História de uma letra
Cecília Meireles
Muita gente me pergunta se deixei de escrever o meu sobrenome com letra dobrada devido à reforma ortográfica; e quando estou com preguiça de explicar, digo que sim. Mas hoje tomo coragem, abalanço-me a confessar a verdade, que talvez não interesse senão aos meus possíveis herdeiros.
A verdade nunca é simples, como se imagina. E em primeiro lugar, devo dizer que o meu sobrenome simplificado só vale na literatura. Nos documentos oficiais prevalece a forma antiga, e eu por mim gosto tanto da tradição que não me importava nada carregar um ípsilon, um th, todas as atrapalhações possíveis que enrugam e encarquilham um idioma.
Por outro lado, as reformas ortográficas são sempre tão arrevesadas que já perdi as esperanças de estar algum dia completamente em condições de escrever sem erros, descansando assim no tipógrafo e no revisor, que são os grandes responsáveis pelas nossas faltas e pelas nossas glórias. Não foi, portanto, por afeição às reformas que sacrifiquei uma letra do meu nome. A história é mais inverossímil.
Todos na vida atravessamos certas crises. Dever-se-ia mesmo escrever sobre a gênese, desenvolvimento, apogeu e fim das crises. Se uma pessoa está sem emprego, o natural é que se empregue. Se está doente, o natural é que morra ou se cure. Mas o fenômeno da crise é importante precisamente por ser o contrário do natural. De modo que se a pessoa está desempregada, não há maneira de arranjar emprego, e se está doente não há maneira de se curar, etc...
As crises são muito variadas. Há crises sentimentais, econômicas, de inspiração, de talento, de prestígio — e o povo classifica essa situação, que ele, em sua sabedoria, já observou, com o fácil nome de azar.
O azar não é lógico. Isso é que o torna desesperador. A pessoa sai de casa, bem com a sua consciência, com as faculdades mentais em perfeita ordem, os músculos, os nervos, tudo bem governado, atravessa a rua como um cidadão correto, observando o sinal, e quando chega do outro lado, apanha na cabeça um tijolo que um operário, inocente, deixou cair do sétimo andar de uma construção.
Naturalmente, todo o mundo tem refletido sobre as razões secretas dessas coisas inexplicáveis. E foi assim que, com o correr do tempo, se chegou à caracterização de um certo número de fatos e objetos que servem de prenúncio ao azar: espelhos quebrados, relógios parados, sal entornado na mesa, sapato emborcado, tesoura aberta, gato preto, mariposas, sexta-feira dia treze, mês de agosto, gente canhota e estrábica, vestido marrom, para só falar dos principais.
Penetrando mais no estudo de todas essas superstições, pessoas entendidas têm procurado explicá-las pelas correlações existentes com as crenças do paganismo, estas por sua vez baseadas no empirismo e na ignorância dos nossos antepassados, e assim por diante, o que não impede que as pessoas ainda hoje se benzam, quando bocejam, para que o Demônio não lhes entre pela boca; e não cruzem a mãos, quando se cumprimentam, para não atrapalharem algum matrimônio, e não se deitem com os pés para a rua, e não façam muitas outras coisas, só pelo medo das suas conseqüências ocultas.
Outras pessoas, igualmente entendidas, dão rumo diverso aos seus estudos, descobrem o entrelaçamento das causas e efeitos universais, chegam até a afirmar que tudo quanto nos acontece nesta encarnação é fruto remoto de encarnações anteriores, e respeitam o que diz um provérbio oriental — que o simples roçar da roupa de um passante, na nossa roupa, é indício de alguma proximidade de vidas, em tempos imemoriais.
E há os que seguem o caminho dos astros, e com uma circunferência, umas retas, uns planetas, uns cálculos, dizem e predizem os nossos destinos, com todas as suas inesperadas trajetórias.
E há os que lêem nas linhas das mãos, e contam as nossas viagens, os nossos padecimentos de fígado, o que vamos fazer daqui a vinte anos, e o minuto em que empalidece a nossa estrela...
Está claro que creio em tudo isso. Eu justamente creio em tudo. Creio até no contrário disso. A minha faculdade de crer é ilimitada. Não compreendendo por que as pessoas crêem numas coisas e noutras não. Tudo é crivei. Principalmente o incrível. Não estou fazendo paradoxo. A vida é que já é por si mesma paradoxal, desde que seja vista não apenas pela superfície.
Ora, uma vez, todas as coisas começaram a correr contra mim. Fazendo a mais profunda e leal introspecção, estou bem certa de que não merecia tanto. Se punha roupa branca, chovia; se precisava ver a hora, o relógio estava parado; muitas coisas pequenas, assim e outras maiores, já com intervenção humana, e que, por isso, não é necessário contar.
Então, considerando que tal concordância de acontecimentos desagradáveis devia ter uma razão secreta, pus-me a procurá-la.
Ao contrário do que geralmente se faz, comecei por atribuir a mim mesma a razão dos meus males. É certo que todos temos muitos defeitos. Mas nunca me dei ao luxo de ter tantos que justificassem a conspiração que se fazia contra mim.
Admitida a minha inocência, passei ao exame das circunstâncias que por acaso estivessem sob a minha responsabilidade. Nem espelho partido nem vestido marrom nem gato preto nem número fatídico na porta.
E assim descendo de observação em observação, e consultando algum conhecido — e os nossos conhecidos sempre sabem essas coisas ocultas e se não nos ajudam com as suas luzes é pela timidez em não acreditarem o momento propício — passei a analisar o meu nome.
Esqueci-me de dizer que estava disposta a todos os despojamentos. Se a culpa fosse de algum mau sentimento, de alguma ação malvada, eu me castigaria energicamente. E até para me estimular recordava o exemplo daquela senhora americana que arrancou um olho e cortou a mão, convencida de que esses dois fragmentos do seu corpo estavam estragando a sua alma.
