abri o livro
tinha Bach dentro
e pude ver-te como uma espera
numa mesa do café
as rosas na cadeira
de gola alta
a entenderes-te com um poema
que não falava ainda sobre mim.
fechei o livro
pude ver-te a fechá-lo também
num breve olhar para a rua.
nesse dia eu levava
um vestido de veludo vermelho
que não tinha ainda nenhum vinco
dos teus abraços.
acho que não me viste
mas as pombas tombaram de amor
do telhados da cidade.
Ode para um café num Sábado - Ana Salomé (in Odes, 2008)
Have seen dawn and sunset on moors and windy hills
Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of Spain:
I have seen the lady April bringing in the daffodils,
Bringing the springing grass and the soft warm April rain.
I have heard the song of the blossoms and the old chant of the sea,
And seen strange lands from under the arched white sails of ships;
But the loveliest things of beauty God ever has showed to me
Are her voice, and her hair, and eyes, and the dear red curve of her lips.
Beauty - John Masefield
I wonder by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved ? were we not wean'd till then ?
But suck'd on country pleasures, childishly ?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers' den ?
'Twas so ; but this, all pleasures fancies be ;
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.
And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear ;
For love all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone ;
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown ;
Let us possess one world ; each hath one, and is one.
My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest ;
Where can we find two better hemispheres
Without sharp north, without declining west ?
Whatever dies, was not mix'd equally ;
If our two loves be one, or thou and I
Love so alike that none can slacken, none can die.
The Good-Morrow - John Donne
Cuando tus manos salen,
amor, hacia las mías,
¿qué me traen volando?
¿Por qué se detuvieron
en mi boca, de pronto,
por qué las reconozco
como si entonces, antes,
las hubiera tocado,
como si antes de ser
hubieran recorrido
mi frente, mi cintura?
Su suavidad venía
volando sobre el tiempo,
sobre el mar, sobre el humo,
sobre la primavera,
y cuando tú pusiste
tus manos en mi pecho,
reconocí esas alas
de paloma dorada,
reconocí esa greda
y ese color de trigo.
Los años de mi vida
yo caminé buscándolas.
Subí las escaleras,
crucé los arrecifes,
me llevaron los trenes
las aguas me trajeron,
y en la piel de las uvas
me pareció tocarte.
La madera de pronto
me trajo tu contacto,
la almendra me anunciaba
tu suavidad secreta,
hasta que se cerraron
tus manos en mi pecho
y allí como dos alas
terminaron su viaje.
Tus Manos - Pablo Neruda
Prevejo
Que encostes a tua face
No meu ombro.
Que sorrias
E me beijes
Que sejas a onda do Mar
Que o rio vem saudar.
O amor ao encontro da paixão
Misturando-se
Num oceano de felicidade.
Nós os dois
Num só destino!
Prevejo - Joaquim Brandão (in O Poeta a Pensar, 2006)
I am he that aches with amorous love;
Does the earth gravitate? Does not all matter, aching,
attract all matter?
So the body of me to all I meet or know.
I Am He that Aches with Love - Walt Whitman
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