ABRUPTO |
semper idem Ano XIII ...M'ESPANTO ÀS VEZES , OUTRAS M'AVERGONHO ... (Sá de Miranda) _________________ correio para jppereira@gmail.com _________________
|
9.2.11
EARLY MORNING BLOGS 1958 - The Nineteenth Century as a Song “How like a well-kept garden is your soul.” John Gray’s translation of Verlaine & Baudelaire’s butcher in 1861 shorted him four centimes on a pound of tripe. He thought himself a clever man and, wiping the calves’ blood from his beefy hands, gazed briefly at what Tennyson called “the sweet blue sky.” It was a warm day. What clouds there were were made of sugar tinged with blood. They shed, faintly, amid the clatter of carriages new settings of the songs Moravian virgins sang on wedding days. The poet is a monarch of the clouds & Swinburne on his northern coast “trod,” he actually wrote, “by no tropic foot,” composed that lovely elegy and then found out Baudelaire was still alive whom he had lodged dreamily in a “deep division of prodigious breasts.” Surely the poet is monarch of the clouds. He hovers, like a lemon-colored kite, over spring afternoons in the nineteenth century while Marx in the library gloom studies the birth rate of the weavers of Tilsit and that gentle man Bakunin, home after fingerfucking the countess, applies his numb hands to the making of bombs. (Robert Hass) (url)
© José Pacheco Pereira
|