Foi nessa ocasião que me explicaram o valor cabalístico das letras, e a razão por que muitas pessoas mudam de nome, trocando aquele que lhes foi dado por outro em que haja uma combinação de valores mais favorável aos seus destinos.
Todos os conhecimentos têm uma profunda sedução. Quem conseguisse saber tudo ficava igual a Deus. Por isso é que muitos são de opinião que se saiba o menos possível, para não se ter a mesma sorte de Eva, que logo no princípio do mundo estragou o Paraíso com o pecado do saber.
Digo isto porque um tratado de biologia me atrai com a mesma força que um volume de ciências ocultas, e os números e as letras me parecem tão organizados, tão sensíveis, tão vivos, tão poderosos, enfim, como um animal, uma planta, um átomo.
Naturalmente, desmontei o meu nome, peça por peça, calculei, pesei, refleti, devo ter chegado a alguma conclusão de que já não me lembro, e não tenho a impressão de que os meus cálculos fossem assim desfavoráveis. Mas pelo sim, pelo não, como havia uma letra disponível, achei melhor sacrificar essa letra.
Há os que sacrificam os filhos, os carneiros, as aves, e há os que sacrificam o seu coração. Sacrifiquei o meu. Porque eu gostava de todas as minhas letras, fervorosamente. Ter de cortar uma, não foi assim coisa tão fácil como as reformas ortográficas ordenam. Uma letra é um signo, é uma coisa misteriosa que as gerações vêm carregando consigo, modificando de longe em longe, por mão inexperiente, por súbito esquecimento, por ignorância de algum escriba emprestado.
Deu-me um trabalho muito grande, ficar sem essa letra. Quando olhava para o meu nome sem ela, sentia como se me faltasse um pedaço, como se estivesse realmente mutilada, sem a mão ousem o olho. Consolava a letra perdida. Escrevia-a sozinha, do lado, sorria-lhe, contava-lhe coisas, para distraí-la. Tudo era muito infantil e muito triste. A pobrezinha ficava para trás, e dava-me saudade. Recapitulando estas coisas, sinto-me entristecer, e preciso recobrar a minha força de vontade para não alterar outra vez o sobrenome.
Afinal, como último trabalho convincente, estabelecemos este acordo. A letra não ficaria perdida: seria usada nos documentos oficiais, nesses lugares respeitáveis em que a firma é a garantia da nossa pessoa recebendo e pagando os lugares que nos vemos que merecem a consagração e a estima unânimes dos nossos colegas humanos.
Quanto às coisas literárias, essas efêmeras coisas pelas quais vamos morrendo dia a dia, não são assim de tal modo graves que precisem da firma autêntica, daquela firma por que os juízes nos podem perguntar um dia, brandindo um papel pavoroso e fulminante: "Dize, bandido, foste tu que assinaste este documento?" Não, as coisas literárias não chegam a esse ponto. O mais que nos pode acontecer é tirarem o nome que escrevemos no fim e substituírem-no por outro, sem juiz, sem fulminação, sem defesa...
Isto posto, a letra abandonada e eu nos abraçamos ternamente, e nos separamos. Como era uma letra suave, terá querido dizer com o seu romantismo: "Quero apenas que sejas menos infeliz. Acompanhei-te durante tanto tempo! Tiveste tanta dificuldade em aprender a escrever-me... Pensavas com inocência no mistério das letras dobradas... Sentias orgulho, na escola, por essa letra dobrada no nome... Mas talvez eu esteja pesando demais na tua vida. Não fiques triste. Adeus."
Fiquei muito triste. Faltava-me a letra. Já não era como se me faltasse um pedaço de mim, — mas, um parente, um amigo extraordinário.
A minha vida, porém, mudou tanto que, por mais saudade que me venha dessa letra perdida, não me animo a fazê-la voltar.
E está feita a confissão. Como se vê, uma história longa, que não se pode repetir a cada instante. Principalmente porque é uma história íntima, e ninguém deve cortar as letras do seu nome só por ter visto outras pessoas fazê-lo. E fica explicado para sempre que assino deste modo por motivos sobrenaturais, fantásticos, como quiserem, mas não pela reforma ortográfica, aliás muito cautelosa com os nomes próprios, respeitando-os tanto quanto me parece deverem ser respeitados, principalmente pelos mistérios que dentro deles vão navegando.
(Rio de Janeiro, A MANHÃ, 27 de dezembro de 1944.)
Texto extraído do livro "Cecília Meireles — Obra em prosa — Volume 1", Editora Nova Fronteira — Rio de Janeiro, 1998, pág. 105.
http://www.releituras.com/cmeireles_letra.asp
.
miércoles, 1 de octubre de 2008
martes, 30 de septiembre de 2008
Elegia a uma pequena borboleta
Cecília Meireles
Como chegavas do casulo,
inacabada seda viva
tuas antenas - fios soltos
da trama de que eras tecida,
e teus olhos, dois grãos da noite
de onde o teu mistério surgia,
como caíste sobre o mundo
inábil, na manhã tão clara,
sem mãe, sem guia, sem conselho,
e rolavas por uma escada
como papel, penugem, poeira,
com mais sonho e silêncio que asas,
minha mão tosca te agarrou
com uma dura, inocente culpa,
e é cinza de lua teu corpo,
meus dedos tua sepultura.
Já desfeita e ainda palpitante,
expiras sem noção nenhuma.
Ó bordado do véu do dia,
transparente anêmona aérea!
Não leves meu rosto contigo:
leva o pranto que te celebra,
no olho precário em que te acabas,
meu remorso ajoelhado leva!
Choro a tua forma violada,
miraculosa, alva, divina,
criatura de pólen, de aragem,
diáfana pétala da vida!
Choro ter pesado em teu corpo
que no estame não pesaria.
Choro esta humana insuficiência:
a confusão dos nossos olhos,
o selvagem peso do gesto,
cegueira, ingnorância, remotos
isntintos súbitos, violências
que o sonho e a graça prostam mortos.
Pudesse a etéreos paraísos
ascender teu leve fantasma,
e meu coração penitente
ser a rosa desabrochada
para servir-te mel e aroma,
por toda a eternidade escrava!
