05
Ago 12

DETECTIVE STORY

Who is ever quite without his landscape,

The straggling village street, the house in trees,

All near the church? Or else, the gloomy town-house,

The one with the Corinthian pillars, or

The tiny workmanlike flat, in any case

A home, a centre where the three or four things

That happen to a man do happen?

Who cannot draw the map of his life, shade in

The country station where he meets his loves

And says good-bye, continually, mark the spot

Where the body of his happiness was first discovered?

 

An unknown tramp? A magnate? An enigma always,

With a well-buried past: and when the truth,

The truth about our hapiness comes out,

How much it owed to blakmail and philandering.

 

What follows is habitual. Al goes to plan:

The feud between the local common sense

And intuition, that exasperating amateur

Who's always on the spot by chance before us;

All goes to plan, both lying and confession,

Down to the thrilling final chase, the kill.

 

Yet, on the last page, a lingering doubt:

The verdict, was it just? The judge's nerves,

That clue, that protestation from the gallows,

And our own smile... why, yes...

 

But time is always guilty. Someone must pay for

Our loss of happiness, our happiness itself.

 

W. H. Auden 

publicado por RAA às 15:42 | comentar | favorito
10
Jul 11

O Massacre dos Inocentes

autor: W. H. Auden (York, 21.II.1907 -- Kischtetten, Áustria, 29.IX.1973)
título: O Massacre dos Inocentes
subtítulo: Uma Antologia
selecção, tradução e notas: José Alberto Oliveira
colecção: «Documenta Poética» #24
editora: Assírio & Alvim
págs.: 171
dimensões: 20,5x14,7x1 cm. (brochado)
composição: Maria da Graça Manta
impressão: Guide - Artes Gráficas
publicado por RAA às 19:30 | comentar | favorito
23
Jul 10

MUSÉE DES BEAUX ARTS

About suffering they were never wrong,
The Old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position; how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:

They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Brueghel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an importance failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out from the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

W. H. Auden
publicado por RAA às 22:20 | comentar | favorito