http://pt.wikipedia.org/wiki/Categoria:Poetas_por_pa%C3%ADs
http://blogdorcf.blogspot.com.br/2014/06/poesia-na-copa.html
ALEMANHA
[então o calor foi se soltando aos poucos]
Nico Bleutge
então o calor foi se soltando aos poucos
da sacada e o olhar ficou leve
mente distraído das casas, as brancas
antenas parabólicas nas janelas
já começam a aparecer as primeiras
luzes azuis e verdades encapsuladas.
quando os olhos quiseram devanear
entre os outdoors havia um vermelho
saco plástico no ar bem alto reluzente
passou esvoaçando e foi cedendo ao olhar
sustento até assenta-se macio e calmo
atrás das pálpebras.
Vida Cotidiana
Ulrike Almut Sandig
Pode ser que fiquemos onde estamos. De frente,
à mesa, nas mãos a casca do pão de um dia anterior,
não podemos preservar nada: as migalhas pisadas se fixam
aos ladrilhos esta lenda segue sua própria trilha, faltam-nos
assuntos, sem questionamento, vindo de baixo algo esfria e não há
caminho de volta a marcar, não vimos de lugar algum, nunca
estivemos noutro lugar. pode ser que não iremos mais
embora daqui, os olhos em curso dirigidos uns
sobre os outros, que ninguém dê o primeiro
salto para a janela, para o ar encanado,
para o verde vale.
ARGÉLIA:
Cinq Mouvements De L’âme
Habib Tengour
Grise cette voix
se terre
soucieuse
ô
a chanté
a pris
corps d’évocation
En silence
Au
Seuil
à l’abandon
s’étendre
pierre rivière
une porte
claire
cela n’a pas duré
Rumeurs
dans le noir
sa voix se vide
amphithéâtre
saccade
cette écoute molle
là, où
nul écho ne renvoie
Retour
l’œil se retrouve
miroir
au tournoi
lâcher l’instant
que sort designe
au point du jour
s’épuisent
Cette âme
à la tombée du jour
elle se tend
seule dans
le store
sa mémoire
ombre solvente
froidement
blâme
au même moment
se détourne de
toi
ARGÉLIA
Algeria: Prison Bestiaries
Jean Sénac
I love you that's true I love you that's false
crows on my tongue
wage war with swallows
we've got blackness inside our backs
But if one day the beloved
or the beauty comes along
we find our spinning tops again
sunlight scars the water
All around the air thins
we throw a shovel
of earth on the thighs
the ivy comes into focus
Migratory pleasures
you bequeath to the heart
decaying nymphs
and we go on living
gropingly under the waves
like crayfish
I love you
for you I write poems
to stop thinking
drunk on images
I invent margins
to prolong you
If I had at least
your name to speak
o my unknown my madwoman of the streets
honored in my veins
like a king by his empire
My needle of gold missing in the hay!
ARGENTINA:
Canta un guaso en estilo Campestre los Triunfos del Exemo. Señor Don Pedro de Cevallos
Juan Baltasar Maziel
Aquí me pongo a cantar
abajo de aquestas talas,
del maior guaína del mundo
los triunfos y las gazañas.
Del señor de Cabezón
que por fuerza es camarada
de los guapos Cabezones
que nada tienen de mandrias.
Hé de puja, el caballero,
y bien vaia toda su alma
que a los portugueses jaques
ha surrado la badana.
Como a objeas los ha arriado
y repartido en las pampas
donde con guampas y lazos
sean de nuestra lechigada.
De balde eran mis germanos
sus cacareos y bravatas
si al columbear a Cevallos
no lo hubo así el come Bacas.
O más aina: come gente,
vuestro Don Pina Bandeira
salteador de la otra Banda,
que allá por sus andurriales
y siempre de disparada,
huyendo como avestruz
aun se deja atrás la gama…
Ya de Santa Catalina
Las batatas y baranjas
No le darán en el pico
aunque más gritan chicharras.
Su colonia raz con raz
dis que queda con la plaza,
y en ella i cuando la otra
harán de azulejos casa?
Perdone señor Cevallos
mi rana silvestre y guaza,
que los germanos de Apolo
no habitan en las campañas.
Punctum
Martín Gambarotta
1
Una pieza
donde el espacio del techo es igual
al del piso que a su vez es igual
al de cada una de las cuatro paredes
que delimitan un lugar sobre la calle.
La bruma se traslada a su mente
vacía, no sabe quién es y el primer
pensamiento "un perro que se da cuenta que es perro
deja de serlo'' vuelve a formar parte
del sueño pero aparece, difusa,
la maceta: una pava abollada con plantas
en el centro de la mesa: dos caballetes
sosteniendo una tabla de madera
--entonces está despierto.
Las manchas de óxido en el cielo--
el color de la luz sobre las cosas, el cielo
que se retrae y es óxido borroneado
entre sus ojos y cae dormido de nuevo, pero aparece
un orden en la materia despierta.
La ubicación lúcida
del lugar en el día, el ruido,
el cuerpo latiendo,
la ruina de una idea que corre
por una red de nervios,
palabras de acero
contenidas en un soplo:
un orificio cabeza de alfiler
en una cavidad del corazón.
AUSTRÁLIA:
Adam Lindsay Gordon: "To my Sister" e "Early Adieux"
(…)
My parents bid me cross the flood,
My kindred frowned at me;
They say I have belied my blood,
And stained my pedigree.
But I must turn from those who chide,
And laugh at those who frown;
I cannot quench my stubborn pride,
Nor keep my spirits down.
(…)
I loved a girl not long ago,
And, till my suit was told,
I thought her breast as fair as snow,
'Twas very near as cold;
And yet I spoke with feelings more
Of recklessness than pain,
Those words I never spoke before,
Nor never shall again.
AUSTRÁLIA:
Death Of A Farm Boy
John Kinsella
Rebelliously
leaning his rifle
against the taut wires
of the fence
he stepped over,
pivoting
on his leading foot
watching as the barrel
began its slow arc
towards him;
the hair trigger
jarring
as the bead
of the sights
clipped a barbed twist,
the crack of firing
annihilating
the quail-heavy
fields.
