não tentarei perceber porque me mantive tanto tempo sentada, imóvel, olhos postos no horizonte de um mar imenso, a ver-te galgar as ondas com a destreza que me soava tão fácil, igual às subidas às mais altas escarpas das praias a sul para vermos e ouvirmos as gaivotas de perto. esperei-te assim virada de frente para aquele ondulado azul de espuma, a inspirar o cheiro a maresia que as tuas manobras "cutback" soltavam com inebriante intensidade.
terça-feira, 27 de dezembro de 2016
segunda-feira, 5 de dezembro de 2016
An Almost Made Up Poem
C.B.,
Your,
A.L.
"An almost made up poem", by Charles Bukowski
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
because we’ never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
Charles Bukowski
Apaixonei-me por ti há seis anos, n'Os Correios, uma garrafa de wisky por capítulo, uma genialidade escrita a que não estava habituada e chegando o verão deste ano zango-me contigo assumidamente não nas corridas de cavalos, que já me enfastiavam mas nas histórias que desfiaste sobre as mulheres que entornavas tão depressa como esse whisky que sempre as acompanhava.
e hoje, cai-me no colo este poema reconciliatório a confirmar o que há seis anos o desconhecido de calças pretas me disse ao ver-me retirar da prateleira Os Correios: "se puder, leia-o só em inglês".
Your,
A.L.
"An almost made up poem", by Charles Bukowski
I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
because we’ never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
Charles Bukowski
sexta-feira, 2 de dezembro de 2016
*animais noturnos
concedi-me a concretização daquele desejo. uma assombração que me perseguiu demasiado tempo a par do crescimento dos hotéis que me faziam acreditar que a cidade transbordara os seus limites. o compasso do tempo foi sempre o mesmo mas a rapidez dos acontecimentos novos pareciam encurtá-lo. faço um esforço para não repetir que tudo passa rapidamente demais para uma única vida.
mas concedi-me, finalmente e sem planos pormenorizados, a concretização desse desejo. e escolhi o hotel, no mais alto lugar junto ao céu e uma vista de rio que seria um desperdiçar de alma se deliberadamente a ignorasse.
tudo o resto foi silêncio. ninguém soube que a noite que me concedi entre cigarros e escrita imparável se fez naquelas quatro paredes frente ao azul escuro infinito do céu e ao espelho de água de uma lua que quase totalmente redonda fez questão de iluminar.
não sei como enganei o tempo e porque razão ninguém me fez mais perguntas do que as naturalmente habituais: onde vais, com quem ficas, a que horas chegas, queres ficar em minha casa. por isso e mais ainda fui. coração livre, alma branca e vazio de consciência. na minha maior liberdade, concretizei o único desejo que alguma vez me concedi como presente de natal.
"luz de inverno", Ingmar Bergman. 1962.
*retirado do filme com o mesmo nome.
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