Middle Age, a poem by Robert Lowell

MIDDLE AGE

Now the midwinter grind

is on me, New York

drills through my nerves,

as I walk

the chewed-up streets.

At forty-five,

what next, what next?

At every corner,

I meet my Father,

my age, still alive.

Father, forgive me

my injuries,

as I forgive

those I

have injured!

You never climbed

Mount Sion, yet left

dinosaur

death-steps on the crust,

where I must walk.


Meia-Idade

Agora o pleno inverno enruga

a minha pele, Nova Iorque

perfura os meus nervos,

quando percorro

as ruas desgastadas.

Aos quarenta e cinco,

que virá a seguir? e depois?

Em cada esquina,

encontro o meu Pai,

com vida e a minha idade.

Pai, perdoa

minhas feridas,

como eu perdoo

aqueles que

feri.

Tu nunca escalaste

o Monte Sião, mas deixaste

velhas

pagadas de morte sobre a crosta,

onde tenho de andar.

(Trad. J.T.Parreira)

Haiku

Morning Sun, by Hopper

I touch up the sky

from a gentle mirror

within the stream.

Kaddish for us

When they killed us
our ashes talked by ourselves
when they killed our children
we had more
when our women were naked
our eyes were closed forever
have towns where the wind
do not brought the birds
but ashes.

04-01-2009

A river called sadness

Remember? We sat on a border, wetting

the feet in sadness

The troubled waters

shaking our reflexes

We are printed in water's silk inside? Let's reunite

on the hands of glass

the foam of our face.

by JTParreira

Sylvia Death

Quando meteu a cabeça no forno de gaz
como um leão caindo sobre a presa
todos os poemas estavam prontos
dirigidos
para a morte sobre a mesa
Ela fê-lo de novo, e de novo
toda a manhã escureceu
a sua pele brilhante e o cabelo
como um sol loiro.


SYLVIA DEATH

When she put its head in the oven of gas
as a lion that falls on its prey
all poems were already
directed
to die on the table
She did so again, and again
through the morning dark
the shiny skin and Sylvia's hair
as a sun blond.

October 15, 2008

Charlie Parker

The ghost of Bebop
from 52nd Street,
left footprints in the snow.
A Cab passed, in the yellowish night,
a drunk volatile
with a goose-step, almost
gave a kick in the stars.
Slid under the door
of the Three Deuces the blues.
The street was a cold mirror
when it rains, now remember
a mantle of ermine
the lap of Lady Day.

2008

JTParreira

Obituary

Fernando Pessoa died

in the Bairro Alto, he put glasses on the table

for ever, three days

before was still seen to bend

a corner downtown Lisbon

laughs loose, a cough

to bend the body forward.

2008