E as lágrimas que por ti choro
fossem o orvalho desses campos,
os espelhos que refletissem
vôo e silêncio, os teus encantos,
com a ternura humilde e o remorso
dos meus desacertos humanos!
Declamado por Ruggero Quenttallonni:
Declamado por Cecília Meireles:
Elegía a una pequeña mariposa
Cecília Meireles
Cómo llegabas del capullo,
- ¡inacabada seda viva!-
tus antenas - hilos sueltos
de la trama que te tejía,
y tus ojos, dos granos de noche
de donde tu misterio surgía,
cómo caíste sobre el mundo
inhábil, en la mañana tan clara,
sin madre, sin guía, sin consejo,
y rodabas por una escalera
como papel, pelusa, polvo
con más sueño y silencio que alas,
mi mano tosca te agarró
con una dura, inocente culpa,
y es ceniza de luna tu cuerpo,
mis dedos, tu sepultura.
Ya deshecha y todavía palpitante,
expiras sin noción ninguna.
¡Oh bordado del velo del día,
transparente anémona aérea!
No lleves mi rostro contigo:
lleva el llanto que te celebra,
en el ojo precario en que te acabas,
¡mi remordimiento arrodillado lleva!
Lloro tu forma violada,
milagrosa, alba, divina,
criatura de polen, de brisa,
¡diáfano pétalo de la vida!
Lloro haber pesado en tu cuerpo
lo que en el estambre no pesaría.
Lloro esta humana insuficiencia:
la confusión de nuestros ojos,
el salvaje peso del gesto,
ceguera, ignorancia, remotos
instintos súbitos, violencias
que el sueño y la gracia postran muertos.
¡Pudiese a etéreos paraísos
ascender tu leve fantasma,
y mi corazón penitente
ser la rosa desplegada
para servirte miel y aroma
por toda la eternidad esclava!
¡Y las lágrimas que por ti lloro
fuesen el rocío de esos campos,
los espejos que reflejasen
vuelo y silencio, tus encantos,
con la ternura humilde y el remordimiento
de mis desaciertos humanos!
# 06/05/09 # Actualización: Los videos de YouTube ya no están disponibles, lamentávelmente.
.
Cecília Meireles
Como chegavas do casulo,
inacabada seda viva
tuas antenas - fios soltos
da trama de que eras tecida,
e teus olhos, dois grãos da noite
de onde o teu mistério surgia,
como caíste sobre o mundo
inábil, na manhã tão clara,
sem mãe, sem guia, sem conselho,
e rolavas por uma escada
como papel, penugem, poeira,
com mais sonho e silêncio que asas,
minha mão tosca te agarrou
com uma dura, inocente culpa,
e é cinza de lua teu corpo,
meus dedos tua sepultura.
Já desfeita e ainda palpitante,
expiras sem noção nenhuma.
Ó bordado do véu do dia,
transparente anêmona aérea!
Não leves meu rosto contigo:
leva o pranto que te celebra,
no olho precário em que te acabas,
meu remorso ajoelhado leva!
Choro a tua forma violada,
miraculosa, alva, divina,
criatura de pólen, de aragem,
diáfana pétala da vida!
Choro ter pesado em teu corpo
que no estame não pesaria.
Choro esta humana insuficiência:
a confusão dos nossos olhos,
o selvagem peso do gesto,
cegueira, ingnorância, remotos
isntintos súbitos, violências
que o sonho e a graça prostam mortos.
Pudesse a etéreos paraísos
ascender teu leve fantasma,
e meu coração penitente
ser a rosa desabrochada
para servir-te mel e aroma,
por toda a eternidade escrava!
E as lágrimas que por ti choro
fossem o orvalho desses campos,
os espelhos que refletissem
vôo e silêncio, os teus encantos,
com a ternura humilde e o remorso
dos meus desacertos humanos!
Declamado por Ruggero Quenttallonni:
Declamado por Cecília Meireles:
Elegía a una pequeña mariposa
Cecília Meireles
Cómo llegabas del capullo,
- ¡inacabada seda viva!-
tus antenas - hilos sueltos
de la trama que te tejía,
y tus ojos, dos granos de noche
de donde tu misterio surgía,
cómo caíste sobre el mundo
inhábil, en la mañana tan clara,
sin madre, sin guía, sin consejo,
y rodabas por una escalera
como papel, pelusa, polvo
con más sueño y silencio que alas,
mi mano tosca te agarró
con una dura, inocente culpa,
y es ceniza de luna tu cuerpo,
mis dedos, tu sepultura.
Ya deshecha y todavía palpitante,
expiras sin noción ninguna.
¡Oh bordado del velo del día,
transparente anémona aérea!
No lleves mi rostro contigo:
lleva el llanto que te celebra,
en el ojo precario en que te acabas,
¡mi remordimiento arrodillado lleva!
Lloro tu forma violada,
milagrosa, alba, divina,
criatura de polen, de brisa,
¡diáfano pétalo de la vida!
Lloro haber pesado en tu cuerpo
lo que en el estambre no pesaría.
Lloro esta humana insuficiencia:
la confusión de nuestros ojos,
el salvaje peso del gesto,
ceguera, ignorancia, remotos
instintos súbitos, violencias
que el sueño y la gracia postran muertos.
¡Pudiese a etéreos paraísos
ascender tu leve fantasma,
y mi corazón penitente
ser la rosa desplegada
para servirte miel y aroma
por toda la eternidad esclava!
¡Y las lágrimas que por ti lloro
fuesen el rocío de esos campos,
los espejos que reflejasen
vuelo y silencio, tus encantos,
con la ternura humilde y el remordimiento
de mis desaciertos humanos!
# 06/05/09 # Actualización: Los videos de YouTube ya no están disponibles, lamentávelmente.
.
domingo, 21 de septiembre de 2008
Adélia Prado
Ensinamento
Minha mãe achava estudo
a coisa mais fina do mundo.
