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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Konstantinos Kaváfis - Uma noite

Uma noite (1915)

 

Era pobre e sórdida a alcova,
escondida por cima da equívoca taberna.
Da janela via-se a ruela
suja e estreita. De baixo
subiam as vozes de uns operários
que, jogando às cartas, matavam o tempo.

 

E ali, numa cama mísera e vulgar
possuí o corpo do amor, possuí os lábios
sensuais e rosados de embriaguez -
rosados de tanta embriaguez que, mesmo agora,
quando escrevo, passados tantos anos,
sozinho em casa, volto a embriagar-me.

 

Konstantinos Kaváfis, 145 poemas, trad. e apresentação Manuel Resende, ed. Flop

C.P. Cavafy - He Asked about the Quality

He left the office where he’d taken up
a trivial, poorly paid job
(eight pounds a month, including bonuses)—
left at the end of the dreary work
that kept him bent all afternoon,
came out at seven and walked off slowly,
idling his way down the street. Good-looking;
and interesting: showing as he did that he’d reached
his full sensual capacity.
He’d turned twenty-nine the month before.
 
He idled his way down the main street
and the poor side-streets that led to his home.
 
Passing in front of a small shop
that sold cheap and flimsy things for workers,
he saw a face inside there, saw a figure
that compelled him to go in, and he pretended
he wanted to look at some colored handkerchiefs.
 
He asked about the quality of the handkerchiefs
and how much they cost, his voice choking,
almost silenced by desire.
And the answers came back the same way,
distracted, the voice hushed,
offering hidden consent.
 
They kept on talking about the merchandise—but
the only purpose: that their hands might touch
over the handkerchiefs, that their faces, their lips,
might move close together as though by chance—
a moment’s meeting of limb against limb.
 
Quickly, secretly, so the shopowner sitting at the back
wouldn’t realize what was going on.

 

Translated by Edmund Keeley/Philip Sherrard

C.P. Cavafy, Collected Poems. Translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard. Edited by George Savidis. Revised Edition. Princeton University Press, 1992)

C.P. Cavafy - On The Ship

It certainly resembles him, this small
pencil likeness of him.

 

Quickly done, on the deck of the ship;
an enchanting afternoon.
The Ionian Sea all around us.

 

It resembles him. Still, I remember him as handsomer.
To the point of sickness—he was that sensitive,
and it illumined his expression.
Handsomer, he appears to me,
now that my soul recalls him, out of Time.

 

Out of Time. All these things, they’re very old—
The sleuth, and the ship, and the afternoon

 

Translated from the Greek by Daniel Mendelsohn.

C.P. Cavafy - À Espera dos Bárbaros (Trad. Jorge de Sena)

O que esperamos nós em multidão no Forum?

 

Os Bárbaros, que chegam hoje.

 

Dentro do Senado, porque tanta inacção?
Se não estão legislando, que fazem lá dentro os senadores?

 

É que os Bárbaros chegam hoje.
Que leis haveriam de fazer agora os senadores?
Os Bárbaros, quando vierem, ditarão as leis.

 

Porque é que o Imperador se levantou de manhã cedo?
E às portas da cidade está sentado,
no seu trono, com toda a pompa, de coroa na cabeça?

 

Porque os Bárbaros chegam hoje.
E o Imperador está à espera do seu Chefe
para recebê-lo. E até já preparou
um discurso de boas-vindas, em que pôs,
dirigidos a ele, toda a casta de títulos.

 

E porque saíram os dois Cônsules, e os Pretores,
hoje, de toga vermelha, as suas togas bordadas?
E porque levavam braceletes, e tantas ametistas,
e os dedos cheios de anéis de esmeraldas magníficas?
E porque levavam hoje os preciosos bastões,
com pegas de prata e as pontas de ouro em filigrana?

 

Porque os Bárbaros chegam hoje,
e coisas dessas maravilham os Bárbaros.

 

E porque não vieram hoje aqui, como é costume, os oradores
para discursar, para dizer o que eles sabem dizer?

 

Porque os Bárbaros é hoje que aparecem,
e aborrecem-se com eloquências e retóricas.

 

Porque, sùbitamente, começa um mal-estar,
e esta confusão? Como os rostos se tornaram sérios!
E porque se esvaziam tão depressa as ruas e as praças,
e todos voltam para casa tão apreensivos?

 

Porque a noite caiu e os Bárbaros não vieram.
E umas pessoas que chegaram da fronteira
dizem que não há lá sinal de Bárbaros.

 

E agora, que vai ser de nós sem os Bárbaros?
Essa gente era uma espécie de solução.

 

[Antes de 1911]

C.P. Cavafy - The City

You said: "I'll go to another country, go to another shore,
find another city better than this one.
Whatever I try to do is fated to turn out wrong
and my heart lies buried as though it were something dead.
How long can I let my mind moulder in this place?
Wherever I turn, wherever I happen to look,
I see the black ruins of my life, here,
where I've spent so many years, wasted them, destroyed them totally."

 

You won't find a new country, won't find another shore.
This city will always pursue you. You will walk
the same streets, grow old in the same neighborhoods,
will turn gray in these same houses.
You will always end up in this city. Don't hope for things elsewhere:
there is no ship for you, there is no road.
As you've wasted your life here, in this small corner,
you've destroyed it everywhere else in the world.

Birthday Poem.

C.P. Cavafy - An Old Man

 

at the noisy end of the café, head bent
over the table, an old man sits alone,
a newspaper in front of him.

 

and in the miserable banality of old age
he thinks how little he enjoyed the years
when he had strength, eloquence, and looks.

 

he knows he's aged a lot: he sees it, feels it.
yet it seems he was young just yesterday.
so brief an interval, so very brief.

