Charles Simic

que também venho lendo, há uns dois anos.  re-"descoberto" hoje em crónicas no The New York Review of Books, que vão, em parte, melhorar a qualidade do meu serão de quinta, o dia morto da semana. comecei por esta.

Charles Simic para o The New York Review of Books.

Clouds Gathering
Charles Simic

It seemed the kind of life we wanted.
Wild strawberries and cream in the morning.
Sunlight in every room.
The two of us walking by the sea naked.

Some evenings, however, we found ourselves
Unsure of what comes next.
Like tragic actors in a theater on fire,
With birds circling over our heads,
The dark pines strangely still,
Each rock we stepped on bloodied by the sunset.

We were back on our terrace sipping wine.
Why always this hint of an unhappy ending?
Clouds of almost human appearance
Gathering on the horizon, but the rest lovely
With the air so mild and the sea untroubled.

The night suddenly upon us, a starless night.
You lighting a candle, carrying it naked
Into our bedroom and blowing it out quickly.
The dark pines and grasses strangely still.

- - -
que nem fica mal num fundo de Sacrifício de Tarkovsky. tão opostos, mas tantas nuvens semelhantes, a floresta, as ervas imóveis.

"The Republicans, especially, are always worried that someone in the arts is undermining the religious and family values of our country. They suspect poets of being subversives, free-thinkers, sex-fiends, and drug addicts. Their fears are not entirely without foundation.", aqui.