Alberto Caeiro / Fernando Pessoa (4)

When spring comes round again
I may no longer be in the world.
I would like to think that the spring is a person
So that I could imagine she would weep,
Seeing she had lost her only friend.
But the spring isn’t even a thing:
It’s a manner of speaking.
Not even the flowers come back, or the green leaves.
There are new flowers, new green leaves.
There are other sweet days.

Nothing returns, nothing is repeated, because everything is real.

(de Poemas Inconjuntos; trad. Magaret Jull Costa)

Alberto Caeiro / Fernando Pessoa (3)

This is perhaps the last day of my life.

I saluted the sun, raising my right hand, 

But I wasn't saluting it in order to say goodbye.

I was simply showing how pleased I was still to see it, nothing more.

(de Poemas Inconjuntos; trad. Margaret Jull Costa)

Emily Dickinson

Who has not found the heaven below

Will fail of it above.

God's residence is next to mine,

His furniture is love.

John Donne: Hymn to God, My God, in My Sickness

Since I am coming to that holy room,
Where, with thy choir of saints for evermore,
I shall be made thy music; as I come
I tune the instrument here at the door,
And what I must do then, think here before.

Whilst my physicians by their love are grown
Cosmographers, and I their map, who lie
Flat on this bed, that by them may be shown
That this is my south-west discovery,
Per fretum febris, by these straits to die,

I joy, that in these straits I see my west;
For, though their currents yield return to none,
What shall my west hurt me? As west and east
In all flat maps (and I am one) are one,
So death doth touch the resurrection.

Is the Pacific Sea my home? Or are
The eastern riches? Is Jerusalem?
Anyan, and Magellan, and Gibraltar,
All straits, and none but straits, are ways to them,
Whether where Japhet dwelt, or Cham, or Shem.

We think that Paradise and Calvary,
Christ's cross, and Adam's tree, stood in one place;
Look, Lord, and find both Adams met in me;
As the first Adam's sweat surrounds my face,
May the last Adam's blood my soul embrace.

So, in his purple wrapp'd, receive me, Lord;
By these his thorns, give me his other crown;
And as to others' souls I preach'd thy word,
Be this my text, my sermon to mine own:
"Therefore that he may raise, the Lord throws down."

Emily Dickinson: "Prayer is a little implement"

Prayer is the little implement
Through which men reach
Where presence is denied them.
They fling their speech

By means of it in God's ear;
If then He hear,
This sums the apparatus
Comprised in prayer.

Citação da Bíblia 4: Isaías

For thus says the high and lofty One
     who inhabits eternity, whose name is Holy:
"I dwell in the high and holy place,
     and also with him who is of a contrite and humble spirit,
to revive the spirit of the humble,
     and to revive the heart of the contrite."

Isaías 57:15 (Revised Standard Version)

W. H. Auden: "Luther" (1940)

With conscience cocked to listen for the thunder,
He saw the Devil busy in the wind,
Over the chiming steeples and then under
The doors of nuns and doctors who had sinned.

What apparatus could stave off disaster
Or cut the brambles of man's error down?
Flesh was a silent dog that bites its master,
World a still pond in which its children drown.

The fuse of Judgement spluttered in his head:
"Lord smoke these honeyed insects from their hives.
All Works, Great Men, Societies are bad.
The Just shall live by Faith..." he cried in dread.

And men and women of the world were glad,
Who'd never cared or trembled in their lives.

Alberto Caeiro / Fernando Pessoa (2)

I'm not in a hurry. In a hurry for what?
The sun and moon aren't in a hurry; they're right.
To hurry is to suppose we can overtake our legs
Or leap over our shadow.
No, I'm not in a hurry.
If I stretch out my arm, I'll reach exactly as far as my arm reaches
And not half an inch farther.
I touch where my finger touches, not where I think.
I can only sit down where I am.
This sounds ridiculous, like all absolutely true truths,
But what's really ridiculous is how we're always thinking of
    something else,
And we're always outside it, because we're here.

(de Poemas Inconjuntos; trad. Richard Zenith)

Alberto Caeiro / Fernando Pessoa

Hoje o Facebook relembra-me de um poema que partilhei neste dia há três anos.

Pouco me importa.

Pouco me importa o quê? Não sei: pouco me importa.

Alberto Caeiro tem sido talvez o Pessoa que mais atrai a minha atenção. O seu humor despretencioso não será a menor das razões.

Emily Dickinson: "Much madness is divinest sense"

Much madness is divinest sense
To a discerning eye;
Much sense the starkest madness.
'T is the majority
In this, as all, prevails.
Assent, and you are sane;
Demur, – you're straightway dangerous,
And handled with a chain.

John Donne: "A Hymn to God the Father" – e Carl Schalk

Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,

     Which was my sin, though it were done before?

Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which I run,

     And do run still, though still I do deplore?

          When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
               For I have more.

Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won

     Others to sin, and made my sin their door?

Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun

     A year or two, but wallow'd in, a score?

          When thou hast done, thou hast not done,

               For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun

     My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;

But swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son

     Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore;

          And, having done that, thou hast done;
               I fear no more.

Ontem à noite, o Aestas Consort, em concerto na Capela de Nosso Senhor, em River Forest, interpretou este poema com música de Carl Schalk (n. 1929). Maurice Boyer, maestro do coro, diz-me que as três peças de Schalk integradas no programa são recentes (2015-16) e que, tanto quanto sabe, ainda não foram gravadas. 

Schalk é um consagrado compositor de vários géneros de música sacra. Figura em várias colectâneas e as suas composições são usadas por diversas tradições religiosas. Dedicou parte substancial da sua vida ao ensino de música na Universidade Concórdia de Chicago. 

