São Paulo, domingo, 3 de setembro de 1995 |
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ON THE FLY-LEAF OF POUND'S CANTOS
BASIL BUNTING There are the Alps. What is there to say about them?They don't make sense. Fatal glaciers, crags cranks climb, jumbled boulder and weed, pasture and boulder, scree, et l'on entend, maybe, le refrain joyeux et leger. Who knows what the ice will have scraped on the rock it is smoothing? There they are, you will have to go a long way round if you want to avoid them. It takes some getting used to. There are the Alps, fools! Sit down and wait for them to crumble! (Ode 37, Book 1) (1949) You idiot! What makes you think decay will never stink from your skin? Your warts sicken typists, girls in the tube avoid you. Must they also stop their ears to your tomcat wailing, a promise your body cannot keep? A lame stag, limping after the hinds, with tines shivered by impact and scarred neck -but look! Spittle fills his mouth, overflows, snuffing their sweet scent. His feet lift lightly with mere memory of gentler seasons. Lungs full of the drug, antlers rake back, he halts the herd, his voice filled with custom of combat and unslaked lust. Did the girl shrink from David? Did she hug his ribs, death shaking them, and milk dry the slack teat from which Judah had sucked life? (ODE 4, BOOK 2,1965) Texto Anterior: Um lutador no deserto Próximo Texto: WHAT THE CHAIRMAN TOLD TOM Índice |
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