BÉLGICA:
Estou aderindo ao velho estilo
Bella Akhmadúlina
Estou aderindo ao velho estilo
me encanta a fala dos ancestrais,
é mais discreta do que a nossa,
mais nova do que a nossa escrita.
Gritar: “Meu reino por um cavalo!” –
que força e que temperamento!
Concorde comigo, perdemos
esse fervor em futilidade.
Eu acordaria no escuro
depois de perdida a batalha
e pensaria muito tempo;
o louco, não, resolveu logo...
mas com reinados não me importo!
Com as lições que aprendi,
mais de um cavalo eu daria
por um momento com a pessoa
a quem eu amo. Vai, cavalo,
corre, ardente e muito belo,
tuas rédeas tiro, deixo livre
para que te juntes à tua
manada que à distância, relincha,
cruzando prados amplos, vazios.
Mas já me cansa essa conversa de
quem ganhou, de quem venceu.
Sinto pelos cavalos e o amor!
e no estilo mais antigo
meus solitários passos seguem
pegadas de ferradura.
BÉLGICA
How Well I Disappeared
Maarten Inghels
Some people are lost all their lives,
hide in the depths of a shell
or already lay beneath a weathered stone.
And now I myself [until date x] have gone
I regret nobody saw
how well I disappeared.
colleague X will answer your mails]
BÓSNIA:
Summa Summarum
Marko Vešovic
The leaves of the ilex by the graveyard
Whisper prophetically.
And barley-corn ripens
Like those actors who
In the same role for the hundredth time
Stand forth before the audience.
Yet do not extol,
To the skies, your native land.
It ought to extol you.
Seen from this cloud
These meadows and fields
Are a stamp album;
And to the ant a smoke ring
Twirling from your cigarette
Is a whole new landscape!
And stop threatening for once
To return next time
To this handful of land without history
Only in the shape of a rider in bronze.
And before you leave
Stroke the bark of these trees
Which al the while have given you
Free lessons in standing tall!
Grief
Stevka Smitran
And I suddenly
Like March buds
At once frozen
Wait for the end.
Nothing I feel anymore – neither warmth
nor cold
Just a moist tickling
Pushing me further dawn.
CAMARÕES:
Song of the Initiate
Patrice Kayo
All the wives of my father
Pulled my mother to bits
But their children cannot dance
It is I who have taken my father’s stool
And my mother has become queen
All the wives of my father my wives
and servants of my mother.
The mother of those who cannot dance
Has never borne children
Her children are nothing but epileptics
The initiate alone with the chief.
If only I were a river!
I would roll down all silvery
And in the compound of the non-initiate
I would become a swamp.
I am only a dealer in pigs
and in chickens
But if you have pearls or little bells
I will buy them.
The only son alone
Is sure of his father’s stool.
The panther’s child does not fear the night
I can dance all the dances
And my mother eats nothing but the flesh of sparrowhawks.
CHILE:
Los Sentidos de la distancia (prólogo)
Tomás Harris
Hay acontecimientos aparentemente terribles,
Simón, Diego, que leerán en sus libros de historia,
como si la gravedad
se acabase en la Tierra de una sola vez:
pero la realidad no es así, Simón, Diego:
los hechos del mundo
no se imprimen en XII volúmenes
por grandes ratas memoriosas: no,
son ecos que se graban
como si en diarias sesiones de tatuajes
les dibujaran día a día
los geoglifos de Nazca
con su descomunal tamaño
sobre sus pequeñas pieles:
sólo sus cuerpos son el Mundo:
sólo sus mentes son la Historia;
no me extrañen cuando no esté en Ítaca.
No hay grandes tragedias,
sólo pequeños acontecimientos,
que con la túnica de invierno de la inocencia
podremos aceptar, el aguacero de la vida
que nos moja
que nos moja
COLÔMBIA:
Abismos
Piedad Bonett
Porque eres ave que girando en rebeldía
desafía la bruma
la ardua noche
haciéndola más honda y más oscura
y más inmenso el mar
porque eres nave y náufrago a la vez
sin velas y sin anclas
solitario
profanador de todos los confines
potro de sombras desbocado y dulce
para la libertad
y el cielo galopante
hecho de vientos y hecho de huracanes
y sin embargo calmo como el agua
de misteriosos y profundos lagos
porque extraviado pero indiferente
como un rey agraviado deambulas
por los caminos de un imperio en ruinas
porque eres un reloj sin manecillas
un bello loto sobre los pantanos
porque te vi sonriendo en tus orillas
cayendo voy
errática y ardida
en tus oscuros mundos abismales.
"Círculo y Ceniza"
COREIA DO SUL:
I Click Therefore I Am
Yi Won
Rather than spread open the morning paper smelling of ink
at dawn I lightly double-click onto the odorless Internet
I click the complimentary PDF that shows me
exactly the image of a printed newspaper page
The KOSDAQ has no wings now
Total short-term foreign debt of 50,000,000,000 dollars
With each click a page of the newspaper turns
I continuously click the world
With a click one world collapses and
another one rises
The sun floats up There’s a chip installed in the sun too
I look at a 12-page article: ‘The computer picks up
a wireless signal from my body in which fiber optics carrying
microscopic electrodes have been grafted into my arms’ nerve structure.’
and click onto the website of Kevin Warwick who dreams of the first-ever
human robot I am the 28,412th visitor
I have a gene I want to insert too
With my right hand’s forefinger moving the mouse around
I click onto my e-mail A message arrived last night also
I click the attached file that k of Toronto has sent
Red roses drip dew from their petals and
Bloom inside a white picket fence
The flowers sent by k haven’t wilted
I immediately click on the dialpad of the free Internet phone
I click k’s phone number
I become connected across 6589 miles
Even I may be a program that someone’s installed
Moving the slippery mouse around with my right hand I
Click on literature I click on periodicals
I click into the April issue of the literary webzine Novel
The ‘Little Prince’ on the cover who says ‘The desert is beautiful
because somewhere it’s hiding a spring.’
