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Artigos da categoria “Poesia

A Tradução da Poesia de Louise Glück

Publicado em 08/09/2021

Presque Isle

In every life, there’s a moment or two.
In every life, a room somewhere, by the sea or in the mountains.

On the table, a dish of apricots. Pits in a white ashtray.
(…)

—Louise Glück, A Íris Selvagem, Relógio de Água, 2020


Presque Isle

Em cada vida há momentos.
Em cada vida há um quarto algures, à beira mar ou nas montanhas.

Sobre a mesa, um prato com damascos. Alguns caroços no cinzeiro branco.
(…)

Tradução de Ana Luísa Amaral


Presque Isle

Em cada vida há um momento ou dois.
Em cada vida, um quarto algures, à beira mar ou nas montanhas.

Na mesa, um prato de damascos. Caroços num cinzeiro branco.
(…)

Tradução minha


A Ana Luísa Amaral é uma tradutora prestigiada, não entendo a tradução neste livro. Sendo a poesia um jogo de subtilezas, este cunho pessoal, onde até a pontuação é outra, altera a relação entre as palavras e o leitor. O reparo não é de crítica — pobre do meu inglês —, é de incompreensão.
Os exemplos são inúmeros, eventualmente em cada poema. Li um há pouco que fala do “arejo”, um fungo dos tomateiros, compreende-se que seja difícil atingir essa especificidade para quem não é da área — e no meu caso é por mera sorte. De qualquer forma, no que é de fácil ou mais imediata tradução, é incompreensível.


Vésperas

(…) on the other hand,
I planted the seeds, I watched the first shoots
like wings tearing the soil, and it was my heart
broken by the blight, the black spot so quickly
multiplying in the rows. (…)

—Louise Glück, A Íris Selvagem, Relógio de Água, 2020


Vésperas

(…) por outro lado,
fui eu quem plantou as sementes. Vi os primeiros rebentos
como asas rasgando o solo, partiu-se
o meu coração com as pragas, a pequena mancha negra a multiplicar-se
tão depressa pelos sulcos. (…)

Tradução de Ana Luísa Amaral


Vésperas

(…) por outro lado,
eu plantei as sementes, observei os primeiros rebentos
como asas rasgando o solo, e foi o meu coração
partido pelo arejo, aquelas manchas negras tão rapidamente
a multiplicar-se pelos canteiros. (…)

Tradução minha


Como tudo, tem vantagens e desvantagens, há passagens muito bem conseguidas, ou títulos. Retreating Light… Luz Em Fuga, até me parece mais bonito em português.

Rose Aymer

Publicado em 08/09/2021

Ah what avails the sceptred race,
Ah what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.

—Walter Savage Landor

East Coker

Publicado em 07/09/2021

III.

(…)
You say I am repeating
Something I have said before. I shall say it again,
Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there,
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,
You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
In order to arrive at what you do not know
You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.
In order to possess what you do not possess
You must go by the way of dispossession.
In order to arrive at what you are not
You must go through the way in which you are not.
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not.

V.

So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years—
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l’entre deux guerres
Trying to learn to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion.
(…)

—T.S. Eliot, The Four Quartets, Harcourt Brace & Company, 1988 (1943)

Midsummer

Publicado em 20/08/2021

How can I help you when you all want
different things—sunlight and shadow,
moist darkness, dry heat —

Listen to yourselves, vying with one another—

And you wonder
why I despair of you,
you think something could fuse you into a whole—

the still air of high summer
tangled with a thousand voices

each calling out
some need, some absolute

and in that name continually
strangling each other
in the open field—

For what? For space and air?
The privilege of being
single in the eyes of heaven?

You were not intended
to be unique. You were
my embodiment, all diversity

not what you think you see
searching the bright sky over the field,
your incidental souls
fixed like telescopes on some
enlargement of yourselves—

Why would I make you if I meant
to limit myself
to the ascendant sign,
the star, the fire, the fury?

—Louise Glück, A Íris Selvagem, Relógio D´Água, 2020 (obrigado C.)

Moths

Publicado em 07/08/2021

Adrift in the liberating, late light
of August, delicate, frivolous,
they make their way to my front porch
and flutter near the glassed-in bulb,
translucent as a thought suddenly
wondered aloud, illumining the air
that’s thick with honeysuckle and dusk.
You and I are doing our best
at conversation, keeping it light, steering clear
of what we’d like to say.
You leave, and the night becomes
cluttered with moths, some tattered,
their dumbly curious filaments
startling against my cheek. How quickly,
instinctively, I brush them away.
Dazed, they cling to the outer darkness
like pale reminders of ourselves.
Others seem to want so desperately
to get inside. Months later, I’ll find
the woolens, snug in their resting places,
full of missing pieces.

—Jennifer O’Grady, Poetry, 1992

A Poem of Friendship

Publicado em 23/05/2021

We are not lovers
because of the love
we make
but the love
we have
We are not friends
because of the laughs
we spend
but the tears
we save
I don’t want to be near you
for the thoughts we share
but the words we never have
to speak
I will never miss you
because of what we do
but what we are
together

—Nikki Giovanni