Olá, prezados leitores!
Estas fotos eu tirei de uma calçada da rua onde moro.
Fiquei especialmente impressionada com este girassol, nascido debaixo de um portão, em plena calçada!!
Isso me fez lembrar do poema A flor e a náusea, de Carlos Drummond de Andrade que transcrevo abaixo das fotos, com o auxílio de alguns blogs, devidamente referenciados.
Uma semana excelente!
Hello dear readers!
This pictures were taken by me at the sidewalk in the street I live.
I was specially impressed with this sunflower, born under a porch in the sidewalk!
It reminded me the poem The flower and the nausea, which I register under the pictures. I took both the original Portuguese and the English translation thanks to some other blogs.
A very good week!!
Carlos Drummond de Andrade. Originalmente publicado em A rosa do povo (1945)
http://valiteratura.blogspot.com.br/2011/07/flor-e-nausea-rosa-do-povo-carlos.html - Acesso em 29 de abril de 2013
A flor e a náusea
Preso à minha classe e a algumas roupas,
vou de branco pela rua cinzenta.
Melancolias, mercadorias espreitam-me.
Devo seguir até o enjôo?
Posso, sem armas, revoltar-me?
Olhos sujos no relógio da torre:
Não, o tempo não chegou de completa justiça.
O tempo é ainda de fezes, maus poemas, alucinações e espera.
O tempo pobre, o poeta pobre
fundem-se no mesmo impasse.
Em vão me tento explicar, os muros são surdos.
Sob a pele das palavras há cifras e códigos.
O sol consola os doentes e não os renova.
As coisas. Que tristes são as coisas, consideradas sem ênfase.
Vomitar esse tédio sobre a cidade.
Quarenta anos e nenhum problema
resolvido, sequer colocado.
Nenhuma carta escrita nem recebida.
Todos os homens voltam para casa.
Estão menos livres mas levam jornais
e soletram o mundo, sabendo que o perdem.
Crimes da terra, como perdoá-los?
Tomei parte em muitos, outros escondi.
Alguns achei belos, foram publicados.
Crimes suaves, que ajudam a viver.
Ração diária de erra, distribuída em casa.
Os ferozes padeiros do mal.
Os ferozes leiteiros do mal.
Pôr fogo em tudo, inclusive em mim.
Ao menino de l9l8 chamavam anarquista.
Porém meu ódio é o melhor de mim.
Com ele me salvo
e dou a poucos uma esperança mínima.
Uma flor nasceu na rua!
Passem de longe, bondes, ônibus, rio de aço do tráfego.
Uma flor ainda desbotada
ilude a polícia, rompe o asfalto.
Façam completo silêncio, paralisem os negócios,
garanto que uma flor nasceu.
Sua cor não se percebe.
Suas pétalas não se abrem.
Seu nome não está nos livros.
É feia. Mas é realmente uma flor.
Sento-me no chão da capital do país às cinco horas da tarde
e lentamente passo a mão nessa forma insegura.
Do lado das montanhas, nuvens maciças avolumam-se.
Pequenos pontos brancos movem-se no mar, galinhas em pânico.
É feia. Mas é uma flor. Furou o asfalto, o tédio, o nojo e o ódio.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
http://prasannachoudhary.blogspot.com.br/2011/08/carlos-drummond-de-andrade-poems.html
– Acesso em 29 de abril de 2013
THE
FLOWER AND THE NAUSEA
Carlos Drummond de
Andrade /
Translation by Dilip Loundo
Bound
to my class and a few clothes,
I walk in white along the grey street.
Melancholies, goods peep at me.
Should I proceed till nausea?
Can I, unarmed, rise in rebellion?
Dirty eyes over the tower clock :
No, the time of complete justice has not come.
It's still time of excrements, bad poems, hallucinations and
wait.
The poor time and the poor poet
get fused in the same impasse.
In vain I try to explain, the walls are deaf.
There are ciphers and codes beneath the skin of the words.
The sun comforts the sick but it doesn't renew them.
Things. How sad are things when given no emphasis.
Vomit this tedium over the city.
Forty years and not a single problem
was solved, not even formulated.
Not a single letter was written or received.
All men return home.
They're less free yet they carry newspapers
and spell out the world, knowing they're losing it.
Earthly crimes, how can one forgive them?
I took part in many, others I concealed.
I found some fine, they were publicised.
Mild crimes that help one to live.
Daily rations of error delivered at home.
Fierce bakers of evil.
Fierce milkmen of evil.
Set everything on fire, including myself.
They called the little boy of 1918 an anarchist.
Yet, hatred is my very best.
I survive on it
and hold out to a few, a minimum of hope.
A flower was born in the street!
Trams, buses, steel river of traffic : stay away.
A flower, still pale,
deceives the police, breaks open the asphalt.
Stay in complete silence, suspend all dealings,
I assure that a flower was born.
Its color is not seen.
Its petals do not open.
Its name is not found in the books.
It's ugly. But it's indeed a flower.
I walk in white along the grey street.
Melancholies, goods peep at me.
Should I proceed till nausea?
Can I, unarmed, rise in rebellion?
Dirty eyes over the tower clock :
No, the time of complete justice has not come.
It's still time of excrements, bad poems, hallucinations and
wait.
The poor time and the poor poet
get fused in the same impasse.
In vain I try to explain, the walls are deaf.
There are ciphers and codes beneath the skin of the words.
The sun comforts the sick but it doesn't renew them.
Things. How sad are things when given no emphasis.
Vomit this tedium over the city.
Forty years and not a single problem
was solved, not even formulated.
Not a single letter was written or received.
All men return home.
They're less free yet they carry newspapers
and spell out the world, knowing they're losing it.
Earthly crimes, how can one forgive them?
I took part in many, others I concealed.
I found some fine, they were publicised.
Mild crimes that help one to live.
Daily rations of error delivered at home.
Fierce bakers of evil.
Fierce milkmen of evil.
Set everything on fire, including myself.
They called the little boy of 1918 an anarchist.
Yet, hatred is my very best.
I survive on it
and hold out to a few, a minimum of hope.
A flower was born in the street!
Trams, buses, steel river of traffic : stay away.
A flower, still pale,
deceives the police, breaks open the asphalt.
Stay in complete silence, suspend all dealings,
I assure that a flower was born.
Its color is not seen.
Its petals do not open.
Its name is not found in the books.
It's ugly. But it's indeed a flower.
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