Não é.
A coisa mais fina do mundo é o sentimento.
Aquele dia de noite, o pai fazendo serão,
ela falou comigo:
"Coitado, até essa hora no serviço pesado".
Arrumou pão e café, deixou tacho no fogo com água quente,
não me falou em amor.
Essa palavra de luxo.
Enseñanza
Mi mamá creía que el estudio
era la cosa más fina del mundo.
No lo es.
La cosa más fina del mundo es el sentimiento.
Aquel día de noche, papá estaba trabajando,
ella me dijo:
"Pobre, hasta esta hora en el servicio pesado".
Acomodó pan y café, dejó la olla en el fuego con agua caliente,
no me habló de amor.
Esa palabra de lujo.
Janela
Janela, palavra linda.
Janela é o bater das asas da borboleta amarela.
Abre pra fora as duas folhas de madeira à-toa pintada,
janela jeca, de azul.
Eu pulo você pra dentro e pra fora, monto a cavalo em você,
meu pé esbarra no chão.
Janela sobre o mundo aberta, por onde vi
o casamento da Anita esperando neném, a mãe
do Pedro Cisterna urinando na chuva, por onde vi
meu bem chegar de bicicleta e dizer a meu pai:
minhas intenções com sua filha são as melhores possíveis.
Ô janela com tramela, brincadeira de ladrão,
clarabóia na minha alma,
olho no meu coração.
Ventana
Ventana, palabra linda.
Ventana es el batir de las alas de la mariposa amarilla.
Abre para afuera las dos hojas de madera sin razón pintada,
ventana tosca, de azul.
Yo te salto para adentro y para afuera, monto a caballo sobre ti,
mi pie frena en el suelo.
Ventana sobre el mundo abierta, por donde vi
el casamiento de Anita esperando un bebé, a la madre
de Pedro Cisterna orinando en la lluvia, por donde vi
a mi bien llegar en bicicleta y decirle a mi padre:
mis intenciones con su hija son las mejores posibles.
Oh ventana con traba, juego de ladrón,
claraboya en mi alma,
ojo en mi corazón.
.
Ensinamento
Minha mãe achava estudo
a coisa mais fina do mundo.
Não é.
A coisa mais fina do mundo é o sentimento.
Aquele dia de noite, o pai fazendo serão,
ela falou comigo:
"Coitado, até essa hora no serviço pesado".
Arrumou pão e café, deixou tacho no fogo com água quente,
não me falou em amor.
Essa palavra de luxo.
Enseñanza
Mi mamá creía que el estudio
era la cosa más fina del mundo.
No lo es.
La cosa más fina del mundo es el sentimiento.
Aquel día de noche, papá estaba trabajando,
ella me dijo:
"Pobre, hasta esta hora en el servicio pesado".
Acomodó pan y café, dejó la olla en el fuego con agua caliente,
no me habló de amor.
Esa palabra de lujo.
Janela
Janela, palavra linda.
Janela é o bater das asas da borboleta amarela.
Abre pra fora as duas folhas de madeira à-toa pintada,
janela jeca, de azul.
Eu pulo você pra dentro e pra fora, monto a cavalo em você,
meu pé esbarra no chão.
Janela sobre o mundo aberta, por onde vi
o casamento da Anita esperando neném, a mãe
do Pedro Cisterna urinando na chuva, por onde vi
meu bem chegar de bicicleta e dizer a meu pai:
minhas intenções com sua filha são as melhores possíveis.
Ô janela com tramela, brincadeira de ladrão,
clarabóia na minha alma,
olho no meu coração.
Ventana
Ventana, palabra linda.
Ventana es el batir de las alas de la mariposa amarilla.
Abre para afuera las dos hojas de madera sin razón pintada,
ventana tosca, de azul.
Yo te salto para adentro y para afuera, monto a caballo sobre ti,
mi pie frena en el suelo.
Ventana sobre el mundo abierta, por donde vi
el casamiento de Anita esperando un bebé, a la madre
de Pedro Cisterna orinando en la lluvia, por donde vi
a mi bien llegar en bicicleta y decirle a mi padre:
mis intenciones con su hija son las mejores posibles.
Oh ventana con traba, juego de ladrón,
claraboya en mi alma,
ojo en mi corazón.
.
Valentine
Carol Ann Duffy
Not a red rose or a satin heart.
I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.
Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.
I am trying to be truthful.
Not a cute card or kissogram.
I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.
Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding ring,
if you like.
Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.
Valentín
Carol Ann Duffy
No una rosa roja o un corazón de satén.
Te doy una cebolla.
Es una luna envuelta en papel marrón.
Promete luz
como el cuidadoso desvestirse del amor.
Aquí.
Te cegará con lágrimas
como un amante.
Convertirá tu reflejo
en una temblorosa foto del dolor.
Estoy tratando de ser veraz.
No una simpática tarjeta o un kissograma.
Te doy una cebolla.
Su beso feroz permanecerá en tus labios,
posesivo y fiel,
como somos,
mientras lo seamos.
Tómala.
Sus bucles de platino se reducen a un anillo de bodas,
si quieres.
Letal.
Su esencia quedará en tus dedos,
Quedará en tu cuchillo.
Carol Ann Duffy
Not a red rose or a satin heart.
I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.
Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.
I am trying to be truthful.
Not a cute card or kissogram.
I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful
as we are,
for as long as we are.
Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding ring,
if you like.
Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.
Mean time, Anvil books, 1993.
http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/865.htmlValentín
Carol Ann Duffy
No una rosa roja o un corazón de satén.
Te doy una cebolla.
Es una luna envuelta en papel marrón.
Promete luz
como el cuidadoso desvestirse del amor.
Aquí.
Te cegará con lágrimas
como un amante.
Convertirá tu reflejo
en una temblorosa foto del dolor.
Estoy tratando de ser veraz.
No una simpática tarjeta o un kissograma.
Te doy una cebolla.
Su beso feroz permanecerá en tus labios,
posesivo y fiel,
como somos,
mientras lo seamos.