constantly changes the scene around him I open the window a bit more and
click onto the Internet bookstore Aladdin I look at the list of new publications
I click to order Paul Auster’s The Music of Chance at a 20% discount
and René Girard’s Violence and the Sacred at 15% off
Outside my window mundane affairs bumping around
inside a produce truck in a four-beat rhythm koong-chak koong-chak koong-chak-ja koongchak
I take up the four-beat bongjak music time and
idly looking at the street the truck is on click its map
I follow one of the routes out of Seoul and arrive at
Hwaôm Temple The sound of a wooden bell spreads out from the camellias arrayed
in front of the inner temple Hands together in prayer
I click on one of the 60%-discount coupons for a condo in the Chiri Mountains
Onto my knees under the printer
a coupon drops down like a camellia petal I
click the I attached to the camellia petal
Zero categories and 177 sites come up
as the search result for the word I
But where am I
Searching for I I click each site in order
lunacy movie India and I…split
…comIng out…suIng alone…And I, Inc.…
storIes I want to Impart…the earth and I….
I can hear the click of the double-humped camel’s hooves
An oasis is nearby
Continuing on I click therefore I am.
COREIA
Face
Kim Hyesoon
There is another you inside you
The you inside you pulls you tight into the inside, so your fingernails curl inward and your outer ears swirl into the inside of your body you would probably leave this life the moment the you inside you lets go of the hand that grabs you
Your face stays frozen in motion as the you inside you pulls you hard at times, that face leans towards mine outside of you and I can feel the you inside you looking at me from the inside of your eyes; but the you inside you has never once let go of the hand that grabs you as always you are pulled tight now your face has deep creases from the strain
The you inside you is so strong that the I inside me is about to get dragged into your inside
Now you are drinking a glass of red wine, holding a piece of cheese in your hand
The I inside me thinks about the face that the cheese is made of milk then worries about which cow inside the cow has spurted out the milk
Even if you are far away, another you inside you is here I can’t escape or avoid the you inside you
Maybe I am the prisoner of an absent being
I will certainly stay alive while the I inside me clutches onto me; furthermore, I want to deliver the cheese made of me inside me to your table every morning
From: A Glass of Red Wine
Publisher: Moonhak kwa Jisung-sa, Seoul, 2004
COSTA DO MARFIM:
My Days Overgrown
Joseph Miezan Bognini
My days overgrown with coffee blossoms,
My childhood has lost its meaning.
The hatred one has eaten
Can never be destroyed.
Misfortune, I am misfortune,
And my shadow has betrayed me;
Suffering, I am suffering,
Inexperienced at the breast of mankind.
I wish you were music
Rocking the thirsty hearts from afar.
You will carry away one day
Wrapped in white robes
Into another world.
I have become a grain of sand
Drifting along trembling beaches.
You will bring me asylum
That knows the pain of this night.
You changed your face,
I took you by the hand
And we spent happy days.
My Head is Immense
Charles Nokan
My head is immense
I have a toad’s eyes
A horn stands on the nape of my neck
But a magical music surges
from me.
What tree exhales such rare
perfume?
Dark beauty, how can you spring
from a toad’s wallow? How can you
flow form lonely ugliness?
You who look on, you think
that the voice of my instrument
buys my freedom, that I am fluidity, though
which flies.
No, there is nothing in me
but a pool of sadness.
COSTA RICA:
Claridad Agonizante
Laureano Albán
A José Luis Cano
El otoño se muere
sin un solo esplendor.
En los árboles raudos de la tarde
permanece su aliento conmovido
como una claridad agonizante.
Es el veloz destino del misterio
apresado en las ramas de la muerte.
De pronto, el viento se distiende y calla
como en un estertor,
sube el frío nocturno hasta los sueños
crispados de las hojas,
caen remolinos de silencio hiriente,
volátiles espejos de la lluvia,
alas nunca soñadas
se apagan y se encienden en el alma,
rostros amados finge el horizonte,
y como si pasara el mar,
el mar más imposible,
se detiene el otoño
y surge la verdad
conmovida del sueño del invierno.
HVAR / GLAGOLI
Miroslav Mićanović
a man enters the vineyard,
sits and weeps at the edge of the island,
where God no longer awaits the stars
to reveal himself to the sea,
the woman rises and jumps into the sea,
One and the Other are silent
I now know that nothing could have
happened: a jump is a jump,
the sea merely the sea, a lone star
just God who doesn’t want to be
questioned about this thing
at all
poeta Drago Štambuk (embaixador da Croácia no Brasil, poemas nos idiomas português e croata): Céu no Poço
Grécia antiga:
Homero: Odisseia
"Fala-me, Musa, do homem astuto que tanto vagueou,
depois que de Troia destruiu a cidadela sagrada.
Muitos foram os povos cujas cidades observou,
cujos espíritos conheceu; e foram muitos no mar
os sofrimentos por que passou para salvar a vida,
para conseguir o retorno dos companheiros a suas casas.
Mas a eles, embora o quisesse, não logrou salvar.
Não, pereceram devido à sua loucura,
insensatos, que devoraram o gado sagrado de Hipérion,
o Sol — e assim lhes negou o deus o dia do retorno.
Destas coisas fala-nos agora, ó deusa, filha de Zeus.
EUA:
Disappearances
Paul Auster
3.
To hear the silence
that follows the words of oneself. Murmur
of the least stone
shaped in the image
of earth, and those who would speak
to be nothing
but the voice that speaks them
to the air.
And the will tell
of each thing he sees in this space,
and he will tell it to the very wall
that grows before him:
and for this, too, there will be a voice,
although it will not be his.
Even though he speaks.
And because he speaks.
