Vamos pôr aqui um poeta em cada dia.
Hoje, Joseph Brodsky, pseudónimo de Iosif Aleksandrovich. Brodsky foi um poeta russo.
Um excerto do interrogatório dele, tal como vem citado na biografia da autoria de Lev Loseff:
- Judge: What is your profession?
- Brodsky: Poet. Poet and translator.
- Judge: Who said you were a poet? Who assigned you that rank?
- Brodsky: No one. (Nonconfrontational.) Who assigned me to the human race?
where we all kind of side namyali,
but only heard, that gave little.
On South, where rare white precipitate,
believe in Christ, because he - fluent:
I was born in the desert, Sand-straw,
He died too, hear anything, not at home.
biografia de Brodsky por Lev Loseff:
- Um poeta russo, Brodsky entrou em conflito com as autoridades soviéticas. Foi preso aos 24 anos, acusado do crime de escrever poesia: ser um parasita sem emprego regular, um escritor de coisas inúteis, nas palavras dos acusadores. Ficou preso apenas umas semanas porque uma onde de personalidades juntou-se para pressionar a sua libertação, ou melhor, não propriamente dele que era um desconhecido, mas do poeta, da poesia. A libertação da poesia.
- Um poeta russo, Brodsky entrou em conflito com as autoridades soviéticas. Foi preso aos 24 anos, acusado do crime de escrever poesia: ser um parasita sem emprego regular, um escritor de coisas inúteis, nas palavras dos acusadores. Ficou preso apenas umas semanas porque uma onde de personalidades juntou-se para pressionar a sua libertação, ou melhor, não propriamente dele que era um desconhecido, mas do poeta, da poesia. A libertação da poesia.
Um excerto do interrogatório dele, tal como vem citado na biografia da autoria de Lev Loseff:
- Judge: What is your profession?
- Brodsky: Poet. Poet and translator.
- Judge: Who said you were a poet? Who assigned you that rank?
- Brodsky: No one. (Nonconfrontational.) Who assigned me to the human race?
In the north, if they believe in God,
how in the commandant of the prison,where we all kind of side namyali,
but only heard, that gave little.
On South, where rare white precipitate,
believe in Christ, because he - fluent:
I was born in the desert, Sand-straw,
He died too, hear anything, not at home.
1994
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I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.
I wish you sat on the sofa
and I sat near.
The handkerchief could be yours,
the tear could be mine, chin-bound.
Though it could be, of course,
the other way around.
I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.
I wish we were in my car
and you'd shift the gear.
We'd find ourselves elsewhere,
on an unknown shore.
Or else we'd repair
to where we've been before.
I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you sat on the sofa
and I sat near.
The handkerchief could be yours,
the tear could be mine, chin-bound.
Though it could be, of course,
the other way around.
I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.
I wish we were in my car
and you'd shift the gear.
We'd find ourselves elsewhere,
on an unknown shore.
Or else we'd repair
to where we've been before.
I wish you were here, dear,
I wish you were here.
I wish I knew no astronomy
when stars appear,
when the moon skims the water
that sighs and shifts in its slumber.
I wish it were still a quarter
to dial your number.
I wish you were here, dear,
in this hemisphere,
as I sit on the porch
sipping a beer.
It's evening, the sun is setting;
boys shout and gulls are crying.
What's the point of forgetting
if it's followed by dying?
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Michael Scammell: Pride And Poetry | The New Republic (artigo sobre o poeta)
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Michael Scammell: Pride And Poetry | The New Republic (artigo sobre o poeta)
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