custas a vir e, quando vens, não te demoras.

Foste tu que ensinaste aos homens que havia tempo,

e, para te medir, se inventaram as horas.

Felicidade, és coisa estranha e dolorosa:

Fizeste para sempre a vida ficar triste:

Porque um dia se vê que as horas todas passam,

e um tempo despovoado e profundo, persiste.

“By The Arno” by Oscar Wilde (in English)

The oleander on the wall

Grows crimson in the dawning light,

Though the grey shadows of the night

Lie yet on Florence like a pall.

The dew is bright upon the hill,

And bright the blossoms overhead,

But ah! the grasshoppers have fled,

The little Attic song is still.

Only the leaves are gently stirred

By the soft breathing of the gale,

And in the almond-scented vale

The lonely nightingale is heard.

The day will make thee silent soon,

O nightingale sing on for love!

While yet upon the shadowy grove

Splinter the arrows of the moon.

Before across the silent lawn

In sea-green mist the morning steals,

And to love's frightened eyes reveals

The long white fingers of the dawn

Fast climbing up the eastern sky

To grasp and slay the shuddering night,

All careless of my heart's delight,

Or if the nightingale should die.

“The Ballad Of Saint Vitus” by Lord Alfred Douglas (in English)

Vitus came tripping over the grass

When all the leaves in the trees were green,

Through the green meadows he did pass

On the day he was full seventeen.

The lark was singing up over his head,

As he went by so lithe and fleet,

And the flowers danced in white and red

At the treading of his nimble feet.

His neck was as brown as the brown earth is

When first the young brown plough-boys delve it,

And his lips were as red as mulberries

And his eyes were like the soft black velvet.

His silk brown hair was touched with bronze,

And his brown cheeks had the tender hue

That like a dress the brown earth dons

When the pink carnations bloom anew.

He was slim as the reeds that sway all along

The banks of the lake, and as straight as a rush,

And as he passed he sang a song,

And his voice was as sweet as the voice of a thrush,

He sang of the Gardens of Paradise,

And the light of God that never grows dim,

And the cherubim with their radiant eyes,

And the rainbow wings of the Seraphim.

And the host as countless as all days,

That worships there, and ceases not,

Singing and praising God always,

With lute and flute and angelot.

And the blessed light of Mary's face

As she sits among these pleasant sounds,

And Christ that is the Prince of Grace,

And the five red flowers that be His wounds.

And so he went till he came to the doors

Of the ivory house of his father the King,

And all through the golden corridors,

As he passed along, he ceased to sing.

But a pagan priest had seen him pass,

And heard his voice as he went along

Through the fields of the bending grass, -

And he heard the words of the holy song.

And he sought the King where he sat on his throne,

And the tears of wrath were in his eyes,

And he said, ' O Sire, be it known

That thy son singeth in this wise ;

'Of the blessed light of Mary's face

As she sits amidst sweet pleasant sounds,

And how that Christ is the Prince of Grace,

And hath five flowers that be His wounds.'

And when the King had heard this thing,

His brow grew black as a winter night,

And he bade the pages seek and bring

Straightway the prince before his sight.

And Vitus came before the King,

And the King cried out, ' I pray thee, son,

Sing now the song that thou didst sing

When thou cam'st through the fields anon.'

And the face of the prince grew white as milk,

And he answered nought, but under the band

That held his doublet of purple silk

Round his slight waist, he thrust his hand.

And the King picked up a spear, and cried,

' What hast thou there ? by the waters of Styx,

Speak or I strike,' and the boy replied,

' Sweet Sire, it is a crucifix.' .

And the King grew black with rage and grief,

And for a full moment he spake no word.

And the spear in his right hand shook like a leaf,

And the vein on his brow was a tight blue cord.

Then he laughed and said, in bitter scorn,

' Take me this Christian fool from my sight,

Lock him in the turret till the morn,

And let him dance alone to-night.

'He shall sit in the dark while the courtly ball

All the gay night sweeps up and down

On the polished floor of the golden hall,

And thus shall he win his martyr's crown.'

Thus spake the King, and the courtiers smiled,

And Vitus hung his head for shame ;

And he thought, ' I am punished like a child,

That would have died for Christ's dear Name.'

And so 'twas done, and on that night,

While silk and sword, with fan and flower,

Danced in the hall in the golden light,

Prince Vitus sat in the lone dark tower.

But the King bethought him, and was moved,

Ere the short summer night was done,

And his heart's blood yearned for the son he loved,

His dainty prince, his only son.

And all alone he climbed the stair,

With the tired feet of a sceptred King,

And came to the door, and lo ! he was 'ware

Of the sound of flute and lute-playing.

And as the King stood there amazed,

The iron door flew open wide,

And the King fell down on his knees as he gazed

At the wondrous thing he saw inside.

For the room was filled with a soft sweet light

Of ambergris and apricot,

And round the walls were angels bright,

With lute and flute and angelot.

On lute and angelot they played,

With their gold heads bowed upon the strings,

And the soft wind that the slim flutes made,

Stirred in the feathers of their wings.

And in the midst serene and sweet

With God's light on his countenance

Was Vitus, with his gold shod feet,

Dancing in a courtly dance.

And round him were archangels four,

Michael, who guards God's citadel,

Raphael, whom children still implore,

And Gabriel and Uriel.

Thus long ago was Christ's behest,

And the saving grace that His red wounds be,

Unto this king made manifest,

And all his land of Sicily.

God sits within the highest Heaven,

His mercy neither tires nor faints,

All good gifts that may be given,

He gives unto His holy Saints.

This was the joy that Vitus gat;

To dance with Angels knee by knee,

Before he came to man's estate :

God send us all such Company.

Amen.

Untitled Poem by José Thiesen (in Portuguese)

Ao A. B. da Silveira, 

por ocasião de sua viagem a São Paulo aos 12 de Janeiro de 1997.

Já sinto no ar
assomar o adeus e
minha alma se curva
diante do espaço
de tua ausência;
na capelinha do
meu coração, a Saudade
murmura preces de volta,
no rosário dos momentos
que passamos juntos.
              * * *
Mas que os caminhos teus,
peregrino,
sejam de rosas,
somente rosas
e nada mais.