Powers of Congress
Alice Fulton
How the lightstruck trees change sun
to flamepaths: veins, sap, stem, all
on brief loan, set to give all
their spooled, coded heat to stoves called
resolute: wet steel diecast
by heat themselves. Tree, beast, bug –
the worldclass bit parts in this
world – flit and skid through it; the
powers of congress tax, spend law
what lives to pure crisp form
then breaks form’s lock, stock, and hold
on flesh. All night couples pledge
to stay flux, the hit-run stuff
of cracked homes. Men trim their quick
lawns each weekend, trailing power
mowers. Heartslaves, you’ve seen them; wives
with flexed hair, hitched to bored kids,
twiddling in good living rooms,
their twin beds slept in, changed, made.
Espanha:
Miguel Hernandez
Silencio de metal triste y sonoro...
Miguel Hernandez
Silencio de metal triste y sonoro,
espadas congregando con amores
en el final de huesos destructores
de la región volcánica del toro.
Una humedad de femenino oro
que olió puso en su sangre resplandores,
y refugió un bramido entre las flores
como un huracanado y vasto lloro.
De amorosas y cálidas cornadas
cubriendo está los trebolares tiernos
con el dolor de mil enamorados.
Bajo su piel las furias refugiadas
son en el nacimiento de sus cuernos
pensamientos de muerte edificados.
ESPANHA
EscriboTxus de Fellatio (Jesús Maria Hernandez Gil)
Escribo…,
para mantener distraída a la amargura.
Esquivo…,
sus dardos con palabras, mi armadura.
Y callo…,
porque digo más en mis silencios
que engañando a las palabras
con sentimientos adoptados.
Escribo, esquivo y callo,
y a menudo lloro en un folio.
Mis lágrimas son tinta, y no hallo
mejor ataque que un poema
ante tanto olvido,
ante tanta pena.
Escribo…,
para curar mi alma rota.
Grito…,
para que el silencio no me coja.
Y curo…,
mis heridas con un verso,
mis miedos con palabras
y los lloro en una hoja.
Escribo…,
para mantener a distancia la locura.
EQUADOR:
Amanecer cordialMedardo Ángel Silva
Ah, no abras la ventana todavía,
es tan vulgar el sol!... La luz incierta
conviene tanto a mi melancolía...
me fastidia el rumor con que despierta
la gran ciudad... Es tan vulgar el día!...
Y ¿para qué la luz? ...En la discreta
penumbra de la alcoba hay otro día
dormido en tus pupilas de violeta...
Un beso más para mi boca inquieta...
Y no abras la ventana todavía!
De "Baladas, Reminiscencias y otros" 1916 - 1917
El país del exilio no tiene árboles...
Jorge Carrera Andrade
El país del exilio no tiene árboles.
Es una inmensa soledad de arena.
Sólo extensión vacía donde crece
la zarza ardiente de los sacrificios.
El país del exilio no tiene agua.
Es una sed sin límites,
sin esperanza de cercanas fuentes
o de un sorbo en el cuenco de una piedra.
El país del exilio no tiene aves
que encanten con su música al viajero.
Es desierto poblado por los buitres
que esperan el convite de la muerte.
Alza el viento sus torres deleznables.
Sus fantasmas de arena me persiguen
a través de la patria de la víbora
y de la zarza convertida en fuego.
Es una inmensa soledad de arena.
Sólo extensión vacía donde crece
la zarza ardiente de los sacrificios.
El país del exilio no tiene agua.
Es una sed sin límites,
sin esperanza de cercanas fuentes
o de un sorbo en el cuenco de una piedra.
El país del exilio no tiene aves
que encanten con su música al viajero.
Es desierto poblado por los buitres
que esperan el convite de la muerte.
Alza el viento sus torres deleznables.
Sus fantasmas de arena me persiguen
a través de la patria de la víbora
y de la zarza convertida en fuego.
FRANÇA:
Un Sens Clair
Claude Royet-Journoud
l'éblouissement
face à la nature du crime
un simulacre épuise le sol
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Après avoir choisi l'angle, une photographie du
muscle. L'image descend. On est en dehors. Dans la
soumission et la chute. La voix tient le dos.
Un désarroi géographique, sans recours. Elle ignore
la proximité de ce monde. Elle ne connaît que le
soubassement d'une terreur liquide et noire. Une
liste d'infinitifs prolonge l'accident.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
sur le plancher
l'alphabet de l'ancêtre
est-ce un lac
cette disponibilité de l’œil ?
le corps se glisse là
d'un mot à abattre
il force la bête
à continûment se déplacer
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
le chiffre est à gauche de la construction
ils surgissent
dans l'inquiétude du mouvement
ils ont la légèreté pour espace
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
la répétition est déplacement
du bord invisible
la voix dissimule
un état d'apesanteur
elle ne saurait interrompre son trajet
autour de cette tache
le jour du chiffre, de l'étranglement
le poignet brûle l'ancienne manière
lèvres posées sur le nom
ils s'ajointent
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
« Un langage dans lequel ils n'ont pas pensé. »
Une enfance éteinte dans le bruit. Elle n'improvise
plus. (Nulle offrande, à peine un mouvement.) Elle
situe le tranchant, fait vaciller la plaie. Le centre de la
pièce est un linge. Il se ferme sur la perte, pousse
l'enfance vers le bas et porte à son terme l'image.
Dans l'encadrement furtif, le paysage se confond avec
l’œil.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
C'est comme une rage que rien n'apaise. Chaque
coup renforce sa vigueur. La chute donne la mesure
du pas. La fragilité d'un sens « qui renferme quatre
corps simples ». Sans les reconnaître, elle renoue avec
eux. Seul le chiffre résiste. Il la rend à son exploitation
minière.
Claude Royet-Journoud
l'éblouissement
face à la nature du crime
un simulacre épuise le sol
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Après avoir choisi l'angle, une photographie du
muscle. L'image descend. On est en dehors. Dans la
soumission et la chute. La voix tient le dos.
