Como poeta, diante de uma situação como a presente em Gaza, tantos lados e ângulos a considerar, Israel, Palestina, o melhor é deixar talvez que dois de seus poetas falem. Não como representantes, nem pela idéia de "unacknowledged legislators", mas literalmente como "vozes clamando no deserto", sem audiência, totalmente impotentes (?) para deter o derramamento de sangue, este símbolo poderosíssimo das duas línguas.
(O poeta palestino Mahmoud Darwish no filme "Notre Musique", de Jean-Luc Godard, de 2004)
("Of two or three in a room", poema do israelense Yehuda Amichai, traduzido para o inglês.)
Daila, December 2007
Words: Yehuda Amichai
Vocals+Guitar: Ofer Golany
Bass: Netta Amir
video by - Ilan Vingort
Under Siege, by Mahmoud Darwish
Here on the slopes of hills, facing the dusk and the cannon of time
Close to the gardens of broken shadows,
We do what prisoners do,
And what the jobless do:
We cultivate hope.
A country preparing for dawn. We grow less intelligent
For we closely watch the hour of victory:
No night in our night lit up by the shelling
Our enemies are watchful and light the light for us
In the darkness of cellars.
Here there is no "I".
Here Adam remembers the dust of his clay.
On the verge of death, he says:
I have no trace left to lose:
Free I am so close to my liberty. My future lies in my own hand.
Soon I shall penetrate my life,
I shall be born free and parentless,
And as my name I shall choose azure letters...
You who stand in the doorway, come in,
Drink Arabic coffee with us
And you will sense that you are men like us
You who stand in the doorways of houses
Come out of our morningtimes,
We shall feel reassured to be
Men like you!
When the planes disappear, the white, white doves
Fly off and wash the cheeks of heaven
With unbound wings taking radiance back again, taking possession
Of the ether and of play. Higher, higher still, the white, white doves
Fly off. Ah, if only the sky
Were real [a man passing between two bombs said to me].
Cypresses behind the soldiers, minarets protecting
The sky from collapse. Behind the hedge of steel
Soldiers piss—under the watchful eye of a tank—
And the autumnal day ends its golden wandering in
A street as wide as a church after Sunday mass...
[To a killer] If you had contemplated the victim’s face
And thought it through, you would have remembered your mother in the
Gas chamber, you would have been freed from the reason for the rifle
And you would have changed your mind: this is not the way
to find one’s identity again.
The siege is a waiting period
Waiting on the tilted ladder in the middle of the storm.
Alone, we are alone as far down as the sediment
Were it not for the visits of the rainbows.
We have brothers behind this expanse.
Excellent brothers. They love us. They watch us and weep.
Then, in secret, they tell each other:
"Ah! if this siege had been declared..." They do not finish their sentence:
"Don’t abandon us, don’t leave us."
Our losses: between two and eight martyrs each day.
And ten wounded.
And twenty homes.
And fifty olive trees...
Added to this the structural flaw that
Will arrive at the poem, the play, and the unfinished canvas.
A woman told the cloud: cover my beloved
For my clothing is drenched with his blood.
If you are not rain, my love
Sated with fertility, be tree
If you are not tree, my love
Saturated with humidity, be stone
If you are not stone, my love
In the dream of the beloved woman, be moon
[So spoke a woman
to her son at his funeral]
Oh watchmen! Are you not weary
Of lying in wait for the light in our salt
And of the incandescence of the rose in our wound
Are you not weary, oh watchmen?
A little of this absolute and blue infinity
Would be enough
To lighten the burden of these times
And to cleanse the mire of this place.
It is up to the soul to come down from its mount
And on its silken feet walk
By my side, hand in hand, like two longtime
Friends who share the ancient bread
And the antique glass of wine
May we walk this road together
And then our days will take different directions:
I, beyond nature, which in turn
Will choose to squat on a high-up rock.
On my rubble the shadow grows green,
And the wolf is dozing on the skin of my goat
He dreams as I do, as the angel does
That life is here...not over there.
In the state of siege, time becomes space
Transfixed in its eternity
In the state of siege, space becomes time
That has missed its yesterday and its tomorrow.
The martyr encircles me every time I live a new day
And questions me: Where were you? Take every word
You have given me back to the dictionaries
And relieve the sleepers from the echo’s buzz.
