Walkers With The Dawn

Being walkers with the dawn and morning,
Walkers with the sun and morning,
We are not afraid of night,
Nor days of gloom,
Nor darkness--
Being walkers with the sun and morning.

- Langston Hughes
Quero escrever-te muitas coisas e sei que isso vai causar-te um aperto no peito porque, não podendo lê-las com atenção, ficarás irritada. E para lê-las como talvez quisesses, não poderás dividir-te mais do que já estás durante o dia. E assim ficam muitas sensações por relatar, pensamentos e tropeções por partilhar, porque ao final da tarde já só vejo o teu rosto, já só me interessam os teus lábios e os beijos que deles saem, e porque a paz que extraímos dum abraço à volta dos livros (sejam livros os nossos filhos com páginas que nunca viramos) é dominante sobre as marcas que o mundo nos fez hoje.
Por isso fico entupido, por me afogar nas curvas das tuas nádegas, quando o perfume com que afirmas "existo e sou tua!" atropela as coisas todas, das quais primeiramente pensamos servirem para unir um homem e uma mulher, mas depois se deixam ir para que no dia, semana, mês seguinte sejam marcas d'água à medida que outras certezas lhes sobrevêm. E depois é beijarmo-nos e adormecer com a paixão às vezes aplacada, mas saber sempre o quanto queria ter-te escrito mais coisas, tê-las gravado com a boca no mesmo ar que respiras.


The mysteries remain,
I keep the same
cycle of seed-time
and of sun and rain;
Demeter in the grass,
I multiply,
renew and bless
Bacchus in the vine;
I hold the law,
I keep the mysteries true,
the first of these
to name the living, dead;
I am the wine and bread.

I keep the law,
I hold the mysteries true,
I am the vine,
the branches, you,
and you.

- H.D.


Once upon a time there was a number
Pure and round like the sun
But alone very much alone

It began to reckon with itself

It divided multiplied itself
It subtracted added itself
And remained always alone

It stopped reckoning with itself
And shut itself up in its round
And sunny purity

Outside were left the fiery
Traces of its reckoning

They began to chase each other through the dark
To divide when they should have multiplied themselves
To subtract when they should have added themselves

That's what happens in the dark

And there was no one to ask it
To stop the traces
And to rub them out.

- Vasko Popa

Each strips his own skin
Each bares his own constellation
Which has never seen the night

Each fills his skin with rocks
And plays with it
Lit by his own stars

Who doesn't stop till dawn
Who doesn't bat an eyelid or fall
Earns his own skin

(This game is rarely played)

- Vasko Popa

Far Within Us

We raise our arms
The street climbs into the sky
We lower our eyes
The roofs go down into the earth

From every pain
We do not mention
Grows a chestnut tree
That stays mysterious behind us

From every hope
We cherish
Sprouts a star
That moves unreachable before us

Can you hear a bullet
Flying about our heads
Can you hear a bullet
Waiting to ambush our kiss

Look here's that uninvited
Alien presence look it's here

A shudder on the ocean of tea in the cup
Rust taking hold
On the edges of our laughter
A snake coiled in the depths of the mirror

Will I be able to hide you
From your face in mine

Look it's the third shadow
On our imagined walk
Unexpected abyss
Between our words
Hoofs clattering
Below the vaults of our palates

Will I be able
On this unrest-field
To raise you a tent of my hands

Unquiet you walk
Along the rims of my eyes

On the invisible grating
Before your lips
My naked words shiver

We steal moments
From the unheeding iron saws

Your hands sadly
Flow into mine
The air is impassable

Green gloves rustle
On the avenue's branches

The evening carries us under its arm
By a path which leaves no trace

The rain falls on its knees
Before the fugitive windows

The yards come out of their gates
And stand looking after us

The nights are running out of darkness

Steel branches grasp
The arms of passers-by

Only anonymour chimneys
Are free to walk the streets
Which slice across our sleeplessness

In the gutters our stars decay

From the wrinkle between my brows
You watch till day breaks
On my face

The waxen night
Is beginning to singe
The fingers of dawn

Black bricks
Have already tiled
The whole dome of the sky

Toothed eyes fly
Over still waters

Around us purple lips
Flutter from branches

Screams hit the blue
And fall onto pillows

Our homes hide
Behind narrow backs

Hands clutch at
Flimsy clouds

Our veins roll turbid
Bed and tables

Of shattered bones
Noon has fallen into our hands

And turned all gloomy

An open grave on the face of the earth
On your face on my face

- Vasko Popa
Trad.Anne Pennington


Keeping Things Whole

In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.