Un désarroi géographique, sans recours. Elle ignore
la proximité de ce monde. Elle ne connaît que le
soubassement d'une terreur liquide et noire. Une
liste d'infinitifs prolonge l'accident.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
sur le plancher
l'alphabet de l'ancêtre
est-ce un lac
cette disponibilité de l’œil ?
le corps se glisse là
d'un mot à abattre
il force la bête
à continûment se déplacer
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
le chiffre est à gauche de la construction
ils surgissent
dans l'inquiétude du mouvement
ils ont la légèreté pour espace
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
la répétition est déplacement
du bord invisible
la voix dissimule
un état d'apesanteur
elle ne saurait interrompre son trajet
autour de cette tache
le jour du chiffre, de l'étranglement
le poignet brûle l'ancienne manière
lèvres posées sur le nom
ils s'ajointent
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
« Un langage dans lequel ils n'ont pas pensé. »
Une enfance éteinte dans le bruit. Elle n'improvise
plus. (Nulle offrande, à peine un mouvement.) Elle
situe le tranchant, fait vaciller la plaie. Le centre de la
pièce est un linge. Il se ferme sur la perte, pousse
l'enfance vers le bas et porte à son terme l'image.
Dans l'encadrement furtif, le paysage se confond avec
l’œil.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
C'est comme une rage que rien n'apaise. Chaque
coup renforce sa vigueur. La chute donne la mesure
du pas. La fragilité d'un sens « qui renferme quatre
corps simples ». Sans les reconnaître, elle renoue avec
eux. Seul le chiffre résiste. Il la rend à son exploitation
minière.
Boulevard Saint-Marcel
Hédi Kaddour
Porté comme une châsse par de graves
Jeunes gens, le portrait de Marx
Avance, précédé d’un setter irlandais
Et d’une femme en gris tenant
Une pancarte: elle affirme que
Quatre-vingt-seize sera une année
Érotique. Les postières chantent un pas
En avant, trois pas en arrière,
Le gouvernement l’a dans le derrière.
Immobile au bord du trottoir
Un homme à l’humeur rude
Ressasse pour sa voisine
Que la vie est une longue
Préparation à ce qui n’arrive jamais.
GANA:
Ellis Ayitey Komey
Your infancy now a wall of memory
In harmattaan the locusts filled the sky
Destroying the sweat put into the field
And restless seas shattered canoes
The fisher-folk put to sail by noon.
The impatience in your teens
Yet silent were your dreams
With the fires in your heart
Breaking the mask of innocence.
The evasive solitude in your womb
And the determination of your limbs
With eyes like the soaring eagle
Shattering the glass of ignorance.
Your infancy now a wall of memory
Before this you, like the worms,
Leaning on for vain indecorous dreams
And the cobras with venomous tongues
Licking the tepid blossoms of hibiscus.
GANA
The First Circle
Kofi Awoonor
1.
the flat end of sorrow here
two crows fighting over New Year’s Paty
leftovers. From my cell, I see a cold
hard world.
2.
So this is the abscess that
hurts the nation –
jails, torture, blood
and hunger.
One day it will burst;
it must burst.
3.
When I heard you were taken
we speculated, those of us at large
where you would be
in what nightmare will you star?
That night I heard the moans
wondering whose child could now
be lost in the cellars of oppression.
Then you emerged, tall, and bloody-eyed.
It was the first time
I wept
4.
The long nights I dread most
the voices from behind the bars
the early glow of dawn before
the guard’s steps wake me up,
the desire to leap and stretch
and yawn in anticipation
of another dark home-coming day
only to find
I cannot.
riding the car in town
hemmed in between them
their guns poking me in the ribs
I never had known that my people
wore such sad faces, so sad
they were on New Year’s Eve,
so very sad.
GRÉCIA:
Thrush
Giorgos Seferis
“Thrush”*
Ephemeral issue of a vicious daemon and a harsh fate,
why do you force me to speak of things that it would be better for you not to know.
SILENUS TO MIDAS*
I
The house near the sea*
The houses I had they took away from me. The times
happened to be unpropitious: war, destruction, exile;
sometimes the hunter hits the migratory birds,
sometimes he doesn’t hit them. Hunting
was good in my time, many felt the pellet;
the rest circle aimlessly or go mad in the shelters.
Don’t talk to me about the nightingale or the lark
or the little wagtail
inscribing figures with his tail in the light;
I don’t know much about houses
I know they have their own nature, nothing else.
New at first, like babies
who play in gardens with the tassels of the sun.
they embroider colored shutters and shining doors
over the day.
When the architect’s finished, they change,
they frown or smile or even grow stubborn
with those who stayed behind, with those who went away
with others who’d come back if they could
or others who disappeared, now that the world’s become
an endless hotel.
I don’t know much about houses,
I remember their joy and their sorrow
sometimes, when I stop to think;
again
sometimes, near the sea, in naked rooms
with a single iron bed and nothing of my own,
watching the evening spider, I imagine
that someone is getting ready to come, that they dress
him up*
in white and black robes, with many-colored jewels,
and around him venerable ladies,
gray hair and dark lace shawls, talk softly,
that he is getting ready to come and say goodbye to me;
or that a woman—eyelashes quivering, slim-waisted,
returning from southern ports,
Smyrna Phodes Syracuse Alexandria,
from cities closed like hot shutters,
with perfume of golden fruit and herbs—
climbs the stairs without seeing
those who’ve fallen asleep under the stairs.
Houses, you know, grow stubborn easily when you strip
them bare.
HOLANDA
Comfort for Rosa
Judith Herzberg
Words of comfort
for the sixteen-year-old who grumbles
that in that far-off land
she finds so few who care to know
about the sparkling of her very soul:
Discoverers
go on expeditions
to make discoveries
not to be discovered
themselves.
Their soul minds their house.
Pieter Cornelisz Hooft (1581-1647), de Joost Van den Vondel
HOLANDA
Legal Activities 1 & 2
Ester Naomi Perquin
1.
Wake them up at the start of the night
and ask for dreams.
