Variations on the word sleep

I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.

From Selected Poems II: 1976-1986

Divagação sobre a palavra dormir

Gostava de te olhar a dormir
mesmo que isso nunca aconteça.
Gostava de te olhar
a dormir. Gostava de dormir
contigo, entrar
no teu sono, sentir seu fluxo suave e nebuloso
a deslizar sobre a minha cabeça

e caminhar contigo nessa floresta luminosa
ondulante de folhas fluorescentes
com um sol aquoso e três luas
até à caverna onde terás que descer,
em direcção ao teu pior medo

Gostava de te oferecer o ramal de prata,
a pequenina flor branca, aquela
palavra que te protegerá
da dor a meio
do teu sonho, do desgosto
central. Gostava de te acompanhar
até ao cimo da longa escadaria
mais uma vez e de ser
o barco para te transportar de volta
com cuidado, uma chama
entre duas mãos em concha
onde o teu corpo se deita
ao lado do meu, e tal como nele entras
com a facilidade com que se respira

Gostava de ser o ar
que te habita  durante um breve
momento. Gostava de ser tão imperceptível
e tão necessária.

versão minha

I

Somos duros um com o outro
e chamamos-lhe honestidade
escolhendo as nossas verdades dentadas
com cuidado e apontando-as através
da mesa neutra

As coisas que dizemos são
verdadeiras: é o nosso alvo
retorcido, são as nossas escolhas
que os tornam criminosos.

II

Claro as tuas mentiras
são mais divertidas:
porque as fazes novas de cada vez

As tuas verdades, dolorosas e chatas
repetem-se continuamente
se calhar porque és dono
de tão poucas

III

Uma verdade deveria existir
não deveria ser usada
assim. Se eu te amo

é isso um facto ou uma arma?

O corpo mente
ao mover-se assim, são estes
toques, cabelos, o mármore
macio e húmido que a minha língua percorre
mentiras que me estás a dizer?

O teu corpo não é uma palavra,
nem mente
nem fala a verdade

Apenas
está aqui ou não está.

Tradução: lebre

In the secular night you wander around
alone in your house. It's two-thirty.
Everyone has deserted you,
or this is your story;
you remember it from being sixteen,
when the others were out somewhere, having a good time,
or so you suspected,
and you had to baby-sit.
You took a large scoop of vanilla ice-cream
and filled up the glass with grapejuice
and ginger ale, and put on Glenn Miller
with his big-band sound,
and lit a cigarette and blew the smoke up the chimney,
and cried for a while because you were not dancing,
and then danced, by yourself, your mouth circled with purple.

Now, forty years later, things have changed,
and it's baby lima beans.
It's necessary to reserve a secret vice.
This is what comes from forgetting to eat
at the stated mealtimes. You simmer them carefully,
drain, add cream and pepper,
and amble up and down the stairs,
scooping them up with your fingers right out of the bowl,
talking to yourself out loud.
You'd be surprised if you got an answer,
but that part will come later.

There is so much silence between the words,
you say. You say, The sensed absence
of God and the sensed presence
amount to much the same thing,
only in reverse.
You say, I have too much white clothing.
You start to hum.
Several hundred years ago
this could have been mysticism
or heresy. It isn't now.
Outside there are sirens.
Someone's been run over.
The century grinds on.

in Morning in the Burned House, 1995

encontrado aqui

It was taken some time ago.
At first it seems to be
a smeared
print: blurred lines and grey flecks
blended with the paper;
 
then, as you scan
it, you see in the left-hand corner
a thing that is like a branch: part of a tree
(balsam or spruce) emerging
and, to the right, halfway up
what ought to be a gentle
slope, a small frame house.
 
In the background there is a lake,
and beyond that, some low hills.
 
(The photograph was taken
the day after I drowned.
 
I am in the lake, in the center
of the picture, just under the surface.
 
It is difficult to say where
precisely, or to say
how large or small I am:
the effect of water
on light is a distortion
 
but if you look long enough,
eventually
you will be able to see me.)
 

in The Circle Game, 1998

You begin this way:
this is your hand,
this is your eye,
that is a fish, blue and flat
on the paper, almost
the shape of an eye.
This is your mouth, whis is an O
or a moon, whichever
you like. This is yellow.
 
Outside the window
is the rain, green
because it is summer, and beyond that
the trees and then the world,
which is round and has only
the colors of these nine crayons.
 
This is the world, which is fuller
and more difficult to learn than I have said.
You are right to smudge it that way
with the red and then
the orange: the world burns.
 
Once you have learned these words
you will learn that there are more
words than you can ever learn.
The word hand floats above your hand
like a small cloud over a lake.
The word hand anchors
your hand to this table,
your hand is a warm stone
I hold between two words.
 
This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,
which is round but not flat and has more colors
than we can see.
 
It begins, it has an end,
this is what you will
come back to, this is your hand.
 

in Selected Poems 1966-1984

I'm thinking about you. What else can I say?
The palm trees on the reverse
are a delusion; so is the pink sand.
What we have are the usual
fractured coke bottles and the smell
of backed-up drains, too sweet,
like a mango on the verge
of rot, which we have also.
The air clear sweat, mosquitoes
& their tracks; birds & elusive.