Recomendo vivamente. 

Edgar Allan Poe: "Annabel Lee"

It was many and many a year ago,
   In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
   By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
   Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love—
   I and my Annabel Lee—
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven
   Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
   My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsmen came
   And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
   In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
   Went envying her and me—
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,
   In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we—
Of many far wiser than we—
And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
   Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
   In her sepulchre there by the sea—
   In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Jamrach Holobom / Ambrose Bierce: "Abracadabra"

By Abracadabra we signify 
     An infinite number of things. 
’Tis the answer to What? and How? and Why? 
And Whence? and Whither?—a word whereby 
     The Truth (with the comfort it brings) 
Is open to all who grope in night, 
Crying for Wisdom’s holy light. 

Whether the word is a verb or a noun 
     Is knowledge beyond my reach. 
I only know that ’tis handed down. 
         From sage to sage, 
         From age to age— 
An immortal part of speech! 

Of an ancient man the tale is told 
That he lived to be ten centuries old, 
     In a cave on a mountain side. 
     (True, he finally died.) 
The fame of his wisdom filled the land, 
For his head was bald, and you’ll understand 
     His beard was long and white 
     And his eyes uncommonly bright. 
  
Philosophers gathered from far and near 
To sit at his feet and hear and hear, 
         Though he never was heard 
         To utter a word 
     But “Abracadabra, abracadab, 
         Abracada, abracad, 
Abraca, abrac, abra, ab!” 
         ’Twas all he had, 
’Twas all they wanted to hear, and each 
Made copious notes of the mystical speech, 
         Which they published next— 
         A trickle of text 
In the meadow of commentary. 
     Mighty big books were these, 
     In a number, as leaves of trees; 
In learning, remarkably—very! 
  
         He’s dead, 
         As I said, 
And the books of the sages have perished, 
But his wisdom is sacredly cherished. 
In Abracadabra it solemnly rings, 
Like an ancient bell that forever swings. 
         O, I love to hear 
         That word make clear 
Humanity’s General Sense of Things.

Nuno Costa Santos: "Perdoa-me"

Perdoa-me esta tristeza
de súbito revelada

(já passa
como passam as nuvens
e as notícias em rodapé).

este ar de passarão triste
estes olhos de boga
este contrato a termo incerto com o pensamento.

Não é nada

sou só eu
de vez em quando.

Nuno Costa Santos, Às Vezes É um Insecto que Faz Disparar o Alarme, 2012

John Donne: Holy Sonnet XIV

Batter my heart, three-person’d God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o’erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp’d town to another due,
Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv’d, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov’d fain,
But am betroth’d unto your enemy;
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.


I thank Rev. Andrew T. Yeager for calling my attention to this poem.

With his permission, here are selections of what he wrote about it:

In the poem above, the poet John Donne brilliantly describes his relationship to God. He is like a town that is governed and tyrannized by an evil lord and master, the devil—an usurp’d town to another due. He very much wants God for his new Lord and Master, but he doesn’t have the strength within himself to admit God into his heart. His reason should do the work of opening a door to God. But his reason is held captive, like a prisoner in chains.

The poet wants to love and be loved by God. But he is betrothed to God’s enemy. He cannot free himself from the devil’s lordship over him. His heart is like the heavily armored walls of a fortress town over which the devil keeps watch. He cannot save himself; God alone can rescue him… He understands that God’s work in his life is a paradox: unless God batters and breaks him, he will never be free. Unless God ravishes him, he will never be chaste. God must break him down if he will ever be made new. God must kill him if he will ever live…

If we are saved, it must be completely and totally God who saves us. He must take a breach of the walls and invade the captive city. Apart from God’s work to deliver and save through the redemption of his beloved Son, we are lost forever.

João Penha: "Os Dous Asnos"

O Facebook faz-me o favor de me lembrar todos os anos, depois de 2014, que partilhei no dia 1 de Março este poema do João Penha que, de resto, costuma andar perdido nos recessos da minha memória. Eu, que gosto dele, não tenho resistido a cada dia 1 de Março a partilhá-lo novamente. Tenho apenas uma meia dúzia de amigos que fielmente lhe põem um gosto, também eles quase sempre os mesmos, o que é peculiar. Gosto particularmente do verso “E tu, que sobresahes pelas orelhas”. Faz-me rir imenso.

OS DOUS ASNOS

Um cavallo que tinha o rei no bôjo,

Disse ao magro jumento d'um moleiro:

– “Da minha raça, tu? Causas-me nojo;

Tu fazes rir: és menos que um sendeiro.

“A mim, me adornam selas e xaireis,

Magníficos arreios e gualdrapas;

Em mim cavalgam principes e reis,

Homens de guerra, bellas damas guapas.

“E tu, que sobresahes pelas orelhas,

Por sobre a albarda que te adorna a espinha,

Que levas, asno? Diz? Canastras velhas,

Teu dono: um ôdre, ou sacos de farinha!”

– “É verdade o que dizes, disse o burro,

Sou humilde, nem pompas allardeio,

Mas trago a bôca livre, e livre zurro, 

E tu, pedaço d'asno, andas de freio!”

Citação da Bíblia 2: Salomão

Unless the Lord builds the house, 

     those who built it labor in vain. 

Unless the Lord watches over the city, 

     the watchman stays awake in vain. 

It is vain that you rise up early 

     and go late to rest, 

eating the bread of anxious toil; 

     for he gives to his beloved sleep.


Salmo 127:1-2 (English Standard Version)