If they say they haven’t had any yet
because you’ve woken them up: slap.
If they start to cry, stroke their hair
until they think of their mothers. Then say
their mothers aren’t coming anymore.
If they rest their heads on their arms,
keep quiet for a long time. When they fall asleep,
wake them up and ask for dreams.
If they tell you their dreams, listen and explain
that such things do not exist. Then go to the order
of the day. Then start again from the beginning.
2
Put them in the exercise yard and make
the sound of a gunshot. Practise until
you can hit a slow pigeon in flight
just over their heads, and have them
bury the pigeon.
Or turn one over onto his back and draw an outline
on the mattress with a marker and make him stand up
to look at himself.
Ask them if the outline reminds them of anyone.
Ask them who.
HONDURAS:
El rostro
Óscar Acosta
De tu rostro purísimo y resplandeciente
surge una luz silenciosa
que todo lo desnuda, descubre
paraísos y mares de ceniza,
oculta sombras con su bella campana
y vuela como un pájaro.
Olvidar tu rostro es ahogar el corazón,
tratar de ignorarlo es vivir
a ciegas, dando tumbos;
no es necesario volver a decir
que tu rostro nos promete un reino
en un universo inmóvil y destruído.
El nombre de la Patria
Oscar Acosta
Mi patria es altísima.
No puedo escribir una letra sin oír
el viento que viene de su nombre.
Su forma irregular la hace más bella
porque dan deseos de formarla, de hacerla
como a un niño a quien se enseña a hablar,
a decir palabras tiernas y verdaderas,
a quien se le muestran los peligros del mundo.
Mi patria es altísima.
Por eso digo que su nombre se descompone
en millones de cosas para recordármela.
Lo he oído sonar en los caracoles incesantes.
Venía en los caballos y en los fuegos
que mis ojos han visto y admirado.
Lo traían las muchachas hermosas en la voz
y en una guitarra.
Mi patria es altísima.
No puedo imaginármela bajo el mar
o escondiéndose bajo su propia sombra.
Por eso digo que más allá del hombre,
del amor que nos dan en cucharadas,
de la presencia viva del cadáver,
está ardiendo el nombre de la patria.
INGLATERRA:
The Making of the English Landscape Simon Armitage
It’s too late now to start collecting football shirts,
bringing them back from trips abroad as souvenirs;
the sun-struck, God-given green and gold of Brazil;
Germany’s bold, no-nonsense, trademark monochrome;
the loud red of ‘emerging nation’ South Korea;
the hanging them framed, arms folded across the chest
to show off the collars and the cuffs and the piped sleeves
and the proud badges shield-shaped, worn on the left breast,
embroidered with flags, mottos or mythical beasts.
So I’ll turn instead to matters closer to home,
to these charters, maps and aerial photographs
of double ditches and heaped wall and lynchet banks,
of sheep trails still visible below city parks,
of drove roads contradicting four-lane motorways,
of sprawling farms underwritten by patchwork fields,
of capped wells, earthworks, middens and burial mounds,
the skeleton seen through the flesh an embedded
watermarked view of when we were nothing and few.
And from the outer space, this latest satellite image
taken just moments ago shows England at dusk,
its rivers cascading beyond its coast, the land
like a shipwreck’s carcass raised on a sea-crane’s hook,
nothing but keel, beams, spars, down to its bare bones.
W.H. Auden
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 crêpe 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.
ITÁLIA:
Ossos de Sépia
Eugenio Montale
Não nos peças a palavra que acerte cada lado
de nosso ânimo conforme, e com letras de fogo
o aclare e resplandeça como açaflor
perdido em meio de poeirento prado.
Ah o homem que lá se vai seguro,
dos outros e de si próprio amigo,
e sua sombra descura que a canícula
estampa num escalavrado muro!
Não nos peças a fórmula que te possa abrir mundos,
e sim alguma sílaba torcida e seca como um ramo.
Hoje apenas podemos dizer-te
O que não somos, o que não queremos.
Eugenio Montale
Não nos peças a palavra que acerte cada lado
de nosso ânimo conforme, e com letras de fogo
o aclare e resplandeça como açaflor
perdido em meio de poeirento prado.
Ah o homem que lá se vai seguro,
dos outros e de si próprio amigo,
e sua sombra descura que a canícula
estampa num escalavrado muro!
Não nos peças a fórmula que te possa abrir mundos,
e sim alguma sílaba torcida e seca como um ramo.
Hoje apenas podemos dizer-te
O que não somos, o que não queremos.
La mia giornata paziente
Salvatore Quasimodo
La mia giornata paziente
a te consegno, Signore,
non sanata infermità,
i ginocchi spaccati dalla noia.
M'abbandono, m'abbandono:
ululo di primavera,
è una foresta
nata nei miei occhi di terra.
That is if you are in love
Maryam Hooleh
Lizards have fattened the school
My wretched ancestors the stove
Torn pieces of the calendar thrown in the oven
Maybe braised meat will make me more of a dog
to these ankles of the days I bite
The theatre is taken by the fog
I, by the night
The woman is taken by her husband
I, by wretched immortality
Speaking is forbidden for the wall
But no one speaks my tongue
to save me from speaking nonsense
(Perhaps they have committed English to me
Persian to Shakespeare!)
I sow the wheat
with little sickles for cells
I sickle your tongues
so you know
it is enough to listen to all I say
My Zeppelins have given me enough rides
And enough means a breeze that you don’t know is passing by
Everything’s like everything else
My grave means your life
And perhaps your grave, my life
To live means to be in love with someone
and to live with someone else
or else you will be a wandering ghost between shameless houses
You are neither immune from falling in love
nor from life!