The martyr enlightens me: beyond the expanse
I did not look
For the virgins of immortality for I love life
On earth, amid fig trees and pines,
But I cannot reach it, and then, too, I took aim at it
With my last possession: the blood in the body of azure.
The martyr warned me: Do not believe their ululations
Believe my father when, weeping, he looks at my photograph
How did we trade roles, my son, how did you precede me.
I first, I the first one!
The martyr encircles me: my place and my crude furniture are all that I have changed.
I put a gazelle on my bed,
And a crescent of moon on my finger
To appease my sorrow.
The siege will last in order to convince us we must choose an enslavement that does no harm, in fullest liberty!
Resisting means assuring oneself of the heart’s health,
The health of the testicles and of your tenacious disease:
The disease of hope.
And in what remains of the dawn, I walk toward my exterior
And in what remains of the night, I hear the sound of footsteps inside me.
Greetings to the one who shares with me an attention to
The drunkenness of light, the light of the butterfly, in the
Blackness of this tunnel!
Greetings to the one who shares my glass with me
In the denseness of a night outflanking the two spaces:
Greetings to my apparition.
My friends are always preparing a farewell feast for me,
A soothing grave in the shade of oak trees
A marble epitaph of time
And always I anticipate them at the funeral:
Who then has died...who?
Writing is a puppy biting nothingness
Writing wounds without a trace of blood.
Our cups of coffee. Birds green trees
In the blue shade, the sun gambols from one wall
To another like a gazelle
The water in the clouds has the unlimited shape of what is left to us
Of the sky. And other things of suspended memories
Reveal that this morning is powerful and splendid,
And that we are the guests of eternity.
Translated by Marjolijn De Jager
Memorial Day for the War Dead, by Yehuda Amichai
Memorial day for the war dead. Add now
the grief of all your losses to their grief,
even of a woman that has left you. Mix
sorrow with sorrow, like time-saving history,
which stacks holiday and sacrifice and mourning
on one day for easy, convenient memory.
Oh, sweet world soaked, like bread,
in sweet milk for the terrible toothless God.
"Behind all this some great happiness is hiding."
No use to weep inside and to scream outside.
Behind all this perhaps some great happiness is hiding.
Memorial day. Bitter salt is dressed up
as a little girl with flowers.
The streets are cordoned off with ropes,
for the marching together of the living and the dead.
Children with a grief not their own march slowly,
like stepping over broken glass.
The flautist's mouth will stay like that for many days.
A dead soldier swims above little heads
with the swimming movements of the dead,
with the ancient error the dead have
about the place of the living water.
A flag loses contact with reality and flies off.
A shopwindow is decorated with
dresses of beautiful women, in blue and white.
And everything in three languages:
Hebrew, Arabic, and Death.
A great and royal animal is dying
all through the night under the jasmine
tree with a constant stare at the world.
A man whose son died in the war walks in the street
like a woman with a dead embryo in her womb.
"Behind all this some great happiness is hiding."
