Lista de Poemas
Maximus para Gloucester, Carta 27 [retida]
a terra descendo à esquerda
onde meu pai atirava seu golfe ronhoso
e o resto de nós jogava beisebol
noite de verão adentro até haver mosca
nenhuma à vista e voltávamos para casa
em nossas várias piazzas onde mulheres
sibilavam
À esquerda a terra descia até a cidade,
à direita descia até o mar
Eu era tão jovem minha primeira memória
é de uma tenda armada para alimentar com lagostas
membros de uma convenção da Rexall, e meu pai,
piadista, saía da tenda rugindo
com uma faca de pão entre os dentes para cuidar
do farmacêutico que lhe disseram havia cantado
minha mãe, ela gargalhando, tão segura, redonda
como seu rosto, Hines rosácea e maçã,
sob um chapéu armado das mulheres de então
Isto não é adição nua
de novidade em forma abstrata, isto
não é tumulto ou as formas
de tais eventos, isto,
Gregos, é o término
da batalha
....................É a imposição
de todas aquelas ascendências passadas, os antepassados
meus, a geração daqueles fatos
que são minhas palavras, provêm
de tudo o que não sou mais, contudo sou,
o movimento lento de leste a oeste
de mais do que eu sou
Não há ordem estritamente pessoal
para a minha herança.
....................Grego nenhum será capaz
de discriminar meu corpo.
....................Um americano
é um complexo de ocasiões,
elas mesmas uma geometria
de natureza espacial.
....................Eu tenho esta noção
de que sou um
com minha pele
Mais isto - mais isto:
que eternamente a geografia
que sobre mim se debruça
eu ponho-me a coagir
retroativo a coagir Gloucester
a render-se, a
mudar
....................Pólis
é isto
tradução de Ricardo Domeneck
Maximus to Gloucester, Letter 27 [withheld]
I come back to the geography of it,
the land falling off to the left
where my father shot his scabby golf
and the rest of us played baseball
into the summer darkness until no flies
could be seen and we came home
to our various piazzas where the women
buzzed
To the left the land fell to the city,
to the right, it fell to the sea
I was so young my first memory
is of a tent spread to feed lobsters
to Rexall conventioneers, and my father,
a man for kicks, came out of the tent roaring
with a bread-knife in his teeth to take care of
the druggist they"d told him had made a pass at
my mother, she laughing, so sure, as round
as her face, Hines pink and apple,
under one of those frame hats women then
This, is no bare incoming
of novel abstract form, this
is no welter or the forms
of those events, this,
Greeks, is the stopping
of the battle
....................It is the imposing
of all those antecedent predecessions, the precessions
of me, the generation of those facts
which are my words, it is coming
from all that I no longer am, yet am,
the slow westward motion of
more than I am
There is no strict personal order
for my inheritance.
........................No Greek will be able
to discriminate my body.
....................An American
is a complex of occasions,
themselves a geometry
of spatial nature.
....................I have this sense,
that I am one
with my skin
....................Plus this-plus this:
that forever the geography
which leans in
on me I compell
backwards I compell Gloucester
to yield, to
change
....................Polis
is this
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