Archive for maio \27\-03:00 2019

 Os leitores talvez estejam lembrados, quando tracei aqui dois retratos de Mário Faustino, do modo como fui parar na redação do Suplemento Dominical do Jornal do Brasil em 1956: eu lhe mandara uma tradução do III Soneto a Orfeu, de Rainer Maria Rilke, para sair na seção “Poema Traduzido”, e ele o publicou em “O Poeta Novo”, com um grande elogio; passei a considerar-me um realizado tradutor de poesia. Embora esteja em meu livro de traduções “O Torso e o Gato”, nunca divulguei aqui esse extraordinário poema, síntese de toda a filosofia poética de Rilke. Faço-o agora: 

Ein Gott vermags. Wie aber, sag mir, soll
ein Mann ihm folgen durch die schmale Leier?
Sein Sinn ist Zwiespalt. An der Kreuzung zweier
Herzwege steht kein Tempel für Apoll.

Gesang, wie du ihn lehrst, ist nicht Begehr,
nicht Werbung um ein endlich noch Erreichtes;
Gesang ist Dasein. Für den Gott ein Leichtes.
Wann aber sind wir? Und wann wendet er

an unser Sein die Erde und die Sterne?
Dies ists nicht, Jüngling, Daß du liebst, wenn auch
die Stimme dann den Mund dir aufstößt, – lerne

vergessen, daß du aufsangst. Das verrinnt.
In Wahrheit singen, ist ein andrer Hauch.
Ein Hauch um nichts. Ein Wehn im Gott. Ein Wind.

Aus: Die Sonette an Orpheus, Erster Teil (1922)

Eis a minha tradução, apreciada por Faustino: 

Um Deus o pode. Mas, da lira ao solo,
há-de o homem consegui-lo? À dissensão
tendemos, e não há Templo de Apolo
no enredar dos ramais do coração.

O canto, como o queres, não são teus
desejos, nem a busca do atingível.
Cantar é ser. Tão fácil para o Deus!
Mas, quando o somos?  E Ele, quando ao nível 

de nosso  olhar  o céu e a terra estende?
Jovem no amor ainda não és, conquanto 
a palavra te suba ao lábio. Aprende

A esquecer que cantaste. E sem alento.
Uma outra coisa é o verdadeiro canto.
Um sopro ao nada. Um voo em Deus. Um vento.


A Gaveta está repleta de posts referentes a Rilke: 

Senhores, é tempo de Rilke aqui 19.04.11 

Um poema de Rilke traduzido por Ivo Barroso aqui 01.09.10 

E principalmente – não deixe de ler – 

RMR: o poeta ofendido e humilhado aqui 16.07.11 

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O leitor encontrará aqui na Gaveta várias referências ao tema:

Poema testamento 08.05.11 aqui

Dois poemas em homenagem ao Dia 12.05.12 aqui

Mãe em dobro 08.05.16 aqui

Divina mentira 21.02.18 aqui

Um retrato de mãe 12.05.18 aqui

Adendo ao post UM RETRATO DE MÃE (12.05.18) segunda parte

Embora tenham sido dois dos maiores prosadores da literatura brasileira, Machado de Assis (1839-1908) e Coelho Neto (1864-1934) insistiam em se considerar também poetas. Machado, no auge de sua glória de romancista, não deixava de publicar, de tempos em tempos, uma coletânea de versos: Crisálidas, (1864), Falenas, (1870), Americanas, (1875), Ocidentais, (1880), e até mesmo as suas Poesias Completas, (1901). É verdade que em sua produção poética, há alguns poemas seus que podem ser considerados representativos para a época (A Mosca Azul, Círculo Vicioso, Soneto de Natal, o soneto a Carolina e sua tradução (paráfrase) de O Corvo, de Edgar Allan Poe, que têm, segundo Manuel Bandeira, seu antologista, “a mesma excelente qualidade dos seus melhores contos e romances”. Já Coelho Neto, dele só conhecemos o famoso soneto Ser Mãe, sem dúvida a peça poética mais representativa de nossa literatura sobre o tema da maternidade. O soneto é bem feitinho, métrica correta, decassílabos com ictos na 6ª. e 10ª. exceto o 3º verso que adota o sistema 4, 8 e 10. Assunto bem desenvolvido, embora haja uma certa indecisão nos 2º e 3º versos; rimas ricas, pouco usuais. Valeu! Emplacou sendo a nossa melhor homenagem literária ao Dia das Mães.

