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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Sylvia Plath - The Night Dances

A smile fell in the grass.
Irretrievable!

 

And how will your night dances
Lose themselves. In mathematics?

 

Such pure leaps and spirals ----
Surely they travel

 

The world forever, I shall not entirely
Sit emptied of beauties, the gift

 

Of your small breath, the drenched grass
Smell of your sleeps, lilies, lilies.

 

Their flesh bears no relation.
Cold folds of ego, the calla,

 

And the tiger, embellishing itself ----
Spots, and a spread of hot petals.

 

The comets
Have such a space to cross,

Such coldness, forgetfulness.
So your gestures flake off ----

 

Warm and human, then their pink light
Bleeding and peeling

 

Through the black amnesias of heaven.
Why am I given

 

These lamps, these planets
Falling like blessings, like flakes

 

Six sided, white
On my eyes, my lips, my hair

 

Touching and melting.
Nowhere.

Sylvia Plath - Lady Lazarus

I have done it again.   
One year in every ten   
I manage it——

 

A sort of walking miracle, my skin   
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,   
My right foot

 

A paperweight,
My face a featureless, fine   
Jew linen.

 

Peel off the napkin   
O my enemy.   
Do I terrify?——

 

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?   
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

 

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be   
At home on me

 

And I a smiling woman.   
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

 

This is Number Three.   
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

 

What a million filaments.   
The peanut-crunching crowd   
Shoves in to see

 

Them unwrap me hand and foot——
The big strip tease.   
Gentlemen, ladies

 

These are my hands   
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

 

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.   
The first time it happened I was ten.   
It was an accident.

 

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.   
I rocked shut

 

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

 

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.   
I do it exceptionally well.

 

I do it so it feels like hell.   
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.

 

It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.
It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.   
It’s the theatrical

 

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute   
Amused shout:

 

‘A miracle!’
That knocks me out.   
There is a charge

 

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge   
For the hearing of my heart——
It really goes.

 

And there is a charge, a very large charge   
For a word or a touch   
Or a bit of blood

 

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.   
So, so, Herr Doktor.   
So, Herr Enemy.

 

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,   
The pure gold baby

 

That melts to a shriek.   
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

 

Ash, ash—
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——

 

A cake of soap,   
A wedding ring,   
A gold filling.

 

Herr God, Herr Lucifer   
Beware
Beware.

 

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair   
And I eat men like air.

Mais logo na Gulbenkian.

 

Sonia Wieder-Atherton joue Benjamin Britten, la deuxième et des extraits de la troisième des Suites pour violoncelle seul écrites pour Rostropovitch. Charlotte Rampling prête les subtilités de sa voix, en anglais ou en francais, aux poèmes de l'écrivaine américaine Sylvia Plath, qui mit tragiquement fin à ses jours en 1963.

Dans ce singulier dialogue, l'écriture de Plath, d'une force rarement égalée dans l'histoire de la littérature, fait ressortir les aspérités qui habitent le lyrisme des pages de Britten. Comme si la musique se mettait à rêver à voix haute, au fil de la plume de celle qui, dans sa nouvelle de 1958 intitulée Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams, se décrivait ainsi : "Chaque jour, de neuf heures à cinq heures, je suis assise à mon bureau [...] et je dactylographie les rêves des autres."

Sylvia Plath - Mad Girl's Love Song

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)


The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

 

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

 

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

 

I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

 

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

Sylvia Plath - Insomniac

The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole . . .
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.

 

Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments—the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.

 

He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue . . .
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.

 

His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open

On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.

 

Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,

Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.

Plath, Hughes, Rothko. Pais, filhos.

Espero que não se torne recorrente um post de Domingo a puxar mais para a depressão, mas tenho andado a pensar na notícia do suicídio do filho de Sylvia Plath e Ted Hughes, Nicholas Hughes. Os americanos arrumam a coisa no campo da doença (a depressão crónica), tal como já tinham feito com a mãe e a madrasta (que também se suicidou). A história não deixa contudo de ter ressonância poética, por ser filho de quem é.

O senhor ainda por cima, vivia no Alasca, lugar que mudou no meu imaginário desde que vi o "Into The Wild", uma história que também não acaba bem. (Sim, em tempos estraguei o final do filme a uns amigos.)

A propósito do suicídio de Nicholas, o legado de Sylvia Plath (aqui ao lado em foto de Rollie McKenna) voltou à baila, o seu valor não esmorece e aqui há uma discussão interessante sobre o tema, com participantes como Joyce Carol Oates e Erica Jong.

Outro suicida famoso que raramente me sai da cabeça é o Mark Rothko, que de vez em quando aparece neste blog. Rothko suicidou-se aos 66 anos (medo do que seria o final da sua vida?) e deixou dois filhos (ainda vivos e creio, felizes) a braços com uma terrível luta pelo seu património. Foi notícia antes de eu nascer.