Time comes in waves here, a sickness, one
day after the other rolling on;
I move up, it's called
awake, then down into the uneasy
nights but never
forward. The roosters crow
for hours before dawn, and a prodded
child howls & howls
on the pocked road to school.
In the hold with the baggage
there are two prisoners,
their heads shaved by bayonets, & ten crates
of queasy chicks. Each spring
there's race of cripples, from the store
to the church. This is the sort of junk
I carry with me; and a clipping
about democracy from the local paper.

Outside the window
they're building the damn hotel,
nail by nail, someone's
crumbling dream. A universe that includes you
can't be all bad, but
does it? At this distance
you're a mirage, a glossy image
fixed in the posture
of the last time I saw you.
Turn you over, there's the place
for the address. Wish you were
here. Love comes
in waves like the ocean, a sickness which goes on
& on, a hollow cave
in the head, filling & pounding, a kicked ear.

lido aqui

More and more frequently the edges
of me dissolve and I become
a wish to assimilate the world, including
you, if possible through the skin
like a cool plant's tricks with oxygen
and live by harmless green burning.

I would not consume
you, or ever
finish, you would still be there
surrounding me, complete
as the air.

Unfortunately, I don't have leaves.
Instead I have eyes
and teeth and other non-green things
which rule out osmosis.

So be careful, I mean it,
I give you a fair warning:

This kind of hunger draws
everything into its own
space; nor can we
talk it over, have a calm
rational discussion.

There is no reason for this, only
a starved dog's logic about bones.

in Love songs and sonets, Everyman's Library, 1997

The Circle Game

ii

Being with you
here in this room

is like groping through a mirror
whose glass has melted
to the consistency
of gelatine

you refuse to be
(and I)
an exact reflection, yet
will not walk from the glass,
be separate.

Anyway, it is right
that they have put
so many mirrors here
(chipped, hung crooked)
in this room with its high transom
and empty wardrobe; even
the back of the door
has one.

There are people in the next room
arguing, opening and closing drawers
(the walls are thin)

You look past me, listening
to them, perhaps, or
watching
your own reflection somewhere
behind my head,
over my shoulder

You shift, and the bed
sags under us, losing its focus

there is someone in the next room

there is always

(your face
remote, listening)

someone in the next room.

de Eating Fire, Virago, 1998

Ciranda

ii

Estar contigo
aqui neste quarto

é como tactear um espelho
onde o vidro derreteu
até à consistência
da gelatina

tu recusas ser
(e eu)
um reflexo exacto, mas
não te afastas do vidro,
desliga.

De qualquer maneira, a verdade
é que puseram
imensos espelhos aqui
(lascados, às três pancadas)
neste quarto com a sua janela altaneira
e o roupeiro vazio; até mesmo
por trás da porta
está um.

Há gente no quarto ao lado,
discutem, abrem e fecham gavetas
(as paredes são finas)

Tu olhas para além de mim, ouves
o que dizem, talvez, ou
contemplas
o teu próprio reflexo algures
atrás da minha cabeça,
por cima do meu ombro

Voltas-te, e a cama
cede por baixo, perdes o ângulo

há alguém no quarto ao lado

há sempre

(o teu rosto
distante, escuta)

alguém no quarto ao lado.

versão minha

True Stories

i

Don’t ask for the true story;
why do you need it?

It’s not what I set out with
or what I carry.

What I’m sailing with,
a knife, blue fire,

luck, a few good words
that still work, and the tide.

ii

The true story was lost
on the way down to the beach, it’s something

I never had, that black tangle
of branches in a shifting light,

my blurred footprints
filling with salt

water, this handful
of tiny bones, this owl’s kill;

a moon, crumpled papers, a coin,
the glint of an old picnic,

the hollows made by lovers
in sand a hundred

years ago: no clue.

iii

The true story lies
among the other stories,

a mess of colours, like jumbled clothing
thrown off or away,

like hearts on marble, like syllables, like
butchers’ discards.

The true story is vicious
and multiple and untrue

after all. Why do you
need it? Don’t ever
ask for the true story.

True Stories(1981)

in Eating Fire- Selected Poetry 1965 – 1995, Virago Press, 1998

Histórias Verdadeiras

i

Não me peças a história verdadeira;
para que precisas tu dela?

Não é com isso que me levanto
nem o que transporto.

Aquilo com que vou navegando,
uma faca, fogo azulado,

sorte, algumas palavras boas
que ainda funcionam, e o instante.

ii

A história verdadeira perdeu-se
durante o caminho para a praia, é alguma coisa

que nunca tive, esse negro emaranhado
de ramos numa luz evanescente,

as minhas pegadas esbatidas
cobrem-se com sal

água, esta mão cheia
de pequenos ossos, a matança daquela coruja;

uma lua, papéis amarrotados, uma moeda,
o resplendor de um antigo piquenique,

as covas feitas na areia
por amantes cem

anos antes: nenhuma pista.

iii

A história verdadeira existe
no meio das outras histórias,

uma confusão de cores, como roupa despida
amontoada ou atirada fora,

como corações em mármore, como sílabas, como
os desperdícios do talho.