Machado também prestou sua homenagem materna sob a forma de uma paráfrase ou imitação (como diz ele) do poeta inglês William Cowper (1731-1800). O cotejo com o original revela pouquíssima semelhança como texto inglês, tratando-se mais de um exercício poético sobre o tema. Eis o original, caso queiram conferir:


In Receipt Of My Mother’s Picture


Oh that those lips had language! Life has pass’d

With me but roughly since I heard thee last.

Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smiles I see,

The same that oft in childhood solaced me;

Voice only fails, else, how distinct they say,

“Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!” AA

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes

(Blest be the art that can immortalize,

The art that baffles time’s tyrannic claim

To quench it) here shines on me still the same.


Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,

Oh welcome guest, though unexpected, here!

Who bidd’st me honour with an artless song,

Affectionate, a mother lost so long,

I will obey, not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own;

And, while that face renews my filial grief,

Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief—

Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,

A momentary dream, that thou art she.


My mother! when I learn’d that thou wast dead,

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?

Hover’d thy spirit o’er thy sorrowing son,

Wretch even then, life’s journey just begun?

Perhaps thou gav’st me, though unseen, a kiss;

Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss—

Ah that maternal smile! it answers—Yes.

I heard the bell toll’d on thy burial day,

I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,

And, turning from my nurs’ry window, drew

A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!

But was it such?—It was.—Where thou art gone

Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.

May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,

The parting sound shall pass my lips no more!

Thy maidens griev’d themselves at my concern,

Oft gave me promise of a quick return.

What ardently I wish’d, I long believ’d,

And, disappointed still, was still deceiv’d;

By disappointment every day beguil’d,

Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,

Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,

I learn’d at last submission to my lot;

But, though I less deplor’d thee, ne’er forgot.


Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,

Children not thine have trod my nurs’ry floor;

And where the gard’ner Robin, day by day,

Drew me to school along the public way,

Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt

In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capt,

‘Tis now become a history little known,

That once we call’d the past’ral house our own.

Short-liv’d possession! but the record fair

That mem’ry keeps of all thy kindness there,

Still outlives many a storm that has effac’d

A thousand other themes less deeply trac’d.

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,

That thou might’st know me safe and warmly laid;

Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,

The biscuit, or confectionary plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow’d

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow’d;

All this, and more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,

Ne’er roughen’d by those cataracts and brakes

That humour interpos’d too often makes;

All this still legible in mem’ry’s page,

And still to be so, to my latest age,

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay

Such honours to thee as my numbers may;

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorn’d in heav’n, though little notic’d here.


Could time, his flight revers’d, restore the hours,

When, playing with thy vesture’s tissued flow’rs,

The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I prick’d them into paper with a pin,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while,

Would’st softly speak, and stroke my head and smile)

Could those few pleasant hours again appear,

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?

I would not trust my heart—the dear delight

Seems so to be desir’d, perhaps I might.—

But no—what here we call our life is such,

So little to be lov’d, and thou so much,

That I should ill requite thee to constrain

Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.


Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion’s coast

(The storms all weather’d and the ocean cross’d)

Shoots into port at some well-haven’d isle,

Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile,

There sits quiescent on the floods that show

Her beauteous form reflected clear below,

While airs impregnated with incense play

Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;

So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach’d the shore

“Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,”

And thy lov’d consort on the dang’rous tide

Of life, long since, has anchor’d at thy side.

But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,

Always from port withheld, always distress’d—

Me howling winds drive devious, tempest toss’d,

Sails ript, seams op’ning wide, and compass lost,

And day by day some current’s thwarting force

Sets me more distant from a prosp’rous course.

But oh the thought, that thou art safe, and he!

That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.

My boast is not that I deduce my birth

From loins enthron’d, and rulers of the earth;

But higher far my proud pretensions rise—

The son of parents pass’d into the skies.

And now, farewell—time, unrevok’d, has run

His wonted course, yet what I wish’d is done.

By contemplation’s help, not sought in vain,

I seem t’ have liv’d my childhood o’er again;

To have renew’d the joys that once were mine,

Without the sin of violating thine:

And, while the wings of fancy still are free,

And I can view this mimic shew of thee,

Time has but half succeeded in his theft—

Thyself remov’d, thy power to sooth me left.

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