segunda-feira, 22 de novembro de 2010

THE RAVEN

 
    Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary
    Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
    As some one gently rapping at my chamber door.
    ‘ ’Tis some visitor, ’I muttered, ‘tapping at my chamber door—
               Only this, and nothing more.’
 
    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the Bleak December,
    And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow; —vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
    For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
               Nameless here for evermore
    And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
    Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
    ‘ ’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
    Some later visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
               This it is, and nothing more.’
    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
    ‘Sir’, said I, ‘orMadam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
    That I scarce was sure I heard you’,—here I opened wide the door;—
               Darkness there, and nothing more.
    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
    Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, ‘Lenore!’,
    This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, ‘Lenore!’—
               Merely this, and nothing more.
    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
    Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    ‘Surely,’ said I, ‘surely that is something at my window lattice:
    Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
    Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
               ’Tis the wind and nothing more.’

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
    In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
    Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
               Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
    Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
    By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
    ‘Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,’ I said,
                                                               [‘art sure no craven,]
    Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
    Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian Shore!’
               Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore’.
    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
    Though its answer little meaning—little re relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door—
    Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
               With such name as ‘Nevermore’.
    But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
    That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
    Till I scarcely more than muttered, ‘other friends have flown before—
    On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.’
               Then the bird said, ‘Nevermore’.
    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
    ‘Doubtless’, said, ‘what it utters is its only stock and store,
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
    Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
               Of ‘‘Never-nevermore’’.’
    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
    Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
    Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
    What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
               Meant in croaking ‘Nevermore’.
    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
    To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o’er,
    But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o’er,
               She shall press, ah, nevermore!
    Then me thought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
    Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    ‘Wretch’, I cried, ‘thy God hath lent thee—
    Respite—respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
    Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!’
               Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore’.
     ‘Prophet!’ said I,  ‘thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
    Whether Tempter sent,or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet allundaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
    On this home by horrorhaunted—tell me truly, I implore—
    Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore’
               Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore’.
    ‘Prophet!’ said I, ‘thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
    By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
    Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.’
               Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore’.
    ‘Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend,’, I shrieked, upstarting—
    ‘Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
    Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!’
               Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore’.
    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
    On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
    And the lamp lighto’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
    And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
               Shall be lifted—nevermore!


Allan Poe.
"Na terra do coração passei o dia pensando - coração meu, meu coração. Pensei e pensei tanto que deixou de significar uma forma, um órgão, uma coisa. Ficou só com-cor, ação repetido, invertido - ação, cor - sem sentido - couro, ação e não. Quis vê-lo, escapava.
Batia e rebatia, escondido no peito. Então fechei os olhos, viajei. E como quem gira um caleidoscópio, vi:

Meu coração é um sapo rajado, viscoso e cansado, à espera do beijo prometido capaz de transformá-lo em príncipe.

(...)

Meu coração é um traço seco. Vertical, pós-moderno, coloridíssimo de neon, gravado em fundo preto. Puro artifício, definitivo.

Meu coração é um entardecer de verão, numa cidadezinha à beira-mar. A brisa sopra, saiu a primeira estrela. Há moças na janela, rapazes pela praça, tules violetas sobre os montes onde o sol se p6os. A lua cheia brotou do mar. Os apaixonados suspiram. E se apaixonam ainda mais.

Meu coração é um anjo de pedra de asa quebrada.

Meu coração é um bar de uma única mesa, debruçado sobre a qual um único bêbado bebe um único copo de bourbon, contemplado por um único garçom. Ao fundo, Tom Waits geme um único verso arranhado. Rouco, louco.Meu coração é um sorvete colorido de todas as cores, é saboroso de todos os sabores. Quem dele provar, será feliz para sempre.

(...)

Meu coração é um poço de mel, no centro de um jardim encantado, alimentando beija-flores que, depois de prová-lo, transformam-se magicamente em cavalos brancos alados que voam para longe, em direção à estrela Veja. Levam junto quem me ama, me levam junto também.Faquir involuntário, cascata de champanha, púrpura rosa do Cairo, sapato de sola furada, verso de Mário Quintana, vitrina vazia, navalha afiada, figo maduro, papel crepom, cão uivando pra lua, ruína, simulacro, varinha de incenso.



 Caio Fernando Abreu