Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven”

O mestre do horror gótico, adoro, excelente! A inexorabilidade da morte sob o manto negro da noite.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
            Only this and nothing more.”

 

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
            Nameless here for evermore.

 

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
            This it is and nothing more.”

 

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
            Darkness there and nothing more.

 

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
            Merely this and nothing more.

 

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

 

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

 

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
            With such name as “Nevermore.”

 

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

 

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

 

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

 

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

 

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

 

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

 

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

 

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

 

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
            Shall be lifted—nevermore!

Trrim … Trrim … Correio!!!

以 呂 波 耳 本 部 止
千 利 奴 流 乎 和 加
餘 多 連 曽 津 祢 那
良 牟 有 為 能 於 久
耶 万 計 不 己 衣 天
阿 佐 伎 喩 女 美 之
恵 比 毛 勢 須

Algumas das mais recentes aquisições, adoro o alfabeto japonês, dá poesia ao olhar.

Poema Iroha (いろは)

以 呂 波 耳 本 部 止
千 利 奴 流 乎 和 加
餘 多 連 曽 津 祢 那
良 牟 有 為 能 於 久
耶 万 計 不 己 衣 天
阿 佐 伎 喩 女 美 之
恵 比 毛 勢 須

Tradução (minha e adaptada) do inglês para o português:
Até as mais belas flores …
As cores são fragrantes, 
Mas irão desvanecer-se na volatilidade do tempo
Quem, neste mundo, não se transforma?
Hoje.
Caímos nas montanhas profundas do destino [Karma] e,
Não nos deixamos perder na superficialidade dos sonhos
Nem cair na desilusão

“A Mais Terna Ilusão”

“Um dia, que chovera muito, e o horizonte estava mais incerto, o marinheiro cansou-se de sonhar… Quis então recordar a sua pátria verdadeira…, mas viu que não se lembrava de nada, que ela não existia para ele… Meninice de que se lembrasse, era a na sua pátria de sonho; adolescência que recordasse, era aquela que se criara… Toda a sua vida tinha sido a sua vida que sonhara… E ele viu que não podia ser que outra vida tivesse existido… Se ele nem de uma rua, nem de uma figura, nem de 12 um gesto materno se lembrava… E da vida que lhe parecia ter sonhado, tudo era real e tinha sido… Nem sequer podia sonhar outro passado, conceber que tivesse tido outro, como todos, um momento, podem crer… Ó minhas irmãs, minhas irmãs… Há qualquer coisa, que não sei o que é, que vos não disse… Qualquer coisa que explicaria isto tudo… A minha alma esfria-me… Mal sei se tenho estado a falar… Falai-me, gritai-me, para que eu acorde, para que eu saiba que estou aqui! ante vós e que há coisas que são apenas sonhos…

De eterno e belo há apenas o sonho. Por que estamos nós falando ainda?”

Excerto de “O Marinheiro”, de Fernando Pessoa

“A Mais terna ilusão” é a adaptação para teatro, por “Um Coletivo” @ XVII Festa do Teatro de Setúbal

Pela Companhia de Teatro de Almada:

Melancolia em abril?

“As flores de abril

já são conchas de pedra

debruçadas no tempo,

violinos cansados

pelos dedos antigos

ou alarmes caindo

pelas escarpas do medo.

Mas os olhos em riste

que desejam futuro

continuam escavando

sem os braços caídos.

Não deixemos que abril

seja folha caída

que o cortejo dos meses

vai deixando para trás.

Não deixemos que abril

seja o tempo que passa,

de si próprio perdido

por não querer regressar.

Não deixemos que esqueça

sua própria guitarra

nem que fuja das ruas,

nem que seja saudade.”

Poema de Rui Namorado

Um grande Professor!

Retirado do Blog “O Grande Zoo”

Ouvir o horizonte

E de repente …. uma árvore, nuvens, pássaros, sombra, oxigénio, paz, eu

Bernardo é quase árvore.
Silêncio dele é tão alto que os passarinhos ouvem
de longe
E vêm pousar em seu ombro.
Seu olho renova as tardes.
Guarda num velho baú seus instrumentos de trabalho;
1 abridor de amanhecer
1 prego que farfalha
1 encolhedor de rios – e
1 esticador de horizontes.
(Bernardo consegue esticar o horizonte usando três
Fios de teias de aranha. A coisa fica bem esticada.)
Bernardo desregula a natureza:
Seu olho aumenta o poente.
(Pode um homem enriquecer a natureza com a sua
Incompletude?)

O esticador de horizontes, poema de Manoel de Barros