POESIA NÃO É UMA MEDALHA PARA PÔR NO PEITO DOS TIRANOS MAS UMA IMENSA SOLIDÃO FEITA DE PEDRAS, ONDE O DESPOTISMO PODE ENCOMENDAR O ATAÚDE. CADA UM DE NÓS ODEIA O QUE AMA. POR ISSO O POETA NÃO AMA A POESIA QUE É SÓ DESESPERO E SOLIDÃO MAS ACALENTA AO PEITO AS FORMIGAS DA REVOLTA E DA REBELDIA, QUE TODOS OS DÉSPOTAS QUEREM SUBMISSAS E PROCRIADORAS. SÓ OS VOLUNTÁRIOS DA MISÉRIA E DA SUBMISSÃO PATRIARCAL QUEREM A POESIA NA ARCA DA ALIANÇA COM A TRADIÇÃO PACÓVIA E REGIONALISTA DOS PRETÉRITOS DIAS, GLÓRIAS PATRIOTEIRAS, HEROICIDADES FRUSTES, PIRATARIA IGNARA. TODO O VERDADEIRO POETA DESPREZA O PEQUENO MONTE MONTE DE ESTERCO ONDE O DEJECTARAM NO PLANETA E A QUE OS OUTROS CHAMAM PÁTRIA, E SÓ AMA OS GRANDES CONTINENTES, MARÉS E OCEANOS DA LIBERDADE E DO AMOR. SÓ NOS VASTOS ESPAÇOS INCRIADOS A POESIA SERVE O SEU DESTINO - CATAPULTAR O HOMEM NOS ABISMOS DO DESEJO INCONTROLADO ONDE O PRÓPRIO ASSASSINATO DE QUE FALO E O GRANDE AMPLEXO DE HOMEM PARA HOMEM, A SOLIDARIEDADE E A TERNURA , NÃO A CARIDADE HIPÓCRITA OU A CAMA DE FAMÍLIA, COM TODO O SEU PEQUENO CORTEJO DE HORRORES, ONDE A EXPLORAÇÃO DO FILHO PELO PAI DITA A SUA LEI.
Pedro Oom
clarice
clarice, com os érres
extraterrestres de quem
tem mãos frias e o coração
quente
peito liso
terra plana de
quem dá um jeito e assim o é
a dos olhos oblíquos
de pintura flamenga
temperada entre um continente e outro
clarice com o telefone de baquelite
na conversa amadora
com o que há de mais secreto
farta de ser clarice,
cheia de doença no ventre
e fogo na ponta dos dedos
a ditar o livro de horas
na horizontal
Leonor Castro Nunes, na antologia Persona
extraterrestres de quem
tem mãos frias e o coração
quente
peito liso
terra plana de
quem dá um jeito e assim o é
a dos olhos oblíquos
de pintura flamenga
temperada entre um continente e outro
clarice com o telefone de baquelite
na conversa amadora
com o que há de mais secreto
farta de ser clarice,
cheia de doença no ventre
e fogo na ponta dos dedos
a ditar o livro de horas
na horizontal
Leonor Castro Nunes, na antologia Persona
my joy is the same as twelve ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light
How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not laguage but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds.
Jack Gilbert
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not laguage but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds.
Jack Gilbert
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