 

and he thinks of prudence, how it fooled him,
how he always believed—what madness—
that cheat who said: "tomorrow. you have plenty of time."

 

he remembers impulses bridled, the joy
he sacrificed. every chance he lost
now mocks his senseless caution.

 

but so much thinking, so much remembering
makes the old man dizzy. he falls asleep,
his head resting on the café table.

C.P. Cavafy - Gray

While looking at a half-gray opal
I remembered two lovely gray eyes—
it must be twenty years ago I saw them...

 

........................................

 

We were lovers for a month.
Then he went away to work, I think in Smyrna,
and we never met again.

 

Those gray eyes will have lost their beauty—if he's still alive;
that lovely face will have spoiled.

 

Memory, keep them the way they were.
And, memory, whatever of that love you can bring back,
whatever you can, bring back tonight.

 

Tradução de Edmund Keeley/Philip Sherrard

Constantine P. Cavafy - Ítaca

Original Grego Tradução Inglesa

Σὰ βγεῖς στὸν πηγαιμὸ γιὰ τὴν Ἰθάκη,
νὰ εὔχεσαι νά ῾ναι μακρὺς ὁ δρόμος,
γεμάτος περιπέτειες, γεμάτος γνώσεις.
Τοὺς Λαιστρυγόνας καὶ τοὺς Κύκλωπας,
τὸν θυμωμένο Ποσειδῶνα μὴ φοβᾶσαι,
τέτοια στὸν δρόμο σου ποτέ σου δὲν θὰ βρεῖς,
ἂν μέν᾿ ἡ σκέψις σου ὑψηλή, ἂν ἐκλεκτὴ
συγκίνησις τὸ πνεῦμα καὶ τὸ σῶμα σου ἀγγίζει.
Τοὺς Λαιστρυγόνας καὶ τοὺς Κύκλωπας,
τὸν ἄγριο Ποσειδῶνα δὲν θὰ συναντήσεις,
ἂν δὲν τοὺς κουβανεῖς μὲς στὴν ψυχή σου,
ἂν ἡ ψυχή σου δὲν τοὺς στήνει ἐμπρός σου.

 

Νὰ εὔχεσαι νά ῾ναι μακρὺς ὁ δρόμος.
Πολλὰ τὰ καλοκαιρινὰ πρωινὰ νὰ εἶναι
ποῦ μὲ τί εὐχαρίστηση, μὲ τί χαρὰ
θὰ μπαίνεις σὲ λιμένας πρωτοειδωμένους.
Νὰ σταματήσεις σ᾿ ἐμπορεῖα Φοινικικά,
καὶ τὲς καλὲς πραγμάτειες ν᾿ ἀποκτήσεις,
σεντέφια καὶ κοράλλια, κεχριμπάρια κ᾿ ἔβενους,
καὶ ἡδονικὰ μυρωδικὰ κάθε λογῆς,
ὅσο μπορεῖς πιὸ ἄφθονα ἡδονικὰ μυρωδικά.
Σὲ πόλεις Αἰγυπτιακὲς πολλὲς νὰ πᾷς,
νὰ μάθεις καὶ νὰ μάθεις ἀπ᾿ τοὺς σπουδασμένους.

 

Πάντα στὸ νοῦ σου νά ῾χεις τὴν Ἰθάκη.
Τὸ φθάσιμον ἐκεῖ εἶν᾿ ὁ προορισμός σου.
Ἀλλὰ μὴ βιάζεις τὸ ταξίδι διόλου.
Καλλίτερα χρόνια πολλὰ νὰ διαρκέσει.
Καὶ γέρος πιὰ ν᾿ ἀράξεις στὸ νησί,
πλούσιος μὲ ὅσα κέρδισες στὸν δρόμο,
μὴ προσδοκώντας πλούτη νὰ σὲ δώσει ἡ Ἰθάκη.

 

Ἡ Ἰθάκη σ᾿ ἔδωσε τ᾿ ὡραῖο ταξίδι.
Χωρὶς αὐτὴν δὲν θά ῾βγαινες στὸν δρόμο.
Ἄλλα δὲν ἔχει νὰ σὲ δώσει πιά.

 

Κι ἂν πτωχικὴ τὴν βρεῖς, ἡ Ἰθάκη δὲν σὲ γέλασε.
Ἔτσι σοφὸς ποὺ ἔγινες, μὲ τόση πεῖρα,
ἤδη θὰ τὸ κατάλαβες οἱ Ἰθάκες τὶ σημαίνουν.

When you set sail for Ithaca,
wish for the road to be long,
full of adventures, full of knowledge.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclopes,
an angry Poseidon — do not fear.
You will never find such on your path,
if your thoughts remain lofty, and your spirit
and body are touched by a fine emotion.
The Lestrygonians and the Cyclopes,
a savage Poseidon you will not encounter,
if you do not carry them within your spirit,
if your spirit does not place them before you.

 

Wish for the road to be long.
Many the summer mornings to be when
with what pleasure, what joy
you will enter ports seen for the first time.
Stop at Phoenician markets,
and purchase the fine goods,
nacre and coral, amber and ebony,
and exquisite perfumes of all sorts,
the most delicate fragances you can find.
To many Egyptian cities you must go,
to learn and learn from the cultivated.

 

Always keep Ithaca in your mind.
To arrive there is your final destination.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better for it to last many years,
and when old to rest in the island,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaca to offer you wealth.

 

Ithaca has given you the beautiful journey.
Without her you would not have set out on the road.
Nothing more does she have to give you.

 

And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not deceived you.
Wise as you have become, with so much experience,
you must already have understood what Ithacas mean