Aqui na mesa 2, estou refletindo sobre o verão e a
provisoriedade de tantas coisas na vida....
At my childhood home, there were two medium sized trees out front with stocky branches that formed a kind of star-burst, each the same length of the other. The effect was that the trees had a form of perfect globes, except that the leaves underneath were sparser that on top. We called them "umbrella trees". I really have no idea what species or variety trees they were.
Well, those bottom branches, thick and stout, were just the right height for a ten year old like myself to reach jumping and, monkeying around, end up hanging from folded knees upside down. From that precarious perspective, I observed the familiar street with its row of suburban houses and chain link fences and green lawns and passing cars. But what I saw was so much different than what I saw with my feet placed firmly on the ground.
Suddenly I was transported to an alternate universe, parallel to mine, where all the laws of nature were reversed, people's faces were messed up: with mouths on top and eyes down below. Instead of risking a fall to break my neck, I had the distinct sensation if I let go of the tree, I would fall up, into the blue sky.
Never experienced this? Try this next time you are lazying in a swimming pool on a calm summer day. As you float there, on your back, crane you neck all the way back so your forehead is below water and your eyes just above. If you can, you will see just at the level of the water. But in this backward position, if you can hold it for just a moment--the water will be covering your ears so any sounds will be muffled and other-worldly--suddenly the world will turn upside down and you will feel suspended in the air, held upside down by an unfamiliar force.
For whatever reason, I recalled that childhood sensation upon hearing the following poem read on a radio program just the other day.
Perhaps it has to do with the unbearable Texas heat and drought that is upon us here (now in the 60th day of 100° (F.) weather (38° C.), and more than that since the last rain). Perhaps it is getting to my head, and I am becoming delirious. Maybe I feel all the world drying and blowing away in the wind. Suddenly things seem so precarious, so volatile. Just a few months ago, we had record cold and record rain fall. When I heard the poem, I was reminded of how quickly our perspective can change, how transient some things are: summer, winter, childhood....
See these lines: "But at last, when the wind flattens the grasses, For you, the design and purpose stop. And you fall, With the other husks of summer".
Is this me too? Is this my perspective? Is it just an illusion?
Even if so much in life is
ephemeral, temporal, fleeting, unbounded, homeless, so many moments "...are made of almost nothing, But of enough".
What tremendous three words: "But of enough."
The Dragonfly
by Louise Bogan
You are made of almost nothing
But of enough
To be great eyes
And diaphanous double vans;
To be ceaseless movement,
Unending hunger,
Grappling love.
Link between water and air,
Earth repels you.
Light touches you only to shift into iridescence
Upon your body and wings.
Twice-born, predator,
You split into the heat.
Swift beyond calculation or capture
You dart into the shadow
Which consumes you.
You rocket into the day.
But at last, when the wind flattens the grasses,
For you, the design and purpose stop.
And you fall
With the other husks of summer. |
A lavadeira
por Louise Bogan
Tu es feito de quase nada
Mas do suficiente
Para seres grande olhar
E asas diáfanas casal;
Para seres o movimento incessante,
Fome sem fim,
Amor pelejador.
Ligação entre a água e o ar,
A terra te repele.
A luz te toca só para mudar-se
iridescente
Sobre teu corpo e asas.
Nascida duas vezes, predador,
Tu te divides no calor.
Veloz além de qualquer cálculo ou confisco
Tu te apressas na sombra
Que te consome.
Tu decolas no dia.
Mas, finalmente, quando o vento aplaina as gramíneas,
Para ti, o desenho e o propósito acabam-se.
E tu cais
Com as outras cascas do verão. |
"The Dragonfly" by Louise Bogan, from The Blue Estuaries: Poems 1923-1968. © Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1995.
Listen here to the
program, and to the beautiful reading of the poem by
Garrison Keillor. Skip to about minute 3:20 to hear just the poem...
Translation to Portuguese by me, Dê Hatch (for which I am more than open to corrections, edits, critiques, opinions. I really have little idea how it is truly rendered in this language, but I can't help but translate, since I love the activity ;)
