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'Aquilo que amas muito não será tirado de ti'*

por Carla Hilário Quevedo, em 08.10.14
What thou lovest well remains,

                                                  the rest is dross

What thou lov’st well shall not be reft from thee

What thou lov’st well is thy true heritage

Whose world, or mine or theirs

                                            or is it of none?

First came the seen, then thus the palpable

        Elysium, though it were in the halls of hell,

What thou lovest well is thy true heritage

What thou lov’st well shall not be reft from thee


The ant’s a centaur in his dragon world.

Pull down thy vanity, it is not man

Made courage, or made order, or made grace,

         Pull down thy vanity, I say pull down.

Learn of the green world what can be thy place

In scaled invention or true artistry,

Pull down thy vanity,

                                        Paquin pull down!

The green casque has outdone your elegance.


“Master thyself, then others shall thee beare”

       Pull down thy vanity

Thou art a beaten dog beneath the hail,

A swollen magpie in a fitful sun,

Half black half white

Nor knowst’ou wing from tail

Pull down thy vanity

                        How mean thy hates

Fostered in falsity,

                        Pull down thy vanity,

Rathe to destroy, niggard in charity,

Pull down thy vanity,

                       I say pull down.


But to have done instead of not doing

                     this is not vanity

To have, with decency, knocked

That a Blunt should open

               To have gathered from the air a live tradition

or from a fine old eye the unconquered flame

This is not vanity.

         Here error is all in the not done,

all in the diffidence that faltered...


* Tradução de José Lino Grünewald. Parte final do Canto LXXXI, nos Cantos de Ezra Pound. A ouvir aqui

Autoria e outros dados (tags, etc)

publicado às 23:34

'Excitado com identidade e orgulho'

por Carla Hilário Quevedo, em 08.10.14


by Frederick Seidel


Midwinter murder is in my heart
As I stand there on the curb in my opera pumps,
Waiting for the car to come and the opera to start,
Amid the Broadway homeless frozen clumps.

Patent leather makes my shoes
Easter eggs by Fabergé.
The shoes say New York is still run by the Jews,
Who glitter when they walk, and aren’t going away.

The morning after the Mozart, when I take my morning stroll, I feel
Removed all over again from the freezing suffering I see.
Someone has designed a beautiful, fully automatic, stainless steel,
Recoilless assault shotgun down in Tennessee.

The dogs tied up outside the Broadway stores
In the cold look with such touching expectancy inside.
A dog needs to adore. A dog adores.
A dog waiting for an owner is hot with identity and pride.

I’d like to meet the genius in Tennessee, or at least speak
To the gun on the phone.
I’d like to be both the dog owner and the dog. I’d leak
Love after I’d shot myself to shit. I’d write myself a bone.

Autoria e outros dados (tags, etc)

publicado às 17:47