- Mark Strand


Admonitions to a Special Person

Watch out for power,
for its avalanche can bury you,
snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain.

Watch out for hate,
it can open its mouth and you'll fling yourself out
to eat off your leg, an instant leper.

Watch out for friends,
because when you betray them,
as you will,
they will bury their heads in the toilet
and flush themselves away.

Watch out for intellect,
because it knows so much it knows nothing
and leaves you hanging upside down,
mouthing knowledge as your heart
falls out of your mouth.

Watch out for games, the actor's part,
the speech planned, known, given,
for they will give you away
and you will stand like a naked little boy,
pissing on your own child-bed.

Watch out for love
(unless it is true,
and every part of you says yes including the toes) ,
it will wrap you up like a mummy,
and your scream won't be heard
and none of your running will end.

Love? Be it man. Be it woman.
It must be a wave you want to glide in on,
give your body to it, give your laugh to it,
give, when the gravelly sand takes you,
your tears to the land. To love another is something
like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall
into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.

Special person,
if I were you I'd pay no attention
to admonitions from me,
made somewhat out of your words
and somewhat out of mine.
A collaboration.
I do not believe a word I have said,
except some, except I think of you like a young tree
with pasted-on leaves and know you'll root
and the real green thing will come.

Let go. Let go.
Oh special person,
possible leaves,
this typewriter likes you on the way to them,
but wants to break crystal glasses
in celebration,
for you,
when the dark crust is thrown off
and you float all around
like a happened balloon.

- Anne Sexton
"Alguma vez terão Ayn Rand ou o libertário Milton Friedman previsto que 'o mercado paraíso' de Adam Smith chegaria a este caos? Onde estavam os presidentes do Banco de Inglaterra, do BCE e do Banco do Japão quando a catástrofe começou a ganhar forma?"

Paul Samuelson, Nobel da Economia, "Diário Económico", 21-01-2008


The Truth the Dead Know
by Anne Sexton

For my Mother, born March 1902, died March 1959
and my Father, born February 1900, died June 1959

Gone, I say and walk from church,

refusing the stiff procession to the grave,

letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.

It is June. I am tired of being brave.

We drive to the Cape. I cultivate

myself where the sun gutters from the sky,

where the sea swings in like an iron gate

and we touch. In another country people die.

My darling, the wind falls in like stones

from the whitehearted water and when we touch

we enter touch entirely. No one's alone.

Men kill for this, or for as much.

And what of the dead? They lie without shoes

in the stone boats. They are more like stone

than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse

to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.


hoje é estranho que possa entender a tua ausência
como me sabe à dor dos homens que desconhecemos,
e até nas arestas brancas do nosso quarto eu te vejo
assim o condicional que preside à encadernação do amor
hoje é da cor do teu sol privativo um desvario alheio
nas formas que o teu perfume permuta e encerra
é estrangeiro o uso da palavra ortodoxa, insone
hoje sabe-me às tuas pernas constantes
às tuas costas sob as mãos que cultivo
hoje um tal ponto secreto
hoje os medos antigos
todas as manhãs nos fazemos casa segura
e assim que todas as manhãs comunicam
um sopro mais de páginas alheias
doze horas a favor de uma física alternativa,
magia com que te penetro e demarco
todas as manhãs em que encontro perfumes
doze horas ao lado da quietude intraduzível
pergunto-me que seria feito de ti sem o azar
pergunto, se haveria dias em que chover doesse
se todas as manhãs todas as horas todas
um sopro ainda de lábios abertos