My Father Moved through Dooms of Love, e.e.cummings, original

my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height

this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shinning here;
that if (so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm

newly as from unburied which
floats the first who, his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots

And should some why completely weep
my father's fingers b rought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he  could feel the mountains grow.

Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead called the moon
singing desire into begin

joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice

keen as midsummer's keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly (over utmost him
so hugely) stood my father's dream

his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn't creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.

Scorning the pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain

septembering arms of year extend
less humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is

proudly and (by octobering flame
beckoned) as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulder marched against the dark

his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he'd laugh and build a world of snow.

My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard her father sing)

Then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire
scheming imagine, passion willed,
freedom a drug that's bought and sold

giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear, to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease os same,
conform the pinnacle of am

though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit, al bequeath

and nothing quite so least as truth
- i say though hate were why men breathe
because my father lived his soul
love is ther whole and more than all

Morning Song (original), Sylvia Plath

                                  Morning Song

Love set you like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue
In a drafty museum, your nakedness
Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.
I'm no more your mother
Than the cloud that distils a mirror to reflect its own slow
Effacement at the wind's hand.

All night your moth-breath
Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:
One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral
In my Victorian nightgown.
Your mouth opens clean as a cat's. The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try
Your handful of notes:
The clear vowels rise like balloons.

Voracities and Verities Sometimes Are Interacting - Marianne Moore

I don't like diamonds;

the emerald's "grass-lamp glow" is better;

and unobtrusiveness is dazzling,

upon occasion.

Some kinds of gratitude are trying.

Poets, don't make a fuss;

the elephant's "crooked trumpet" "doth write;

and to a tiger-book I am reading -

I think you know the one -

I am under obligation.

One may be pardoned, yes I know

one may, for love undying.

______

Note: Tiger-book: Major James Corbett's Man-Eaters of Kumaon.

Oh to the idle loving idleness! - A sonnet by Fernando Pessoa

Oh to the idle loving idleness!

But I am idle all in hate of me;

Ever in action's dream, in the false stress

Of purposed action never act to be

Like a fierce beast self penned in a bait liar,

My will to act binds with excess my action,

Not-acting coils the thought with ragged dispair,

And acting rage doth paint despair distraction

Like someone sinking in a treacherous sand,

Each gesture to deliver sinks the more,

The struggle avails not, and to raise no hand,

Thought but more slowly useless, we have no power

Hence live I the dead life each day doth bring,

Repurposed for next day's repurposing.

Whether we write or speak or do but look - (Poemas Ingleses - Fernando Pessoa)

"Porque eu sou do tamanho do que vejo

E não do tamanho de minha altura".

Fernando Pessoa, "O Guardador de Rebanhos", in Poemas de Alberto Caeiro.

(Aos 12 anos já um suposto saber...)

Whether we write or speak or do but look

We are ever unapparent. What we are

Cannot be transfused into word or book

Our soul from us in infinitely far

However much we give our thoughts the will

To be our soul and gesture it abroad,

Our hearts are incommunicable still

In what we show ourselves we are ignored.

The abyss from soul to soul cannot be bridged

By any skill of thought or trick o seeming.

Unto our very selves we are abridged

When we would uther to our thought our being

We are our dreams of our selves souls by gleams,

And each to each other dreams of others dreams.

We are born at sunset and die before morning- Sonnet XIV (Poemas Ingleses - Fernando Pessoa)

(outro soneto em inglês, de Fernando Pessoa):

We are born at sunset and we die before morning,

And the whole darkness of the world we know,

How can we guess its truth, to darkness born,

The obscure consequence of absent glow?

Only the stars to teach us ligth. We grasp

Their scattered smallnesses with thoughts that stray,

And, though their eyes thought night's complete mask,

Yet they speak not the feature of the day

Why should these small denials of the whole

More than the black whole the pleased eyes attract?

Why what it calls "worth" does the captive soul

Add to the smell and rom the large detract?

So, out of light's love wishing it night's stretch,

A nightly thought of day we darkly reach.

______

Nascemos ao pôr-do-sol e morremos antes da manhã,

Conhecemos a escuridão total do mundo que conhecemos,

Como podemos adivinhar sua verdade, para a escuridão nascida,

A consequência obscura do brilho ausente?

