Poem
Paulo Teixeira
The Last Roman Poet
As waves break over the beachesand cannons boom beyond the city walls,
he asks for one fleeting, indulgent hour
in an inviolable place,
shielded by the muse’s wings and the sibyl’s words
like an actor gone backstage.
Forgetting the dream of a laurel-crowned head
and the couches that cradle the last Epicurean souls,
he longs only for adverbial quiet – not a sound –
in which all might be preserved, in the ambit of his art,
with the lightness of a quill passing over paper.
That each word, purified, rolling on the tongue
like a host, might have the authority of a garland
or royal seal
and press the world he knew into a hedge
as everything degenerates and collapses around him.
In this work of falconry applied to time past,
writing reminds him of the notches the prisoner
cuts in the wall of his cell to count the days,
knowing what will come: the slipknot of the gallows
or a shot fired straight into his brain.
Aware that all his work will now suffer
dispersion,
he wants to save, consoling and sufficient,
a word on the face of a future stele.
© Translation: 1997, Richard Zenith
O último poeta romano
O último poeta romano
Enquanto rebentam as ondas junto às praias,e há troar de canhões além dos muros da cidade,
queria o direito a uma hora indulgente e fugaz,
num espaço inviolável,
guardado pelas asas da musa e os provérbios da sibila
como o actor recolhido aos bastidores do teatro.
Esquecidos os sonhos da cabeça adornada por folhas de louro
ou os canapés onde se alongam as últimas almas epicuristas,
num sossego adverbial, em que nada mais ouvisse,
tudo ele pudesse guardar, no âmbito da sua arte,
com a leveza que deixa a pluma ao roçar o papel.
Purificada, ao salivá-la como hóstia sob a língua,
cada palavra tivesse a autoridade da grinalda
ou do selo real
e estreitasse numa sebe o mundo que conheceu,
enquanto tudo se gentiliza e desmorona à sua volta.
Nesse trabalho de falcoaria sobre o tempo ido,
escrever lembra-lhe os cortes feitos pela navalha
do prisioneiro na parede da cela, contando os dias,
certo de esperá-lo o nó corrediço da forca
ou o tiro disparado de frente sobre o crânio.
Sabendo todo o seu trabalho entregue nessa hora
à dispersão,
deseja salvar, consoladora e suficiente,
palavra sua na face de uma estela futura.
From: As esperas e outros poemas
Publisher: Caminho, Lisboa
Publisher: Caminho, Lisboa
Poems
Poems of Paulo Teixeira
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The Last Roman Poet
As waves break over the beachesand cannons boom beyond the city walls,
he asks for one fleeting, indulgent hour
in an inviolable place,
shielded by the muse’s wings and the sibyl’s words
like an actor gone backstage.
Forgetting the dream of a laurel-crowned head
and the couches that cradle the last Epicurean souls,
he longs only for adverbial quiet – not a sound –
in which all might be preserved, in the ambit of his art,
with the lightness of a quill passing over paper.
That each word, purified, rolling on the tongue
like a host, might have the authority of a garland
or royal seal
and press the world he knew into a hedge
as everything degenerates and collapses around him.
In this work of falconry applied to time past,
writing reminds him of the notches the prisoner
cuts in the wall of his cell to count the days,
knowing what will come: the slipknot of the gallows
or a shot fired straight into his brain.
Aware that all his work will now suffer
dispersion,
he wants to save, consoling and sufficient,
a word on the face of a future stele.
© 1997, Richard Zenith
From: As esperas e outros poemas
From: As esperas e outros poemas
The Last Roman Poet
As waves break over the beachesand cannons boom beyond the city walls,
he asks for one fleeting, indulgent hour
in an inviolable place,
shielded by the muse’s wings and the sibyl’s words
like an actor gone backstage.
Forgetting the dream of a laurel-crowned head
and the couches that cradle the last Epicurean souls,
he longs only for adverbial quiet – not a sound –
in which all might be preserved, in the ambit of his art,
with the lightness of a quill passing over paper.
That each word, purified, rolling on the tongue
like a host, might have the authority of a garland
or royal seal
and press the world he knew into a hedge
as everything degenerates and collapses around him.
In this work of falconry applied to time past,
writing reminds him of the notches the prisoner
cuts in the wall of his cell to count the days,
knowing what will come: the slipknot of the gallows
or a shot fired straight into his brain.
Aware that all his work will now suffer
dispersion,
he wants to save, consoling and sufficient,
a word on the face of a future stele.
© 1997, Richard Zenith
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