Kenneth
Rexroth
Doubled
Mirrors
Espelhos
Duplos
É
o escuro da lua.
De
madrugada, fim de verão,
As
constelações de outono
Brilham
no céu árido.
No
ar o cheiro de gado, feno,
E
pó. No velho pomar
As
peras maduras. As árvores
Têm
brotado de velhas estacas
E
a fruta é incomível.
Quando
eu passo eu ouço algo
Roçando
grunhindo desviando
Minha
luz nas ramagens.
Dois
guaxinins com pera ácida
Suco
e saliva gotejando
De
suas bocas voltadas para mim,
seus
olhos fundas esponjas de luz.
Eles
me conhecem e não fogem.
Chegando
a estrada através
Das
escuras sombras dos carvalhos,
Vejo
adiante de mim, lampejando
Em
todo lugar desde o pedregulho,
Finas
pontas de fria luz anil,
Tais
as faíscas da neve-aço.
Suspeito
do que seja, ajoelho-me.
Sob
cada seixo e folha há
Uma
aranha, com olhos brilhando
Para
mim com minha luz refletida
Através
de desmedida distância.
Trad.
livre : LdeM
Kenneth
Rexroth
(1905-1982)
Doubled
Mirrors
It
is the dark of the moon.
Late at night, the end of summer,
The autumn constellations
Glow in the arid heaven.
The air smells of cattle, hay,
And dust. In the old orchard
The pears are ripe. The trees
Have sprouted from old rootstocks
And the fruit is inedible.
As I pass them I hear something
Rustling and grunting and turn
My light into the branches.
Two raccoons with acrid pear
Juice and saliva drooling
From their mouths stare back at me,
Their eyes deep sponges of light.
They know me and do not run
Away. Coming up the road
Through the black oak shadows, I
See ahead of me, glinting
Everywhere from the dusty
Gravel, tiny points of cold
Blue light, like the sparkle of
Iron snow. I suspect what it is,
And kneel to see. Under each
Pebble and oak leaf is a
Spider, her eyes shining at
Me with my reflected light
Across immeasurable distance.
Late at night, the end of summer,
The autumn constellations
Glow in the arid heaven.
The air smells of cattle, hay,
And dust. In the old orchard
The pears are ripe. The trees
Have sprouted from old rootstocks
And the fruit is inedible.
As I pass them I hear something
Rustling and grunting and turn
My light into the branches.
Two raccoons with acrid pear
Juice and saliva drooling
From their mouths stare back at me,
Their eyes deep sponges of light.
They know me and do not run
Away. Coming up the road
Through the black oak shadows, I
See ahead of me, glinting
Everywhere from the dusty
Gravel, tiny points of cold
Blue light, like the sparkle of
Iron snow. I suspect what it is,
And kneel to see. Under each
Pebble and oak leaf is a
Spider, her eyes shining at
Me with my reflected light
Across immeasurable distance.
...
Kenneth
Rexroth
Gic
ao Har
É
tarde da noite, fria e úmida
o
ar é cheio com fumo de tabaco.
Minha
mente aflita e cansada.
Eu
pego a enciclopédia,
O
volume GIC ao HAR,
Parece
que tenho lido tudo nele,
Em
minhas outras noites iguais.
Sentado,
mente oca, olho o artigo Grosbeak,
Ouvindo
o longo ruído e agito
De
vagões de carga e máquinas à distância
Subitamente
eu me lembro
Voltando
pra casa desde a natação
Em
Ten Mile Creek,
Sobre
o longo sedimento no anoitecer de verão,
Meu
cabelo úmido, cheira a algas e lama.
Lembro
de um sicômoro diante de uma
fazenda
arruinada,
E
instantaneamente e claramente a revelação
De
uma canção de inacreditável pureza e gozo,
Minha
primeira ave cardeal de peito rosado
Encarando
o sol baixo, seu corpo
Banhado
com luz.
Estava
imóvel e frio no morno anoitecer
Até
ele fugir, e fiquei sabendo
Em
meus doze anos uma das grandes coisas
Da
minha vida tinha acontecido.
Trinta
fábricas esvaziam o refugo no riacho.
Sobre
a relva ressequida estão os estorninhos
alienados
e agressivos.
E
estou no outro lado do continente
Dez
anos numa cidade inamistosa.
Trad.
livre : LdeM
Gic
to Har
It
is late at night, cold and damp
The air is filled with tobacco smoke.
My brain is worried and tired.
I pick up the encyclopedia,
The volume GIC to HAR,
It seems I have read everything in it,
So many other nights like this.
I sit staring empty-headed at the article Grosbeak,
Listening to the long rattle and pound
Of freight cars and switch engines in the distance.
Suddenly I remember
Coming home from swimming
In Ten Mile Creek,
Over the long moraine in the early summer evening,
My hair wet, smelling of waterweeds and mud.
I remember a sycamore in front of a ruined farmhouse,
And instantly and clearly the revelation
Of a song of incredible purity and joy,
My first rose-breasted grosbeak,
Facing the low sun, his body
Suffused with light.
I was motionless and cold in the hot evening
Until he flew away, and I went on knowing
In my twelfth year one of the great things
Of my life had happened.
Thirty factories empty their refuse in the creek.
On the parched lawns are starlings, alien and aggressive.
And I am on the other side of the continent
Ten years in an unfriendly city.
The air is filled with tobacco smoke.
My brain is worried and tired.
I pick up the encyclopedia,
The volume GIC to HAR,
It seems I have read everything in it,
So many other nights like this.
I sit staring empty-headed at the article Grosbeak,
Listening to the long rattle and pound
Of freight cars and switch engines in the distance.
Suddenly I remember
Coming home from swimming
In Ten Mile Creek,
Over the long moraine in the early summer evening,
My hair wet, smelling of waterweeds and mud.
I remember a sycamore in front of a ruined farmhouse,
And instantly and clearly the revelation
Of a song of incredible purity and joy,
My first rose-breasted grosbeak,
Facing the low sun, his body
Suffused with light.
I was motionless and cold in the hot evening
Until he flew away, and I went on knowing
In my twelfth year one of the great things
Of my life had happened.
Thirty factories empty their refuse in the creek.
On the parched lawns are starlings, alien and aggressive.
And I am on the other side of the continent
Ten years in an unfriendly city.
Kenneth
Rexroth
para ouvir : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sut47qpwSqM
LdeM
Great job man! Go ahead!
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