Apenas as estrelas a nos ensinar luz. Agarramos

Suas pequenesas espalhadas com pensamentos vagamundos

E ainda que seus olhos sejam mascarados pela noite,

Olham, mas não dão as notícias do dia.

Por que deveriam essas pequenas negações do todo

Mais que o todo negro, os olhos deliciados atraírem?

Por que em nome de "valor" a alma cativa

Se une ao pequeno e ao grande detrai?

Fora da luz do amor, o desejo de anoitecer s'esgarça,

E um pensamento noturno do dia na escuridão atingimos.

The English Poems by Fernando Pessoa

Seus sonetos ingleses foram escritos provavelmente por volta de seus 12 anos.

Esses primeiros passos poderiam situar a origem de sua capacidade de materializar abstrações,

de depurar sua linguagem do descontrole sentimental, de evitar a facilidade da retórica decorativa? Estaria aí o exercício inicial de suas expressões e fixação de temas, de seus jeitos sintáticos de sua linguagem poética que em português se criou da "tradução" mental, por ele mesmo, de construções correntes, ou mesmo das esquisitices e estranhamentos que a língua inglesa lhe permitiu? "sentimento-raiz", traço primeiro (em inglês) da origem de sua contenção "britânica"?

(Muito após esses seus primeiros versos ingleses, falou de sua infância em português:

"Quem me entalou esse choro /Nas goelas do coração?" A infância volta, apesar de seus desmentidos: "Nunca senti saudades da infância", disse ele em carta a Gaspar Simões. Mas, uma certa infância, entre parênteses: "(Sei muito bem que na infância de toda gente houve um jardim / Particular ou público, ou do vizinho / Sei muito bem que brincarmos era o dono dele / E que a tristeza é de hoje)". Infância é cor: "Grandes livros coloridos, para ver mas não ler; / Grandes páginas de cores para recordar mais tarde"). Infância é música:"Uma ternura confusa, como um vidro embaciado, azulada,/Canta velhas canções na minha pobre alma dolorida"; "Quem é que cantava isso? Isso estava lá. / Lembro-me mas esqueço./ E dó, dói, dói..."- a um só tempo terno apelo à inteligência desencantada...já lá?: "Fúrias partidas, ternuras como carrinhos de linha com que as crianças brincam"...)

How many masks wear we, and undermasks,

Upon our countenance of soul, and when,

If for self-sport the soul itself unmasks,

Knows it the last mask of and the face plain?

The true mask feels no inside to the mask

But looks out o the mask by co-masked eyes

Whatever consciousness begins the task

The task's accepted use to sleepness ties

Like a child frighted by its mirrored faces,

Our souls, that children are, being thought losing,

Foist otherness upon their seen grimaces

And get a whole world on their forgot causing.

And, when a thought would unmask our soul's masking,

Itself goes not unmasked to the unmasking.

___________

Quantos disfarces usamos,e subdisfarces,

Em nossa calma d'alma, e quando,

Se para se divertir a alma desata a farsa,

Sabe que a derradeira cara da máscara escancara?

A verdadeira, a mais cara não se encaixa na falsa face

Mas alerta encara por carranca d'olhos

Sabe-se lá que alerteza alicia tarefa

Tarefa aceita adormece elos

Como criança espelha o medo de careta,

Nossas almas-crianças pensam à solta,

Enganam a outridade cara feia à vista

E engatam o mundo inteiro em sua causa esquecida

E, quando um pensamento desmascarasse a nossa alma mascarando,

S'esvai não sem máscara, a escancarar-se.

The Late Ambassadorial Light - Thomas Lux

Light reaches through a leaf

and that light, diminished, passes through

another leaf,

and another, down

to the lawn beneath.

Green, green, the high grass shivers.

Water over a stone, and bees,

bees around the flowers, deep-tired beds

of them, yellows and golds and reds.

Saw-blade ferns feather in the breeze.

And, just as a cloud's corner

catches the sun, a tiny glint in the garden - the milk

of a broken stalk? A lion's tooth?

Or might that be the delicate labia

of an orchid?

