Professor Poeta

Clément Marot

Perfect tit, white as an egg,

Satin tit made, new satin,

Tit that the rose is ashamed of,

Theta better than anything you dream of,

Hard tit, neither tit, but anyway

Comparable to ivory ball,

And in the center of which is only

A strawberry or cherry ruby

That nobody sees or touches for now,

But I bet it is just as I sing it:

Simonetta Vespucci, Pietro di Cosimo. ç. 1520

Beak tit because so red

That seems quiet for now,

Whether she runs or walks,

Whether she leaves or skips:

Theta on the left, so clumsy,

Always away from your partner,

Theta you are a witness and live image

Of such composure of the character

That just seeing you as I see you

This desire is born within the hands

From all palpate and own:

But I have to stop myself

Too close, because I do not doubt

After that desire another one came up …

O tit neither modest nor showy,

Mature tits, appetizing tits,

Theta that night and day I hear scream:

“Quickly marry me, I want to marry!”

Justly, happy to say

He who will fill you with milk,

Making of a maiden tit

Entirely beautiful tit.

– “De Clément Marot a Louise Labé”/David Mourão-Ferreira (tradução). in: Revista Colóquio/Letras. Ensaio, n.º 168/169, Jul. 2004, p. 55-61.

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Clément Marot

Tetin refaict, plus blanc qu’un oeuf,
Tetin de satin blanc tout neuf,
Tetin qui fait honte à la rose,
Tetin plus beau que nulle chose ;
Tetin dur, non pas Tetin, voyre,
Mais petite boule d’Ivoire,
Au milieu duquel est assise
Une fraize ou une cerise,
Que nul ne voit, ne touche aussi,
Mais je gaige qu’il est ainsi.
Tetin donc au petit bout rouge
Tetin qui jamais ne se bouge,
Soit pour venir, soit pour aller,
Soit pour courir, soit pour baller.
Tetin gauche, tetin mignon,
Tousjours loing de son compaignon,
Tetin qui porte temoignaige
Du demourant du personnage.
Quand on te voit il vient à mainctz
Une envie dedans les mains
De te taster, de te tenir ;
Mais il se faut bien contenir
D’en approcher, bon gré ma vie,
Car il viendroit une aultre envie.
O tetin ni grand ni petit,
Tetin meur, tetin d’appetit,
Tetin qui nuict et jour criez
Mariez moy tost, mariez!
Tetin qui t’enfles, et repoulses
Ton gorgerin de deux bons poulses,
A bon droict heureux on dira
Celluy qui de laict t’emplira,
Faisant d’un tetin de pucelle
Tetin de femme entiere et belle.
– “De Clément Marot a Louise Labé”/David Mourão-Ferreira (tradução). in: Revista Colóquio/Letras. Ensaio, n.º 168/169, Jul. 2004, p. 55-61.

Elizabeth Bishop

Land lies in water; it is shadowed green.
Shadows, or are they shallows, at its edges
showing the line of long sea-weeded ledges
where weeds hang to the simple blue from green.
Or does the land lean down to lift the sea from under,
drawing it unperturbed around itself?
Along the fine tan sandy shelf
is the land tugging at the sea from under?

The shadow of Newfoundland lies flat and still.
Labrador’s yellow, where the moony Eskimo
has oiled it. We can stroke these lovely bays,
under a glass as if they were expected to blossom,
or as if to provide a clean cage for invisible fish.
The names of seashore towns run out to sea,
the names of cities cross the neighboring mountains
— the printer here experiencing the same excitement
as when emotion too far exceeds its cause.
These peninsulas take the water between thumb and finger
like women feeling for the smoothness of yard-goods.

Mapped waters are more quiet than the land is,
lending the land their waves’ own corfirmation:
and Norway’s hare runs south in agitation,
profiles investigate the sea, where land is.
Are they assigned, or can the countries pick their colors?
— What suits the character or the native waters best.
Topography displays no favorites; North’s as near as West.
More delicate than the historians’ are the map-makers’ colors.

– Elizabeth Bishop, em “Poemas escolhidos — Elizabeth Bishop”. [seleção, tradução e textos introdutórios Paulo Henriques Britto]. 1ª ed., São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 2012.

Быть знаменитым некрасиво.
Не это подымает ввысь.
Не надо заводить архива,
Над рукописями трястись.

Цель творчества – самоотдача,
А не шумиха, не успех.
Позорно, ничего не знача,
Быть притчей на устах у всех.

Но надо жить без самозванства,
Так жить, чтобы в конце концов
Привлечь к себе любовь пространства,
Услышать будущего зов.

И надо оставлять пробелы
В судьбе, а не среди бумаг,
Места и главы жизни целой
Отчеркивая на полях.

И окунаться в неизвестность,
И прятать в ней свои шаги,
Как прячется в тумане местность,
Когда в ней не видать ни зги.

Другие по живому следу
Пройдут твой путь за пядью пядь,
Но пораженья от победы
Ты сам не должен отличать.

И должен ни единой долькой
Не отступаться от лица,
Но быть живым, живым, и только,
Живым и только – до конца.

1956
– Boris Pasternak (Борис Пастернак), no livro “Poesia da recusa”. [organização e tradução Augusto de Campos]. Coleção signos 42. São Paulo: Editora Perspectiva, 2006.
* O original russo não tem título.

Boris Pasternak

Being famous is not beautiful.
It doesn’t make us more creative.
Files are unnecessary.
A manuscript is just a writing.
The purpose of art is to donate only.
They are not the laurels nor the loas.
It constrains us, poor people,
Being in everyone’s mouth.
We must live without imposture.
Live to the last steps.
Learning to love spaces
And listening to the sound of the future voice.
It’s good to leave whites on the edge
Not from paper, but from fate,
And in these gaps, leave registered
Chapters of a lifetime.
Erase yourself in anonymity,
Hiding our passage
For life, as for the landscape
Hides the cloud modestly.
Some will follow, step by step,
The tracks of your pass,
But you must not separate
Your success from your failure.
You should not give up a minimum
Immo piece of your being,
Just be alive and stay
Live, and live to the end.
1956

• Boris Pasternak (Борис Пастернак), in the book “Poetry of refusal”. [organization and translation Augusto de Campos]. Signos 42 collection. São Paulo: Editora Perspectiva, 2006. The Russian original has no title.
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Adélia Prado

Poetry catches me with its cog wheel,
forces me to listen motionless
your weird speech.
Hold me behind the wall, get up
the skirt for me to see, loving and crazy.
The bad thing happens, I tell you,
I am also a son of God,
it makes me despair.
She responds by passing
the hot tongue on my neck,
say stick to calm me down,
speaks stone, geometry,
if you are careless and sweet,
I take the opportunity to get away with it.
I run it runs faster,
i scream she screams more,
seven demons stronger.
Take the tip of my foot
and comes to the head,
making deep grooves.
Her cogwheel is made of iron.
(From the book Bagagem. São Paulo: Siciliano, 1993. p. 60)