Caderno 1

Bruno Alves 
Carlos Alberto Machado
Catarina Barros
Catarina Costa
Fernando Guerreiro
Helena Bento
Hugo Milhanas Machado
Luís Ene
Margarida Vale de Gato
Maria Sousa
Paulo Kellerman
Paulo Rodrigues Ferreira
Pedro Bernardo Costa
Ricardo Domeneck
Samuel Filipe
Tatiana Faia
Samuel Beckett traduzido por Hugo Pinto Santos
Victor Gonçalves

Capa 
João Alves Ferreira

Enfermaria 6, Lisboa, março de 2014, 68 pp.
5€

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Quatro Poemas de Samuel Beckett, traduzidos do francês pelo autor

Tradução de Hugo Pinto Santos

1. Dieppe

torna derradeira maré vaza
morto seixo
a volta logo os passos
rumo à vila sob a luz

 

2.

o meu curso é na areia fluida
entre seixo e duna
chuva de verão chove-me na vida
em mim vida que me segue me foge
até ao cabo até ao rabo

a minha paz ali está na névoa a recuar
onde eu possa não mais dar estes passos longos em limiares fugidios
e viva o espaço de tempo de uma porta
que se abre e se fecha

3.

que faria eu sem este mundo sem rosto sem curar de nada
onde ser não dura mais que um instante onde cada instante
verte no vazio a ignorância de ter sido
sem esta vaga onde por fim
corpo e sombra juntos se engolfam
que faria eu sem este silêncio onde murmúrios morrem
ofegando fremindo rumo ao auxílio rumo ao amor
sem este céu que se eleva
acima do pó da sua gravilha


que faria eu que fiz ontem e antes
espreitando da minha escotilha buscando outrem
vagando como eu na corrente alheio a toda a vida
num espaço convulso
por entre as vozes afásicas
que se aglomeram no meu covil

 

4.

Queria que o meu amor morresse
e chovesse sobre as campas e
sobre mim cruzando as ruas de
luto pelo primeiro o derradeiro amor

 

Four Poems by Samuel Beckett

1. Dieppe

again the last ebb
the dead shingle
the turning then the steps
toward the lighted town

2.

my way is in the sand flowing
between the shingle and the dune
the summer rain rains on my life
on me my life harrying fleeing
to its beginning to its end

my peace is there in the receding mist
when I may cease from treading these long shifting thresholds
and live the space of a door
that opens and shuts

3.

what would I do without this world faceless incurious
where to be lasts but an instant where every instant
spills in the void the ignorance of having been
without this wave where in the end
body and shadow together are engulfed
what would I do without this silence where the murmurs die
the pantings the frenzies toward succour towards love
without this sky that soars
above its ballast dust

what would I do what I did yesterday and the day before
peering out of my deadlight looking for another
wandering like me eddying far from all the living
in a convulsive space
among the voices voiceless
that throng my hiddenness

4.

I would like my love to die
and the rain to be falling on the graveyard
and on me walking the streets
mourning the first and last to love me

dois quartos e uma cozinha

 She asked if I would like her to sing something. I replied no, I would like her to say something. I thought she would say she had nothing to say, it would have been like her, and so was agreeably surprised when she said she had a room, most agreeably surprised, though I suspected as much. Who has not a room? Ah I hear the clamour. I have two rooms, she said. Just how many rooms do you have? I said. She said she had two rooms and a kitchen. The premises were expanding steadily, given time she would remember a bathroom. Is it two rooms I heard you say? I said. Yes, she said. Adjacent? I said. At last conversation worthy of the name. Separated by the kitchen, she said. I asked her why she had not told me before. I must have been beside myself, at this period. I did not feel easy when I was with her, but at least free to think of something else than her, of the old trusty things, and so little by little, as down steps towards a deep, of nothing. And I knew that away from her I would forfeit this freedom.

Samuel Beckett, (1970). First love. In: First love and other novellas, 78. London: Penguin Modern Classics, 2000