Tómala.
Sus bucles de platino se reducen a un anillo de bodas,
si quieres.
Letal.
Su esencia quedará en tus dedos,
Quedará en tu cuchillo.
martes, 16 de septiembre de 2008
Colleen
Joanna Newsom
I'll tell it as I best know how,
And that's the way it was told to me: I
Must have been a thief or a whore,
Then surely was thrown overboard,
Where, they say,
I came this way from the deep blue sea.
It picked me up and tossed me round.
I lost my shoes and tore my gown,
I forgot my name,
And drowned.
Then woke up with the surf a - pounding;
It seemed I had been run aground.
Well they took me in and shod my feet
And taught me prayers for chastity
And said my name would be Colleen, and
I was blessed among all women,
To have forgotten everything.
And as the weeks and months ensued
I tried to make myself of use.
I tilled and planted, but could not produce -
not root, nor leaf, nor flower, nor bean; Lord!
It seemed I overwatered everything.
And I hate the sight of that empty air,
like stepping for a missing stair
and falling forth forever blindly:
cannot grab hold of anything! No,
Not I, most blessed among Colleens.
--
I dream some nights of a funny sea,
as soft as a newly born baby.
It cries for me pitifully!
And I dive for my child with a wildness in me,
and am so sweetly there received.
But last night came a different dream;
a gray and sloping-shouldered thing
said "What's cinched 'round your waist, Colleen?
is that my very own baleen?
No! Have you forgotten everything?"
This morning, 'round the cape at dawn,
some travellers sailed into town
with scraps for sale and the saddest songs
and a book of pictures, leather-bound, that
showed a whale with a tusk a meter long.
Well, I asked the man who showed it me,
"What is the name of that strange beast?"
He said its name translated roughly to
He-Who-Easily-Can-Curve-Himself-Against-The-Sky.
And I am without words.
He said, "My lady looks perturbed.
(the light is in your eyes, Colleen.)"
I said, "Whatever can you mean?"
He leaned in and said,
"You ain't forgotten everything."
--
"You dare to speak a lady's name?"
He said, "My lady is mistaken.
I would not speak your name in this place;
and if I were to try then the wind - I swear -
would rise, to tear you clean from me without a trace."
"Have you come, then, to rescue me?"
He laughed and said, "from what, 'Colleen'?"
You dried and dressed most willingly.
you corseted, and caught the dread disease
by which one comes to know such peace."
Well, it's true that I came to know such things as
the laws which govern property
and herbs to feed the babes that wean,
and the welting weight for every season;
but still
I don't know any goddamned "Colleen."
Then dive down there with the lights to lead
that seem to shine from everything -
down to the bottom of the deep blue sea;
down where your heart beats so slow,
and you never in your life have felt so free.
Will you come down there with me?
Down were our bodies start to seem like
artifacts of some strange dream,
which afterwards you can't decipher,
and so, soon, have forgotten
Everything.
Joanna Newsom
I'll tell it as I best know how,
And that's the way it was told to me: I
Must have been a thief or a whore,
Then surely was thrown overboard,
Where, they say,
I came this way from the deep blue sea.
It picked me up and tossed me round.
I lost my shoes and tore my gown,
I forgot my name,
And drowned.
Then woke up with the surf a - pounding;
It seemed I had been run aground.
Well they took me in and shod my feet
And taught me prayers for chastity
And said my name would be Colleen, and
I was blessed among all women,
To have forgotten everything.
And as the weeks and months ensued
I tried to make myself of use.
I tilled and planted, but could not produce -
not root, nor leaf, nor flower, nor bean; Lord!
It seemed I overwatered everything.
And I hate the sight of that empty air,
like stepping for a missing stair
and falling forth forever blindly:
cannot grab hold of anything! No,
Not I, most blessed among Colleens.
--
I dream some nights of a funny sea,
as soft as a newly born baby.
It cries for me pitifully!
And I dive for my child with a wildness in me,
and am so sweetly there received.
But last night came a different dream;
a gray and sloping-shouldered thing
said "What's cinched 'round your waist, Colleen?
is that my very own baleen?
No! Have you forgotten everything?"
This morning, 'round the cape at dawn,
some travellers sailed into town
with scraps for sale and the saddest songs
and a book of pictures, leather-bound, that
showed a whale with a tusk a meter long.
Well, I asked the man who showed it me,
"What is the name of that strange beast?"
He said its name translated roughly to
He-Who-Easily-Can-Curve-Himself-Against-The-Sky.
And I am without words.
He said, "My lady looks perturbed.
(the light is in your eyes, Colleen.)"
I said, "Whatever can you mean?"
He leaned in and said,
"You ain't forgotten everything."
--
"You dare to speak a lady's name?"
He said, "My lady is mistaken.
I would not speak your name in this place;
and if I were to try then the wind - I swear -
would rise, to tear you clean from me without a trace."
"Have you come, then, to rescue me?"
He laughed and said, "from what, 'Colleen'?"
You dried and dressed most willingly.
you corseted, and caught the dread disease
by which one comes to know such peace."
Well, it's true that I came to know such things as
the laws which govern property
and herbs to feed the babes that wean,
and the welting weight for every season;
but still
I don't know any goddamned "Colleen."
Then dive down there with the lights to lead
that seem to shine from everything -
down to the bottom of the deep blue sea;
down where your heart beats so slow,
and you never in your life have felt so free.
Will you come down there with me?
Down were our bodies start to seem like
artifacts of some strange dream,
which afterwards you can't decipher,
and so, soon, have forgotten
Everything.