Leituras de companheiros
- Adelaide Ivánova
- Adriana Lisboa
- Alejandro Albarrán
- Alexandra Lucas Coelho
- Amalia Gieschen
- Amina Arraf (Gay Girl in Damascus)
- Ana Porrúa
- Analogue Magazine
- André Costa
- André Simões (traduções de poetas árabes)
- Angaangaq Angakkorsuaq
- Angélica Freitas
- Ann Cotten
- Anna Hjalmarsson
- Antoine Wauters
- António Gregório (Café Centralíssimo)
- Antônio Xerxenesky
- Aníbal Cristobo
- Arkitip Magazine
- Art In America Magazine
- Baga Defente
- Boris Crack
- Breno Rotatori
- Brian Kenny (blog)
- Brian Kenny (website)
- Bruno Brum
- Bruno de Abreu
- Caco Ishak
- Carlito Azevedo
- Carlos Andrea
- Cecilia Cavalieri
- Cory Arcangel
- Craig Brown (Common Dreams)
- Cristian De Nápoli
- Cultura e barbárie
- Cus de Judas (Nuno Monteiro)
- Damien Spleeters
- Daniel Saldaña París
- Daniel von Schubhausen
- Dennis Cooper
- Dimitri Rebello
- Dirceu Villa
- Djoh Wakabara
- Dorothee Lang
- Douglas Diegues
- Douglas Messerli
- Dummy Magazine
- Eduard Escoffet
- Erico Nogueira
- Eugen Braeunig
- Ezequiel Zaidenwerg
- Fabiano Calixto
- Felipe Gutierrez
- Florian Puehs
- Flávia Cera
- Franklin Alves Dassie
- Freunde von Freunden
- Gabriel Pardal
- Girl Friday
- Gláucia Machado
- Gorilla vs. Bear
- Guilherme Semionato
- Heinz Peter Knes
- Hilda Magazine
- Hugo Albuquerque
- Hugo Milhanas Machado
- Héctor Hernández Montecinos
- Idelber Avelar
- Isabel Löfgren
- Ismar Tirelli Neto
- Jan Wanggaard
- Jana Rosa
- Janaina Tschäpe
- Janine Rostron aka Planningtorock
- Jay Bernard
- Jeremy Kost
- Jerome Rothenberg
- Jill Magi
- Joca Reiners Terron
- John Perreault
- Jonas Lieder
- Jonathan William Anderson
- Joseph Ashworth
- Joseph Massey
- José Geraldo (Paranax)
- João Filho
- Juliana Amato
- Juliana Bratfisch
- Juliana Krapp
- Julián Axat
- Jörg Piringer
- K. Silem Mohammad
- Katja Hentschel
- Kenneth Goldsmith
- Kátia Borges
- Leila Peacock
- Lenka Clayton
- Leo Gonçalves
- Leonardo Martinelli
- Lucía Bianco
- Luiz Coelho
- Lúcia Delorme
- Made in Brazil
- Maicknuclear de los Santos Angeles
- Mairéad Byrne
- Marcelo Krasilcic
- Marcelo Noah
- Marcelo Sahea
- Marcos Tamamati
- Marcus Fabiano Gonçalves
- Mariana Botelho
- Marius Funk
- Marjorie Perloff
- Marley Kate
- Marília Garcia
- Matt Coupe
- Miguel Angel Petrecca
- Monika Rinck
- Mário Sagayama
- Más Poesía Menos Policía
- N + 1 Magazine
- New Wave Vomit
- Niklas Goldbach
- Nikolai Szymanski
- Nora Fortunato
- Nora Gomringer
- Odile Kennel
- Ofir Feldman
- Oliver Krueger
- Ondas Literárias - Andréa Catrópa
- Pablo Gonçalo
- Pablo León de la Barra
- Paper Cities
- Patrícia Lino
- Paul Legault
- Paula Ilabaca
- Paulo Raviere
- Pitchfork Media
- Platform Magazine
- Priscila Lopes
- Priscila Manhães
- Pádua Fernandes
- Rafael Mantovani
- Raymond Federman
- Reuben da Cunha Rocha
- Ricardo Aleixo
- Ricardo Silveira
- Rodrigo Damasceno
- Rodrigo Pinheiro
- Ron Silliman
- Ronaldo Bressane
- Ronaldo Robson
- Roxana Crisólogo
- Rui Manuel Amaral
- Ryan Kwanten
- Sandra Santana
- Sandro Ornellas
- Sascha Ring aka Apparat
- Sergio Ernesto Rios
- Sil (Exausta)
- Slava Mogutin
- Steve Roggenbuck
- Sylvia Beirute
- Synthetic Aesthetics
- Tazio Zambi
- The L Magazine
- The New York Review of Books
- Thiago Cestari
- This Long Century
- Thurston Moore
- Timo Berger
- Tom Beckett
- Tom Sutpen (If Charlie Parker Was a Gunslinger, There'd Be a Whole Lot of Dead Copycats)
- Trabalhar Cansa - Blogue de Poesia
- Tracie Morris
- Tô gato?
- Uma Música Por Dia (Guilherme Semionato)
- Urbano Erbiste
- Victor Heringer
- Victor Oliveira Mateus
- Walter Gam
- We Live Young, by Nirrimi Hakanson
- Wir Caetano
- Wladimir Cazé
- Yang Shaobin
- Yanko González
- You Are An Object
- Zane Lowe
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