特刊（葡语，英语）

Der Kuss by Gustav Klimt

Poem in Three Parts

By John Ashbery

1.  Love

“Once I let a guy blow me.
I kind of backed away from the experience.
Now years later, I think of it
Without emotion.  There has been no desire to repeat,
No hang-ups either.  Probably if the circumstances were right
It could happen again, but I don’t know,
I just have other things to think about,
More important things.  Who goes to bed with what
Is unimportant.  Feelings are important.
Mostly I think of feelings, they fill up my life
Like the wind, like tumbling clouds
In a sky full of clouds, clouds upon clouds.”

Nameless shrubs running across a field

That didn't drain last year and 

Isn't draining this year to fall short

Like waves at the end of a lake,

Each with a little sigh,

Are you sure this is what the pure day

With its standing light intends?

There are so many different jobs:

It's sufficient to choose one, or a fraction of one.

Days will be blue elsewhere with their own purpose.

One must bear in mind one thing.

It isn't necessary to know what that thing is.

All things are papable, none are known.

The day fries, with a fine conscience,

Shadows, ripples, underbrush, old cars.

The conscience is to you as whta is known,

The unknown gets to be known.

Familiar things seem a long way off.

2. Courage

In a diamond-paned checked shirt

to be setting out this way:

A blah morning

Not too far from home (home

Is a modest one-bedroom apartment,

City-owned and operated),

The average debris of the journey

Less than at first thought,

Smell of open water,

Throughs, special pits.

It all winds back again

In time for evening's torque:

So much we could have done,

So much we did do.

Weeds like skyscrapers against the blue vault of heaven:

Where it it to end?what is this? Who are these people?

Am I myself, or a talking tree?

3. I love the Sea

There is no promise but lots

Of intimacy the way yellowed land narrows together.

This part isn't very popular

For some reason: the houses need repairs,

The cars in the yards are too new.

The enclosing slopes dream and are forgetful.

There are joyous, warm patches

Amid nondescript trees.

My dream gets obtuse:

When I woke up this morning I noticed first

That you weren't there, then prodded

Slowly back into the dream:

These trains, people, beaches, rides

In happiness because their variety

Is outlived but still there, outside somewhere,

In the side yard, maybe.

Ivy is blanketing one whole wall.

The time is darker

For fast reasons into everything, about what concerns it now. 

We could sleep together again but that wouldn't

Bring back the profit of these dangerous dreams of the sea.

All that crashing, that blindness, that blood

One associates with other days near the sea

Although it persists, like the blindness of noon.

On Board Ship

By Constantine P. Cavafy

It's like him, of course,

this little pencil portrait.

Hurriedly sketched, on the ship's deck,

the afternoon magical,

the Ionian Sea around us.

It's like him. But I remember him as better looking.

He was almost pathologically sensitive,

and this highlighted his expression.

He appears to me better looking

now that my soul brings him back, out of Time.

Out Of Time. All these things are very old-

the sketch, the ship, the afternoon. 

The Afternoon Sun 

By Constantine P. Cavafy

This room, how well I know it.

Now they're renting it, and the one next to it,

as offices. The whole house has become

an office building for agents, businessmen, companies.

This room, how familiar it is.

The couch was here, near the door,

a Turkish carpet in front of it.

Close by, the shelf with two yellow vases.

On the right -no, opposite- a wardrobe with a mirror.

In the middle the table where he wrote,

and the three big wicker chairs.

Beside the window the bed

where we made love so many times.

They must still be around somewhere, those old things.

Beside the window the bed;

the afternoon sun used to touch half of it.. . . 

One afternoon at four o'clock we separated

for a week only . . . And then-

that week became forever. 

To Call Up The Shades

By Constantine P. Cavafy

One candle is enough. Its gentle light

will be more suitable, will be more gracious

when the Shades come, the Shades of Love.

One candle is enough. 

Tonight the roomshould not have too much light. 

In deep reverie,all receptiveness, and with the gentle light-

in this deep reverie I'll form visions

to call up the Shades, the Shades of Love. 

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

By e.e.cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done

by only me is your doing, my darling)

                                                      i fear

no fate(for you are my fate, my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world, my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

love is more thicker than forget

By e.e.cummings

love is more thicker than forget

more thinner than recall

more seldom than a wave is wet

more frequent than to fail

it is most mad and moonly

and less it shall unbe

than all the sea which only

is deeper than the sea

love is less always than to win

less never than alive

less bigger than the least begin

less littler than forgive

it is most sane and sunly

and more it cannot die

than all the sky which only

is higher than the sky

Há Palavras que Nos Beijam

(Alexandre O'Neill)

Há palavras que nos beijam 

Como se tivessem boca. 

Palavras de amor, de esperança, 

De imenso amor, de esperança louca. 

Palavras nuas que beijas 

Quando a noite perde o rosto; 

Palavras que se recusam 

Aos muros do teu desgosto. 

De repente coloridas 

Entre palavras sem cor, 

Esperadas inesperadas 

Como a poesia ou o amor. 

(O nome de quem se ama 

Letra a letra revelado 

No mármore distraído 

No papel abandonado) 

Palavras que nos transportam 

Aonde a noite é mais forte, 

Ao silêncio dos amantes 

Abraçados contra a morte. 

“Conheço o sal da tua pele seca...”

(Jorge de Sena)

Conheço o sal da tua pele seca

depois que o estio se volveu inverno

da carne repousada em suor noturno.

Conheço o sal do leite que bebemos

quando das bocas se estreitavam lábios

e o coração no sexo palpitava.

Conheço o sal dos teus cabelos negros

ou louros ou cinzentos que se enrolam

neste dormir de brilhos azulados.

Conheço o sal que resta em minhas mãos 

como nas praias o perfume fica

quando a maré desceu e se retrai.

Conheço o sal da tua boca, o sal

da tua língua, o sal de teus mamilos,

e o da cintura se encurvando de ancas.

A todo o sal conheço que é só teu,

ou é de mim em ti, ou é de ti em mim,

um cristalino pó de amantes enlaçados.

  — Madrid, 16.01.1973

A tua voz fala amorosa

(Fernando Pessoa)

A tua voz fala amorosa...

Tão meiga fala que me esquece

Que é falsa a sua branda prosa.

Meu coração desentristece.

Sim, como a música sugere

O que na música não está,

Meu coração nada mais quer

Que a melodia que em ti há...

Amar-me? Quem o crera? Fala

Na mesma voz que nada diz

Se és uma música que embala.

Eu ouço, ignoro, e sou feliz.

Nem há felicidade falsa,

Enquanto dura é verdadeira.

Que importa o que a verdade exalça

Se sou feliz desta maneira?

  — 22.01.1929

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