The Death of the Moth
Virginia Woolf
Moths that fly by day are not properly to be called moths; they do not excite that pleasant sense of dark autumn nights and ivy–blossom which the commonest yellow–underwing asleep in the shadow of the curtain never fails to rouse in us. They are hybrid creatures, neither gay like butterflies nor sombre like their own species. Nevertheless the present specimen, with his narrow hay–coloured wings, fringed with a tassel of the same colour, seemed to be content with life. It was a pleasant morning, mid–September, mild, benignant, yet with a keener breath than that of the summer months. The plough was already scoring the field opposite the window, and where the share had been, the earth was pressed flat and gleamed with moisture. Such vigour came rolling in from the fields and the down beyond that it was difficult to keep the eyes strictly turned upon the book. The rooks too were keeping one of their annual festivities; soaring round the tree tops until it looked as if a vast net with thousands of black knots in it had been cast up into the air; which, after a few moments sank slowly down upon the trees until every twig seemed to have a knot at the end of it. Then, suddenly, the net would be thrown into the air again in a wider circle this time, with the utmost clamour and vociferation, as though to be thrown into the air and settle slowly down upon the tree tops were a tremendously exciting experience.
The same energy which inspired the rooks, the ploughmen, the horses, and even, it seemed, the lean bare–backed downs, sent the moth fluttering from side to side of his square of the window–pane. One could not help watching him. One was, indeed, conscious of a queer feeling of pity for him. The possibilities of pleasure seemed that morning so enormous and so various that to have only a moth’s part in life, and a day moth’s at that, appeared a hard fate, and his zest in enjoying his meagre opportunities to the full, pathetic. He flew vigorously to one corner of his compartment, and, after waiting there a second, flew across to the other. What remained for him but to fly to a third corner and then to a fourth? That was all he could do, in spite of the size of the downs, the width of the sky, the far–off smoke of houses, and the romantic voice, now and then, of a steamer out at sea. What he could do he did. Watching him, it seemed as if a fibre, very thin but pure, of the enormous energy of the world had been thrust into his frail and diminutive body. As often as he crossed the pane, I could fancy that a thread of vital light became visible. He was little or nothing but life.
Yet, because he was so small, and so simple a form of the energy that was rolling in at the open window and driving its way through so many narrow and intricate corridors in my own brain and in those of other human beings, there was something marvellous as well as pathetic about him. It was as if someone had taken a tiny bead of pure life and decking it as lightly as possible with down and feathers, had set it dancing and zig–zagging to show us the true nature of life. Thus displayed one could not get over the strangeness of it. One is apt to forget all about life, seeing it humped and bossed and garnished and cumbered so that it has to move with the greatest circumspection and dignity. Again, the thought of all that life might have been had he been born in any other shape caused one to view his simple activities with a kind of pity.
After a time, tired by his dancing apparently, he settled on the window ledge in the sun, and, the queer spectacle being at an end, I forgot about him. Then, looking up, my eye was caught by him. He was trying to resume his dancing, but seemed either so stiff or so awkward that he could only flutter to the bottom of the window–pane; and when he tried to fly across it he failed. Being intent on other matters I watched these futile attempts for a time without thinking, unconsciously waiting for him to resume his flight, as one waits for a machine, that has stopped momentarily, to start again without considering the reason of its failure. After perhaps a seventh attempt he slipped from the wooden ledge and fell, fluttering his wings, on to his back on the window sill. The helplessness of his attitude roused me. It flashed upon me that he was in difficulties; he could no longer raise himself; his legs struggled vainly. But, as I stretched out a pencil, meaning to help him to right himself, it came over me that the failure and awkwardness were the approach of death. I laid the pencil down again.
The legs agitated themselves once more. I looked as if for the enemy against which he struggled. I looked out of doors. What had happened there? Presumably it was midday, and work in the fields had stopped. Stillness and quiet had replaced the previous animation. The birds had taken themselves off to feed in the brooks. The horses stood still. Yet the power was there all the same, massed outside indifferent, impersonal, not attending to anything in particular. Somehow it was opposed to the little hay–coloured moth. It was useless to try to do anything. One could only watch the extraordinary efforts made by those tiny legs against an oncoming doom which could, had it chosen, have submerged an entire city, not merely a city, but masses of human beings; nothing, I knew, had any chance against death. Nevertheless after a pause of exhaustion the legs fluttered again. It was superb this last protest, and so frantic that he succeeded at last in righting himself. One’s sympathies, of course, were all on the side of life. Also, when there was nobody to care or to know, this gigantic effort on the part of an insignificant little moth, against a power of such magnitude, to retain what no one else valued or desired to keep, moved one strangely. Again, somehow, one saw life, a pure bead. I lifted the pencil again, useless though I knew it to be. But even as I did so, the unmistakable tokens of death showed themselves. The body relaxed, and instantly grew stiff. The struggle was over. The insignificant little creature now knew death. As I looked at the dead moth, this minute wayside triumph of so great a force over so mean an antagonist filled me with wonder. Just as life had been strange a few minutes before, so death was now as strange. The moth having righted himself now lay most decently and uncomplainingly composed. O yes, he seemed to say, death is stronger than I am.
http://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/w/woolf/virginia/w91d/chap2.html
Virginia Woolf
Moths that fly by day are not properly to be called moths; they do not excite that pleasant sense of dark autumn nights and ivy–blossom which the commonest yellow–underwing asleep in the shadow of the curtain never fails to rouse in us. They are hybrid creatures, neither gay like butterflies nor sombre like their own species. Nevertheless the present specimen, with his narrow hay–coloured wings, fringed with a tassel of the same colour, seemed to be content with life. It was a pleasant morning, mid–September, mild, benignant, yet with a keener breath than that of the summer months. The plough was already scoring the field opposite the window, and where the share had been, the earth was pressed flat and gleamed with moisture. Such vigour came rolling in from the fields and the down beyond that it was difficult to keep the eyes strictly turned upon the book. The rooks too were keeping one of their annual festivities; soaring round the tree tops until it looked as if a vast net with thousands of black knots in it had been cast up into the air; which, after a few moments sank slowly down upon the trees until every twig seemed to have a knot at the end of it. Then, suddenly, the net would be thrown into the air again in a wider circle this time, with the utmost clamour and vociferation, as though to be thrown into the air and settle slowly down upon the tree tops were a tremendously exciting experience.