You are simultaneously condemned to two beings
your love
and the lover who lost you in a card game
Cloud
Ali Abdolrezaei
When Night appeared
the frame of time when it got away was a spectacle
Facing up from the morning pillow
The day paused a little
Tomorrow didn’t know it has to come
and night that took a bite of light
fell on a piece of apple that came third in the world
Cold sound tumbled down the mountains
and
green clambered up the ravines
and
Man stuck at the crossroads, became pedestrian
in the same path that afterwards led to many
Picked the sun off heads of days one by one
and hoarded it
so when water became a deluge to
leave the ark to Noah
make the sword a bare necessity
having to discover sulphur
and gunpowder to add to life
still to make no difference
still the day comes
the night like a dark cow breaks out of the manger
the day gets lost behind a brown calf
and the nimbus that is the mother of a missing son
revolves round the sky
and keeps looking
not to find a quiet spot
to cry her heart out.
JAPÃO:
Coyote
Hiromi Itō
My grandmother was a medium
My mother was a magician
My mother’s older sister was a geisha
My mother’s younger sister had tuberculosis
My mother’s other younger sister was barren
All were wonderfully beautiful
The spells mother taught me
All required saké, rice, and salt
We were afraid of snakes, water, and the east
My daughter began speaking baby talk at two months
When the coyote speaks to her
She smiles and always responds
The coyote: A dry plain, plain, plain
My daughter: Plain, plain, plain
The coyote: No lying
My daughter: No lying, no lying, no lying
The coyote: Hungry, hungry
My daughter: Hungry too
Coyote: Hah, hah, hah
My daughter: Haaaaaaaa-ohh
My daughter’s father, my father: I wanted to concentrate just on the coyote I wanted to isolate
myself, insulate myself, see nothing other than the coyote
And I wanted to trade places with him
The milk flows from my breast bountifully
To fatten my daughter it flows in overabundance, much too much
My grandmother’s milk also flowed bountifully
With it she fattened her four girls and two boys
My mother’s older sister’s milk also flowed bountifully
With it she fattened her three boys
My mother’s milk also flowed bountifully
With it she fattened just me, and the leftover milk flowed out
My mother’s younger sister’s milk also flowed bountifully
With it she fattened her two boys
My mother’s other younger sister nursed and nursed her adopted child
With her milkless breasts until eventually
The milk began to flow from her body
There is so much rain
Everything and anything gets soaked
Inside a damp frame, grandmother’s beautiful smiling face with no eyebrows or teeth
My mother’s older sister’s beautiful face with no chin, teeth, or hair but with large lips
My mother’s younger sister’s beautiful face with fleshy, hairless lashes and no teeth
My mother’s younger sister’s beautiful face with spots and no teeth
My mother’s beautiful face with sagging cheeks, crow’s feet, and no armpit hair nor teeth
But all of them do have breasts that sag
The women all enjoy fondling the babies in the family
My daughter
Is the only female grandchild
Is the only female niece
The words of the women who fondle the babies in the family
Slowly turn to baby talk before our eyes
The women from age ninety to fifty gather
(The ninety-year-old has been dead for a decade)
The women sit together and
Begin to speak in baby talk
Gyaaatei
Gyaaatei
Haaraagyaatei
Harasoogyaatei
My grandmother was a medium
My mother was a magician
My mother’s older sister was a geisha
My mother’s younger sister had tuberculosis
My mother’s other younger sister was barren
My grandfather was a paralytic
My mother’s older brother died young
My mother’s younger brother did not speak at all
My father was related to none of them
My mother’s husband and my husband
Vanished right before
I gave birth to my daughter
Coyote: Gyaatei
My daughter: Gyaatei
Coyote: Haaraagyaatei
My daughter: Haraharagyaatei
Coyote: Gyaagyaagyaatei
My daughter: Haragyaatei
The precipitation and humidity this time of year
My mother chants her magical spells
Cursing the humidity
Saké and rain
Rice and rain
Salt and rain
Ordering the water
To flow to the east
Forgive us, oh honorable snake
Saké and rain
Rice and rain
Salt and rain
Coquettish Glances
Kiji Kutani
No doubt about it,
the inside of a train
cooks things to a turn.
The bald head
of that fellow sitting beside me
and the slender, wobbly legs
of the little girl catty-corner from me on the right
simmered to a juicy pulp,
dissolved in sunlight
slanting through the windows
and spilled along the floor at a crawl,
slower than a walk.
The one holdout is
the young woman
sitting directly across from me
holding on tight
to an angular package wrapped in a bright red bandanna.
Every now and then she crosses and re-crosses her legs in various ways —
legs that might stay smooth and white
however much you peeled them —
eyeing me all the while.
Her two eyeballs
protruding
from an expression of no apparent temperature
are on the verge of pouring melted light
into every crevice in my swaying body.
(I mustn’t fall for it)
That’s no look of invitation,
but proof she’s cooked up tender on the bone,
eyes first. There —
the moment the train pulled into Koiwa,
she turned soundlessly into a translucent morsel
and came sliding towards my feet
at a snail’s pace.
MÉXICO
De Éstos Hablo
Juan Domingo Argüelles
Mientras los buitres trazan círculos
alrededor del sol, como planetas,
los poetitas con sus versos
tiernas romanzas acompasan;
buscan el más elaborado de los silencios
y ordenan a sus tripas que no gruñan;
los buitres no quisieran
comer carne tan flaca,
tan desabrida como yeso,
tan poca cosa como un hueso
con una piel seca y sin brillo,
pero no hay nada bajo el cielo
para pegar el picotazo
sino estos pobres infelices
que gimen, muerden, se desgarran
pero no aflojan sus corbatas.
Death in the Dawn
Wole Soyinka
Traveller, you must set out
At dawn. And wipe your feet upon
The dog-nose wetness of the earth
Let sunrise quench your lamps. And watch
Faint brush pricklings in the sky light
Cottoned feet to break the early earthworm
On the hoe. Now shadows stretch with sap
Not twilight’s death and sad prostration.
This soft kindling, soft receding breeds
Racing joys and apprehension for
A naked day. Burdened hulks retract,
Stoop to the mist in faceless throng
To wake the silent markets – swift, mute
Processions on grey byways… On this
Counterpane, it was –
Sudden winter at the death
Of dawn’s lone trumpeter. Cascades
Of white feather-flakes… but it proved
A futile rite. Propitiation sped
Grimly on, before.
