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Poemas de Renato Suttana
(traduzidos para o inglês)
"I
think, I exist less" and othes poems of Renato
Suttana
I Think, I Exist Less
Thirty-two years —
looking for a rabbit
in a labyrinth of winds.
No, let’s not be rude.
Let us assume that some shadows
have formed and,
from winter to winter,
from dissipation to dissipation,
a certain flower was harvested —
though ephemeral and gray.
Let us think that some weariness
gives us the awareness of having finally
touched this point, whatever.
Without thinking of what could
have been possible (glass wings
in a storm), let us think
that this was possible —
and that, after all, fatigue has accumulated.
After all, getting to a point
(for less consistent) is getting to a point,
and not having brought the map
is still having arrived, never mind,
and being here, after the road.
Let us assume that, starting
from an improbable hypothesis,
we have performed a hypothesis: this one,
whatsoever.
Thirty-two years — enough
for something (be it clear or not),
for the awareness of something, such as,
for example, murmuring: He built a
castle in perplexity.
Or
Either life is consumed in an eye blink
or life is not worth it.
(Life is not worth it
because it lasts for many years.)
Either life is consumed
in a crazy fire —
or it is only a theater.
(Life is only a theater
because it does not burn in a crazy fire.)
Life is not worth it.
Small Vote
Teresa of Avila said it
(maybe she didn't say it —
or at least I dreamed she said it) —
that in a barrel filled with water
or in a flood
an empty pan will float away,
because it is small and empty.
(Like the ark floated in ancient times
over oceans of helplessness.)
I want to have this thought with me.
Sometimes in my hour of distress,
in which I try to fill my life
with a ballast of things in excess,
when I try to fill what I am.
I want it with me in my hour of despair:
whatever is lighter will go on floating,
what is empty will slip on the surface.
Too Early
It is too early
for whatever:
too early to get up from bed,
too early to open the door.
It is too early to apply one self’s intelligence
to those useless troubles upon which our mind skates;
too early to propose the agreement,
to do the trick,
to try the jump.
It is too early to start anything,
to amass a nest egg of ideas,
to dig a well in the dark,
to dig a trench in the chaos
to seal a pact,
to feed the dog,
to do this and to do that.
It is too early, infinitely early.
The Drowning Man
A drowning man wants to
cling to a word
to avoid sinking.
How can
a word — bone of nothingness —
save anyone?
A drowning man wants to
swim across the days,
swim upon
his own hopes
(swim upon silence),
and to do such he clings to a word
to avoid sinking (?).
..................................................
And yet sinking surrounds him
(whenever) everywhere.
Consciousness
They sleep well, those ones (so one says)
who have a quiet conscience in themselves.
I also had a quiet conscience once,
but now I am empty —
and all that does not preclude me, at any night,
to go on wallowing in insomnia.
Those ones have a stone sleep (so one says)
who respect the predicaments
of morals and live by the conveniences
of reason. But this does not hinder them...
Now I have only this empty awareness —
and the insomnia of all nights.
(The day outside is cold and gray
and grimy from north to south,
with a threatening of rain:
and it is winter, and winter
everywhere.)
They sleep like fish, those ones,
because they have a clear conscience in them.
I, too, had a clear conscience once,
but now I am empty —
and it does not mean any advantage for me at all.
(It does not mean that I will not sink in insomnia at
night
and roll down against
huge masses of useless thoughts.)
They sleep like stones, those ones,
but that has nothing to do with consciousness.
As If
Wing bird.
Wing that could
dispense with the bird
and complete by itself
its flight around
the secret.
Flight
that could do without wings
and would hurl
(full of itself, only)
into a sky of sapphire and gold —
where power and freedom
might be sisters of silence.
Heaven that could
be enough in itself
and eschew the flight
and manifest to the eye
its splendor
(its light of all days) —
its flame.
Dream
that would give back to the bird
its power to fly —
not converted into a wing,
but made out of cloud and height,
hovering over
all airs.
Moments that could
dispense with anything else and
rush themselves
into the future:
full of colors of the future
and full of the paths future
is preparing inside
chaos.
But not the vacuum,
not a rock tied to a vacuum,
not the thought of vacuum
that wants to grow up in desire
and to run into the stone,
but finally sleeps, exhausted, in solitude.
(Not the chimera of a mouth
perceived from the distance,
in which someone bets
and on which
hope is placed —
which is like a small wire
joining the two ends of chaos.)
Not your being there,
alone and looking at the stone,
observing the beach from a distance —
with your mouth
that tries to reach the summit
and tries to achieve something
and which nevertheless stumbles
and falls down
as an Icarus any
into silence.
(Translated by Otoniel Knipper Costa)
Publicado com autorização do
tradutor. Direitos do autor e do tradutor reservados.
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