The same energy which inspired the rooks, the ploughmen, the horses, and even, it seemed, the lean bare–backed downs, sent the moth fluttering from side to side of his square of the window–pane. One could not help watching him. One was, indeed, conscious of a queer feeling of pity for him. The possibilities of pleasure seemed that morning so enormous and so various that to have only a moth’s part in life, and a day moth’s at that, appeared a hard fate, and his zest in enjoying his meagre opportunities to the full, pathetic. He flew vigorously to one corner of his compartment, and, after waiting there a second, flew across to the other. What remained for him but to fly to a third corner and then to a fourth? That was all he could do, in spite of the size of the downs, the width of the sky, the far–off smoke of houses, and the romantic voice, now and then, of a steamer out at sea. What he could do he did. Watching him, it seemed as if a fibre, very thin but pure, of the enormous energy of the world had been thrust into his frail and diminutive body. As often as he crossed the pane, I could fancy that a thread of vital light became visible. He was little or nothing but life.
Yet, because he was so small, and so simple a form of the energy that was rolling in at the open window and driving its way through so many narrow and intricate corridors in my own brain and in those of other human beings, there was something marvellous as well as pathetic about him. It was as if someone had taken a tiny bead of pure life and decking it as lightly as possible with down and feathers, had set it dancing and zig–zagging to show us the true nature of life. Thus displayed one could not get over the strangeness of it. One is apt to forget all about life, seeing it humped and bossed and garnished and cumbered so that it has to move with the greatest circumspection and dignity. Again, the thought of all that life might have been had he been born in any other shape caused one to view his simple activities with a kind of pity.
After a time, tired by his dancing apparently, he settled on the window ledge in the sun, and, the queer spectacle being at an end, I forgot about him. Then, looking up, my eye was caught by him. He was trying to resume his dancing, but seemed either so stiff or so awkward that he could only flutter to the bottom of the window–pane; and when he tried to fly across it he failed. Being intent on other matters I watched these futile attempts for a time without thinking, unconsciously waiting for him to resume his flight, as one waits for a machine, that has stopped momentarily, to start again without considering the reason of its failure. After perhaps a seventh attempt he slipped from the wooden ledge and fell, fluttering his wings, on to his back on the window sill. The helplessness of his attitude roused me. It flashed upon me that he was in difficulties; he could no longer raise himself; his legs struggled vainly. But, as I stretched out a pencil, meaning to help him to right himself, it came over me that the failure and awkwardness were the approach of death. I laid the pencil down again.
The legs agitated themselves once more. I looked as if for the enemy against which he struggled. I looked out of doors. What had happened there? Presumably it was midday, and work in the fields had stopped. Stillness and quiet had replaced the previous animation. The birds had taken themselves off to feed in the brooks. The horses stood still. Yet the power was there all the same, massed outside indifferent, impersonal, not attending to anything in particular. Somehow it was opposed to the little hay–coloured moth. It was useless to try to do anything. One could only watch the extraordinary efforts made by those tiny legs against an oncoming doom which could, had it chosen, have submerged an entire city, not merely a city, but masses of human beings; nothing, I knew, had any chance against death. Nevertheless after a pause of exhaustion the legs fluttered again. It was superb this last protest, and so frantic that he succeeded at last in righting himself. One’s sympathies, of course, were all on the side of life. Also, when there was nobody to care or to know, this gigantic effort on the part of an insignificant little moth, against a power of such magnitude, to retain what no one else valued or desired to keep, moved one strangely. Again, somehow, one saw life, a pure bead. I lifted the pencil again, useless though I knew it to be. But even as I did so, the unmistakable tokens of death showed themselves. The body relaxed, and instantly grew stiff. The struggle was over. The insignificant little creature now knew death. As I looked at the dead moth, this minute wayside triumph of so great a force over so mean an antagonist filled me with wonder. Just as life had been strange a few minutes before, so death was now as strange. The moth having righted himself now lay most decently and uncomplainingly composed. O yes, he seemed to say, death is stronger than I am.
http://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/w/woolf/virginia/w91d/chap2.html
The Furrows
G. K. Chesterton
As I see the corn grow green all about my neighbourhood, there rushes on me for no reason in particular a memory of the winter. I say "rushes," for that is the very word for the old sweeping lines of the ploughed fields. From some accidental turn of a train-journey or a walking tour, I saw suddenly the fierce rush of the furrows. The furrows are like arrows; they fly along an arc of sky. They are like leaping animals; they vault an inviolable hill and roll down the other side. They are like battering battalions; they rush over a hill with flying squadrons and carry it with a cavalry charge. They have all the air of Arabs sweeping a desert, of rockets sweeping the sky, of torrents sweeping a watercourse. Nothing ever seemed so living as those brown lines as they shot sheer from the height of a ridge down to their still whirl of the valley. They were swifter than arrows, fiercer than Arabs, more riotous and rejoicing than rockets. And yet they were only thin straight lines drawn with difficulty, like a diagram, by painful and patient men. The men that ploughed tried to plough straight; they had no notion of giving great sweeps and swirls to the eye. Those cataracts of cloven earth; they were done by the grace of God. I had always rejoiced in them; but I had never found any reason for my joy. There are some very clever people who cannot enjoy the joy unless they understand it. There are other and even cleverer people who say that they lose the joy the moment they do understand it. Thank God I was never clever, and I could always enjoy things when I understood them and when I didn't. I can enjoy the orthodox Tory, though I could never understand him. I can also enjoy the orthodox Liberal, though I understand him only too well.
* * *
But the splendour of furrowed fields is this: that like all brave things they are made straight, and therefore they bend. In everything that bows gracefully there must be an effort at stiffness. Bows arc beautiful when they bend only because they try to remain rigid; and sword-blades can curl like silver ribbons only because they are certain to spring straight again. But the same is true of every tough curve of the tree-trunk, of every strong-backed bend of the bough; there is hardly any such thing in Nature as a mere droop of weakness. Rigidity yielding a little, like justice swayed by mercy, is the whole beauty of the earth. The cosmos is a diagram just bent beautifully out of shape. Everything tries to be straight; and everything just fortunately fails.
