Silvia Plath

Quando vão fazer "o" filme sobre ela? Até agora, nada, nenhum espelho polido o suficiente para nos deixar entrever o poço sem fundo do desespero que habitava suas palavras....

Um bom trabalho aqui, com narração da própria.

Ted Hughes

Ele mesmo, o capeta em pessoa!!!Segundo as feministas de butique, o responsável pelo suicidio da Silvia Plath! Mais fácil encontrar um demonio assim ao lado do que procurar as razões da deterioração da cabeça de uma pessoa tão sensitiva e especial quanto Sylvia. That's life!!!
O que se esquecem sempre de dizer é que Ted é um poeta maior, supersensível, antenas ligadíssimas no mundo e nas pessoas, uma parabólica do bem. Claro, há milhares de histórias a respeito dele, já li pepenta, mas até aonde vai a verdade é que é!

Fate playing

Because the message somehow met a goblin,
Because precedents pripped your expectationa,
Because your London was still a kaleydoscope
of names and places any jolt could scramble,
You waited mistaken. The bus from the North
Came in and emptied and I was not on it.
No matter how much you insisted
and begged the driver, probably with tears,
To produce me or to remember seeing me
Just miss getting on. I was not on it.
Eight in the evening and I was lost and at large
Somewhere in England. You restrained
Your confident inspiration
And did not dash out into the traffic
Milling around Victoria, utterly certain
of bumping into me where I would have to be walking.
I was not walking anywhere. I was sitting
Unperturbed in my seat on the train
Rocking towards King's Cross. Somebody,
calmer than you, had a suggestion. So,
When I got off the train, expecting to find you
Somewhere down at the root of the platform,
I saw that surge and agitation, a figure
Breating the flow of released passengers,
Then your molten face, your molten eyes
And your exclamations, your flinging arms
Your scattering tears
As if I had come back from the dead
Against every possibility, agains
Every negative but your own prayer
To your own gods. There I knew what it was
To be a miracle. And behind you
Your jolly taxi-driver, laughing, like a small god,
To see an American girl being so American,
And to see your frenzied chariot-ride,
Sobbing and goading him and pleading with him
To make happen what you needed to happen.
Succeed so completely, thanks to him.
Well, it was a wonder
That my train was not earlier, even much earlier,
TRhat it pulled in, late, the very moment
You irrupted onto the platform. It was
Natural and miraculous and an omen
Confirming everything
You wanted confirmed. So your huge despair,
Your cross-London panic dash
And now your triumph, splashed over me,
Like love forty-nine times magnified,
Like the first thunder cloudburst engulfing
The drought in August
When the whole cracked earth seems to quake
And every leaf trembles
And everything holds up its arms weeping.

Um desencontro, e voilá!!!C'est de la art!!!

O poema consta da coletânea Cartas de Aniversário, publicada pela editora Relógio D'Água, de Lisboa, edição de 2000. A edição é bilíngue, mas os irmãos Campos que me perdoem, poesia traduzida é uma coisa estranha, mesmo que por gênios como os próprios e Manuel Bandeira... Podem entrar no sitio da editora, o link taí....maravilhas...

Sylvia Plath

Uma edição linda da Verus, com tradução de Rodrigo Garcia Lopes e Maria Cristina Lenz de Macedo. Bilíngue, como deve ser e com a reprodução dos manuscritos originais.

The Jailor

My night sweats grease his breakfast plate.
The same placard of blue fog is wheeled into position
With the same trees and headstones.
Is that all he can come up with,
The rattler of keys?

I have been drugged and raped.
Seven hours knocked out of my right mind
Into a black sack
Where I relax, foetus or cat,
Lever of his wet dreams.

Something is gone.
My sleeping capsule, my red and blue zeppelin
Drops me from a terrible altitude.
Carapace smashed,
I spread to the beaks of birds.

O little gimlets -
What holes this papery day is already full of:
He has been burning me with cigarettes,
Pretending I am a negress with pink paws.
I am myself. That is not enough.

The fever trickles and stiffens in my hair.
My ribs show. What have I eaten?
Lies and smiles.
Surely the sky is not that color,
Surely the grass should be rippling.

All day, gluing my church of burnt matchsticks,
I dream of someone else entirely.

(Precisa da tradução? Coloque em comentário que eu posto.)

Sylvia Plath

Lady Lazarus

I have done it again.
One year in every ten
I manage it-----

A sort of walking miracle, my skin
Bright as a Nazi lampshade,
My right foot

A paperweight,
My featureless, fine
Jew linen.

Peel off the napkin
O my enemy.
Do I terrify?-------

The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?
The sour breath
Will vanish in a day.

Soon, soon the flesh
The grave cave ate will be
At home on me

And I a smiling woman.
I am only thirty.
And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three.
What a trash
To annihilate each decade.

What a million filaments.
The Peanut-crunching crowd
Shoves in to see

Them unwrap me hand in foot ------
The big strip tease.
Gentleman , ladies

These are my hands
My knees.
I may be skin and bone,

Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman.
The first time it happened I was ten.
It was an accident.

The second time I meant
To last it out and not come back at all.
I rocked shut

As a seashell.
They had to call and call
And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.

Dying
Is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I've a call.

It's easy enough to do it in a cell.
It's easy enough to do it and stay put.
It's the theatrical

Comeback in broad day
To the same place, the same face, the same brute
Amused shout:

'A miracle!'
That knocks me out.
There is a charge

For the eyeing my scars, there is a charge
For the hearing of my heart---
It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge
For a word or a touch
Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair on my clothes.
So, so, Herr Doktor.
So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,
I am your valuable,
The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.
I turn and burn.
Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash---
You poke and stir.
Flesh, bone, there is nothing there----

A cake of soap,
A wedding ring,
A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer
Beware
Beware.

Out of the ash
I rise with my red hair
And I eat men like air.