The right foot for joy, the left, dread
And the mother prayed, Child
May you never walk
When the road waits, famished.
Traveler, you must set forth
At dawn.
I promise marvels of the holy hour
Presages as the white cock’s flapped
Perverse impalement – as who would dare
The wrathful wings of man’s Progression…
But such another wraith! Brother,
Silenced in the startled hug of
Your invention – is this mocked grimace
This closed contortion – I?
The snow flakes sail gently down
Gabriel Okara
The snow flakes sail gently
down from the misty eye of the sky
and fall lightly lightly on the
winter-weary elms. And the branches,
winter-striped and nude, slowly
with the weight of the weightless snow
bow like grief-stricken mourners
as white funeral cloth is slowly
unrolled over deathless earth.
And dead sleep stealthily from the
heater rose and closed my eyes with
the touch of silk cotton of water falling.
Then I dreamed a dream
in my dead sleep. But I dreamed
not of earth dying and elms a vigil
keeping. I dreamed of birds, black
birds flying in my inside, nesting
and hatching on oil palms bearing suns
for fruits and with roots denting the
uprooter's spades. And I dreamed the
uprooters tired and limp, leaning on my roots -
their abandoned roots -
and the oil palms gave them each a sun.
But on their palms
they balanced the blinding orbs
and frowned with schisms on their
brows – for the suns reached not
the brightness of gold!
Then I awoke. I awoke
to the silently falling snow
and bent-backed elms bowing and
swaying to the winter wind like
white-robed Moslems salaaming at evening
prayer, and the earth lying inscrutable
like the face of a god in a shrine.
PORTUGAL:
Fim
valter hugo mãe
tentei matar-me no dia onze de julho de
dois mil e seis. o sol era intenso
mas os meus olhos perderam de tal modo a luz,
que a própria faca brilhando se tornou
apenas um animal de dentes afiados que
me feriu os dedos mas não se deixou
apanhar. a morte fugiu-me assim. foi o
mais estranho que me aconteceu e pode
só isso ser o mais peculiar que tenho
para deixar dito, deitando por terra qualquer
obra, qualquer outro poema, que soará,
seguramente, uma redundância depois
que a vida se prolonga para lá do fracasso.
A Água
Gonçalo Tavares
No café trazem-me um copo com água
como se ele resolvesse todos os meus problemas.
É ridículo – penso – não há saída.
No entanto, depois de beber a água
fico sem sede.
E a sensação exclusiva do organismo
acalma-me por momentos.
Como eles sabem de filosofia – penso –
e regresso, logo a seguir, à angústia.
RÚSSIA:
For me
Paul Bogaert
For me
the dynamic graph emerges from the ground
much more widely spread out than expected.
In multi-coloured, imposing rows
grow
the three-dimensional columns:
indispensable information
from the spectrum of happiness to suffering.
I don’t want to be alone! You are not alone!
RÚSSIA:
Allenby Road
Iósif Bródski
Ao entardecer, quando as ruas paralisadas perdem
as esperanças de ouvir soar uma ambulância, decidindo-se afinal
por chineses que passeiam a esmo, enquanto os olmos imitam o mapa
de um país vestido com roupa khaki, que embala seus inimigos,
a vida vai pouco a pouco ficando míope, remendada,
aquilina, geométrica, sem brilho
e sem detalhes –cornijas, maçanetas de porta, Cristos –
que realcem as silhuetas: chaminés, telhados, um crucifixo.
Teu gesto de fechar as persianas desencadeia a teoria
do dominó, pois não importa o tamanho do nó
que se desfaça em tua garganta, as futuras bolas de neve,
à luz da lâmpada, sempre formarão o perfil de um inevitável “não”.
Não é porque, ultimamente, os preços andem salgados,
mas ninguém ousa pegar essa bolsinha de tijolos
cheia de trocados, que mal dá para pagar uma boa noite de sono.
SUÍÇA:
Clair de Lune
Blaise Cendrars
On tangue on tangue sur le bateau
La lune la lune fait des cercles dans l’eau
Dans le ciel c’est le mât qui fait des cercles
Et désigne toutes les étoiles du doigt
Une jeune Argentine accoudée au bastingage
Rêve à Paris en contemplant les phares qui dessinent
la côte de France
Rêve à Paris qu’elle ne connaît qu’à peine et qu’elle
regrette déjà
Ces feux tournants fixes doubles colorés à éclipses lui
rappellent ceux qu’elle voyait de sa fenêtre d’hôtel sur
les Boulevards et lui promettent un prompt retour
Elle rêve de revenir bientôt en France et d’habiter Paris
Le bruit de ma machine à écrire l’empêche de mener son
rêve jusqu’au bout.
Ma belle machine à écrire qui sonne au bout de chaque
ligne et qui est aussi rapide qu’un jazz
Ma belle machine à écrire qui m’empêche de rêver à
bâbord comme à tribord
Et qui me fait suivre jusqu’au bout une idée
Mon idée
no piano:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ip64cG7gK4
schweigen
Eugen Gomringer
schweigen schweigen schweigen
schweigen schweigen schweigen
schweigen schweigen
schweigen schweigen schweigen
schweigen schweigen schweigen
URUGUAI:
Idilio espectral
Julio Herrera Y Reissig
Pasó en un mundo saturnal; yacía
bajo cien noches pavorosas, y era
mi féretro el Olvido... Ya la cera
de tus ojos sin lágrimas no ardía.
Se adelantó el enterrador con fría
desolación. Bramaba en la ribera
de la morosa eternidad, la austera
Muerte hacia la infeliz Melancolía.
Sentí en los labios el dolor de un beso.
No pude hablar. En mi ataúd de yeso
se deslizó tu forma transparente...
Y en la sorda ebriedad de nuestros mimos,
anocheció la tapa y nos dormimos
espiritualizadísimamente.
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