The foil may curve in the lunge, but there is nothing beautiful about beginning the battle with a crooked foil. So the strict aim, the strong doctrine, may give a little in the actual fight with facts: but that is no reason for beginning with a weak doctrine or a twisted aim. Do not be an opportunist; try to be theoretic at all the opportunities; fate can be trusted to do all the opportunist part of it. Do not try to bend, any more than the trees try to bend. Try to grow straight, and life will bend you.
Alas! I am giving the moral before the fable; and yet I hardly think that otherwise you could see all that I mean in that enormous vision of the ploughed hills. These great furrowed slopes are the oldest architecture of man: the oldest astronomy was his guide, the oldest botany his object. And for geometry, the mere word proves my case.
* * *
But when I looked at those torrents of ploughed parallels, that great rush of rigid lines, I seemed to see the whole huge achievement of democracy, Here was mere equality: but equality seen in bulk is more superb than any supremacy. Equality free and flying, equality rushing over hill and dale, equality charging the world--that was the meaning of those military furrows, military in their identity, military in their energy. They sculptured hill and dale with strong curves merely because they did not mean to curve at all. They made the strong lines of landscape with their stiffly driven swords of the soil. It is not only nonsense, but blasphemy, to say that man has spoilt the country. Man has created the country; it was his business, as the image of God. No hill, covered with common scrub or patches of purple heath, could have been so sublimely hilly as that ridge up to which the ranked furrows rose like aspiring angels. No valley, confused with needless cottages and towns, can have been so utterly valleyish as that abyss into which the down-rushing furrows raged like demons into the swirling pit.
It is the hard lines of discipline and equality that mark out a landscape and give it all its mould and meaning. It is just because the lines of the furrow arc ugly and even that the landscape is living and superb. As I think I have remarked elsewhere, the Republic is founded on the plough.
http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Alarms_and_Discursions/The_Furrows
G. K. Chesterton
As I see the corn grow green all about my neighbourhood, there rushes on me for no reason in particular a memory of the winter. I say "rushes," for that is the very word for the old sweeping lines of the ploughed fields. From some accidental turn of a train-journey or a walking tour, I saw suddenly the fierce rush of the furrows. The furrows are like arrows; they fly along an arc of sky. They are like leaping animals; they vault an inviolable hill and roll down the other side. They are like battering battalions; they rush over a hill with flying squadrons and carry it with a cavalry charge. They have all the air of Arabs sweeping a desert, of rockets sweeping the sky, of torrents sweeping a watercourse. Nothing ever seemed so living as those brown lines as they shot sheer from the height of a ridge down to their still whirl of the valley. They were swifter than arrows, fiercer than Arabs, more riotous and rejoicing than rockets. And yet they were only thin straight lines drawn with difficulty, like a diagram, by painful and patient men. The men that ploughed tried to plough straight; they had no notion of giving great sweeps and swirls to the eye. Those cataracts of cloven earth; they were done by the grace of God. I had always rejoiced in them; but I had never found any reason for my joy. There are some very clever people who cannot enjoy the joy unless they understand it. There are other and even cleverer people who say that they lose the joy the moment they do understand it. Thank God I was never clever, and I could always enjoy things when I understood them and when I didn't. I can enjoy the orthodox Tory, though I could never understand him. I can also enjoy the orthodox Liberal, though I understand him only too well.
* * *
But the splendour of furrowed fields is this: that like all brave things they are made straight, and therefore they bend. In everything that bows gracefully there must be an effort at stiffness. Bows arc beautiful when they bend only because they try to remain rigid; and sword-blades can curl like silver ribbons only because they are certain to spring straight again. But the same is true of every tough curve of the tree-trunk, of every strong-backed bend of the bough; there is hardly any such thing in Nature as a mere droop of weakness. Rigidity yielding a little, like justice swayed by mercy, is the whole beauty of the earth. The cosmos is a diagram just bent beautifully out of shape. Everything tries to be straight; and everything just fortunately fails.
The foil may curve in the lunge, but there is nothing beautiful about beginning the battle with a crooked foil. So the strict aim, the strong doctrine, may give a little in the actual fight with facts: but that is no reason for beginning with a weak doctrine or a twisted aim. Do not be an opportunist; try to be theoretic at all the opportunities; fate can be trusted to do all the opportunist part of it. Do not try to bend, any more than the trees try to bend. Try to grow straight, and life will bend you.
Alas! I am giving the moral before the fable; and yet I hardly think that otherwise you could see all that I mean in that enormous vision of the ploughed hills. These great furrowed slopes are the oldest architecture of man: the oldest astronomy was his guide, the oldest botany his object. And for geometry, the mere word proves my case.
* * *
But when I looked at those torrents of ploughed parallels, that great rush of rigid lines, I seemed to see the whole huge achievement of democracy, Here was mere equality: but equality seen in bulk is more superb than any supremacy. Equality free and flying, equality rushing over hill and dale, equality charging the world--that was the meaning of those military furrows, military in their identity, military in their energy. They sculptured hill and dale with strong curves merely because they did not mean to curve at all. They made the strong lines of landscape with their stiffly driven swords of the soil. It is not only nonsense, but blasphemy, to say that man has spoilt the country. Man has created the country; it was his business, as the image of God. No hill, covered with common scrub or patches of purple heath, could have been so sublimely hilly as that ridge up to which the ranked furrows rose like aspiring angels. No valley, confused with needless cottages and towns, can have been so utterly valleyish as that abyss into which the down-rushing furrows raged like demons into the swirling pit.
It is the hard lines of discipline and equality that mark out a landscape and give it all its mould and meaning. It is just because the lines of the furrow arc ugly and even that the landscape is living and superb. As I think I have remarked elsewhere, the Republic is founded on the plough.
http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Alarms_and_Discursions/The_Furrows
Suscribirse a:
Entradas (Atom)