Render, Render - poem by Thomas Lux

Boil it down: feet, skin, gristle,

bones, vertebrae, heart muscle, boil

it down, skim, and boil

again, dreams, history, add them and boil

again, boil and skim

in closed cauldrons, boil your horse, his hooves,

the runned-over dog you loved, the girl

by the pencil sharpener

who looked at you, looked away,

boil that for hours, render it

down, take more from the top as more settles to the bottom,

the heavier, the denser, throw in ache

and sperm, and a bead

of sweat that slid from your armpit to your waist

as you sat stiff-backed before a test, tum up

the fire, boil and skim, boil

some more, add a fever

and the virus that blinded an eye, now's the time

to add guilt and fear, throw

logs on the fire, coal, gasoline, throw

two goldfish in the pot (their swim bladders

used for "clearing"), boil and boil, render

it down and distill,

concentrate

that for which there is no

use at all, boil it down, down,

then stir it with rosewater, that

which is now one dense, fatty, scented red essence

which you smear on your lips

and go forth

to plant as many kisses upon the world

as the worl can bear!

- in The Craddle Place (conjunto de poemas, presente de Cecily Tyler)

Tristan Corbière: Le crapaud / Pedro Kilkerry: O sapo

Entre o projeto artístico do Simbolismo e sua realização, um fenômeno de congenialidade na linha coloquial irônica. Vetores de modernidade: Tristan Corbière e Pedro Kilkerry.

A resposta à plenitude icônica do original: "Le crapaud", engendrando paralelismos já manufaturados na própria intertextualidade do textor-tradutor de "O sapo".

Na produção da diferença quando a projeção da outridade induz ao estranhamento da forma: do francês ao português.

Le crapaud O sapo

Un chant dans une nuit sans air Noite sem ar e esse canto, e esse canto...

- La lune plaque en métal clair - E a lua, em metal claro, unindo quanto

Les découpures du vert sombre. Rasgão do verde escuro, árvore, alfombra...

...Un chant; comme un écho, tout vif Um canto como um eco, muito vivo

Enterré, là, sous le massif... Enterrado, acolá, na moita...esquivo.

- Ça se tait: viens, c'est là, dans l'ombre... E, agora cala. Vem, é ali, na sombra,

- Un crapaud! - Porquoi cette peur, Vem - Um sapo! - Que medo que te deu!

Près de moi, ton soldat fidèle! Não vês, bem perto, aqui, teu fiel soldado?

Vois-le, poète tondu, sans aile, Mas, olha-o, sem asa, é um poeta pelado

Rossignol de la boue...- Horreur! O rouxinol da lama. - Horror! - Não meu.

...Il chante. - Horreur!! - Horreur pourquoi? Oh! canta. - Horror - e porque horror? Volveu

Vois-tu pas son oeil de lumière... (Nem viste?) um longo olhar, iluminado...

Non: il s'en va, froid, sous sa pierre. Não: esconder-se a uma pedra, o desgraçado

...........................................................................

Bonsoir - ce crapaud-là c'est moi. Lá vai... Boa noite. - E o sapo, não sou eu?

Tristan Corbière Pedro Kilkerry

Original do "The Fish", de Marianne Moore

THE FISH by Marianne Moore (1887 - 1972), poeta norte-americana, autora de Selected Poems (1935), Collected Poems (1951), Observations (1924). Colaborou em revistas como The Egoist e Poetry. Sua estética, próxima ao imagismo, influenciou T. S. Eliot, Ezra Pound e e.e. cummings.

wade

through black jade.

Of the crow-blue mussel-shells, one keeps

adjusting the ash-heaps;

opening and shutting itself like

an

injured fan.

The barnacles which encrust the side

of the wave, cannot hide

there for the submerged shafts of the

sun,

split like spun

glass, move themselves with spotlight swiftness

into the crevices -

in and out, illuminating

the

turquoise sea

of bodies. The water drives a wedge

of iron through the iron edge

of the cliff; whereupon the stars,

pink

rice-grains, ink-

bespattered jelly-fish, crabs like green

lilies, and submarine

toadstools, slide each on the other.

All

external

marks of abuse are present on this

defiant edifice -

all the physical features of

ac-

cident - lack

of cornice, dynamite grooves, burns, and

hatchet strokes, these things, stand

out on it; the chasm-side is

dead.

Repeated

evidence has proved that it can live

on what can not revive

its youth. The sea grows old in it.