A história verdadeira é viciosa
e múltipla e falsa

afinal de contas. Para que precisas
tu dela? Não me peças nunca
a história verdadeira.

versão minha

There is nothing to be afraid of,
it is only the wind
changing to the east, it is only
your father the thunder
your mother the rain

In this country of water
with its beige moon damp as a mushroom,
its drowned stumps and long birds
that swim, where the moss grows
on all sides of the trees
and your shadow is not your shadow
but your reflection,

your true parents disappear
when the curtain covers your door.
We are the others,
the ones from under the lake
who stand silently beside your bed
with our heads of darkness.
We have come to cover you
with red wool,
with our tears and distant whipers.

You rock in the rain's arms
the chilly ark of your sleep,
while we wait, your night
father and mother
with our cold hands and dead flashlight,
knowing we are only
the wavering shadows thrown
by one candle, in this echo
you will hear twenty years later.

poema encontrado aqui

Não tens nada a temer
é apenas o vento
a virar para leste, é apenas
o trovão teu pai
a chuva tua mãe

Neste país de água
com o relento da lua parda como um cogumelo,
com cepos submersos e grandes pássaros
a flutuar, onde o musgo cresce
por todos os lados das árvores
e a tua sombra não é a tua sombra
mas o teu reflexo.

Os teus pais verdadeiros desaparecem
mal desce a cortina sobre a tua porta.
Nós somos os outros,
aqueles que emergem do fundo do lago
ficamos à beira da tua cama silenciosos
com as nossas cabeças de escuridão.
Viemos para te embrulhar
com lã vermelha
com lágrimas e remotas chicotadas.

Tu embalas nos braços da chuva
a arca gélida do teu sono,
enquanto esperamos, teus noturnos
pai e mãe
com as nossas mãos frias e a lanterna apagada,
sabendo que somos apenas
sombras vacilantes projectadas
por uma vela, daqui a vinte anos
ainda ouvirás neste eco.

versão minha

I can’t tell you my name:
You don’t believe I have one

I can’t warn you this boat is falling
You planned it that way

You’ve never had a face
But you know that appeals to me

You are old enough to be my
Skeleton: you know that also.

I can’t tell you I don’t want you
The sea is on your side

You have the earth’s nets
I have only a pair of scissors.

When I look for you I find
Water or moving shadows

There is no way I can lose you
When you are lost already.

de Eating Fire- Selected Poetry 1965 – 1995, Virago Press, 1998

De manhã cedo uma mulher idosa
está a colher amoras na sombra.
Mais tarde vai ficar muito quente
mas por agora há orvalho.

Algumas bagas caem: essas são para os esquilos.
Algumas estão verdes, reservadas para os ursos.
Algumas vão para a tigela de metal.
Essas são para ti, para que as possas provar
somente por um momento.
São bons tempos: uma pequena doçura
após a outra, depois de um rápido desvanecimento.

No passado, a mulher idosa,
que estou a evocar para ti
teria sido a minha avó.
Hoje sou eu.
Daqui a alguns anos poderás ser tu,
se tiveres alguma sorte.

As mãos alcançando-se
entre as folhas e os espinhos
foram no passado de minha mãe.
Eu herdei-as.
Décadas à frente, estudarás as tuas próprias
mãos temporárias, e lembrar-te-ás.
Não chores, é isto que acontece.

Olha! A tigela de aço
está quase cheia. O suficiente para todos nós.

As amoras brilham como vidro,
como os enfeites de vidro
que dependuramos nas árvores em Dezembro
para nos lembrarmos de ser gratos pela neve.

Algumas bagas ocorrem ao sol,
mas essas são as menores.
É como eu sempre disse:
as melhores crescem à sombra.

em afetuosamente, bertrand, 2021,
trad: João Luís Barreto Guimarães

Daguerreotype Taken in Old Age

I know I change
have changed

but whose is this vapid face
pitted and vast, rotund
suspended in empty paper
as though in a telescope

the granular moon

I rise from my chair
pulling against gravity
I turn away
and go out into the garden

I revolve among the vegetables,
my head ponderous
reflecting the sun
in shadows from the pocked ravines
cut in my cheeks, my eye-
sockets 2 craters

among the paths
I orbit
the apple trees
white white spinning
stars around me

I am being
eaten away by light

Daguerreótipo em idade antiga

Sei das mudanças, sim
Sei que mudei

A quem pertence este rosto inexpressivo
Tristonho e largo, redondo
Suspenso no papel
como se avistado num telescópio

uma lua granulosa

Levanto-me da cadeira
Repudio a gravidade
Viro-me
e saio para o jardim

Revolvo os vegetais
A minha cabeça pesada
A reflectir o sol
Sombras nas cavadas ravinas
Abertas nas minhas faces, nas
Duas crateras dos meus olhos

Entre os caminhos
traço a minha órbita
As macieiras brancas
Brancas estrelas
Revolteando em meu redor

A ser devorada
Pela luz.

                                         Tradução: Helena Vascncelos