Há alturas em que tenho ganas de escrever.Mas quando enfim escrevo alguma coisa e depois leio o que escrevi, passam-me logo estes acessos gramaticais durante uns tempos valentes, que é por causa das tosses...
Seja como for, uma das coisas que gostaria de ter escrito, é esta:
Funeral Blues
W. H. Auden
1936
W. H. Auden
1936
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
6 comentários:
Olha que o poema ate continua e nao me parece que decaia em termos de qualidade ou emocao, muito pelo contrario. Pensei que se chamava "Stop all the clocks"...
Pelo que li, foi originalmente publicado com o título "Song IX", no livro "Twelve Songs".
Em 1976 terá sido publicado com este título ("Funeral Blues") no livro "Tell me the truth about Love".
E de facto encontra-se muitas referências a este poema com o título "Stop all the clocks".
Por isso, não sei dizer qual é o "verdadeiro" título...
Já em termos de extensão, não encontrei uma versão maior...
Tou aqui tou a cortar os pulsos com tanta desilusao no poema...
Não te sabia tão impressionável... :)
Yup, tens razao, nao faz parte do mesmo poema, mas achei que a historia fica mais completa desta forma, o reverso da medalha (ursa comigo):
O the valley in the summer where I and my John
Beside the deep river would walk on and on
While the flowers at our feet and the birds up above
Argued so sweetly on reciprocal love,
And I leaned on his shoulder; 'O Johnny, let's play':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.
O that Friday near Christmas as I well recall
When we went to the Charity Matinee Ball,
The floor was so smooth and the band was so loud
And Johnny so handsome I felt so proud;
'Squeeze me tighter, dear Johnny, let's dance till it's day':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.
Shall I ever forget at the Grand Opera
When music poured out of each wonderful star?
Diamonds and pearls they hung dazzling down
Over each silver and golden silk gown;
'O John I'm in heaven,' I whispered to say:
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.
O but he was fair as a garden in flower,
As slender and tall as the great Eiffel Tower,
When the waltz throbbed out on the long promenade
O his eyes and his smile they went straight to my heart;
'O marry me, Johnny, I'll love and obey':
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.
O last night I dreamed of you, Johnny, my lover,
You'd the sun on one arm and the moon on the other,
The sea it was blue and the grass it was green,
Every star rattled a round tambourine;
Ten thousand miles deep in a pit there I lay:
But you frowned like thunder and you went away.
Moral da história: o Johnny
--> não gosta de brincar;
--> não gosta de dançar;
--> 'tá-se nas tintas para o Céu;
--> não é dado a casamentos;
--> é uma besta insensível.
O Johnny é um camionista do Fê-Quê-Pê!...
P. S.: A poesia deste gajo, apesar de não estar carregadinha de floreados, é sentida.
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