São Paulo, domingo, 15 de janeiro de 1995 |
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Dias de 1941 e '44
JAMES MERRILL
Ou será que sim? Três anos depois você morreria, Talvez devido à falta disso, na França, em guerra. Disseram-me num crepúsculo quente. Chovia, O barro respingava nas casernas. Eu Subi ao meu beliche, seco por um décor, Com "Du Côté de Chez Swann". Treino básico... Tradução de HORACIO COSTA Days of 1941 and '44 for David Mixsell The nightmare shower room. My tormentor leers In mock lust –surely?– at my crotch. The towel I reach for held just out of reach, I gaze back petrified, past speech, past tears. Or Saturday night war games. Shy of the whole Student body, and my own, I've hid In the furnace room. His warning stokes my head: This time, Toots, it's your pants up the flagpole! And why, four-letter man, descend To pick on me, in those days less than nothing, A shaky X on panic's bottom line? Imagine meeting now, here at the end– You sheep-eyed, stripped of your wolf's clothing– And seeing which came true, your life or mine. My dear –yes, let that stand: you were my first True hate. You whispering, the sadist's glee. You lounging, buried in my diary– Each phrase a fuse. I wanted you to burst. Your cubicle across from mine was bleak As when school opened. Oh, you didn't need Cushions, posters, cotton for nosebleed, A mother caught by flash in Red Cross chic. Or did you? Three more years and you would die, For lack of them perhaps, in France, at war. Word reached me one hot twilight. It was raining, Clay spattering the barracks. I Fell back onto my bunk, parched for decor, With "Swann's Way". Basic training... (De: "The Selected Poems, 1946-1985) Texto Anterior: More pleasant adventures Próximo Texto: Ginsberg foi pioneiro da renascença californiana Índice |
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