Brassens (Portugal, 2012)

Le Roi
Noir Désir

Non certes, elle n'est pas bâtie,
Non certes, elle n'est pas bâtie
Sur du sable, sa dynastie,
Sur du sable, sa dynastie.

Il y a peu de chances qu'on
Détrône le roi des cons.

Il peut dormir, ce souverain,
Il peut dormir, ce souverain,
Sur ses deux oreilles, serein,
Sur ses deux oreilles, serein.

Il y a peu de chances qu'on
Détrône le roi des cons.

Je, tu, il, elle, nous, vous, ils,
Je, tu, il, elle, nous, vous, ils,
Tout le monde le suit, docile,
Tout le monde le suit, docile.

Il y a peu de chances qu'on
Détrône le roi des cons.

Il est possible, au demeurant,
Il est possible, au demeurant,
Qu'on déloge le shah d'Iran,
Qu'on déloge le shah d'Iran,

Mais il y a peu de chances qu'on
Détrône le roi des cons.

Qu'un jour on dise : "C'est fini",
Qu'un jour on dise : "C'est fini"
Au petit roi de Jordanie,
Au petit roi de Jordanie,

Mais il y a peu de chances qu'on
Détrône le roi des cons.

Qu'en Abyssinie on récuse,
Qu'en Abyssinie on récuse,
Le roi des rois, le bon Négus,
Le roi des rois, le bon Négus,

Mais il y a peu de chances qu'on
Détrône le roi des cons.

Que, sur un air de fandango,
Que, sur un air de fandango,
On congédie le vieux Franco,
On congédie le vieux Franco,

Mais il y a peu de chances qu'on
Détrône le roi des cons.

Que la couronne d'Angleterre,
Que la couronne d'Angleterre,
Ce soir, demain, roule par terre,
Ce soir, demain, roule par terre,

Mais il y a peu de chances qu'on
Détrône le roi des cons.

Que, ça c'est vu dans le passé,
Que, ça c'est vu dans le passé,
Marianne soit renversée
Marianne soit renversée

Mais il y a peu de chances qu'on
Détrône le roi des cons.

T.S. Eliot. (Read by Anthony Hopkins). Noblesse Oblige: obrigado Patrícia

The Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

By T.S. Eliot

Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .                               10 Oh, do not ask, "What is it?" Let us go and make our visit.   In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.   The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,                               20 And seeing that it was a soft October night Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.   And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate;                                30 Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions And for a hundred visions and revisions Before the taking of a toast and tea.   In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.   And indeed there will be time To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?" Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—                               40 [They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"] My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— [They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"] Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.   For I have known them all already, known them all; Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,                       50 I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room.   So how should I presume?   And I have known the eyes already, known them all— The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?                    60   And how should I presume?   And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare [But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!] Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.   And should I then presume?   And how should I begin?         .     .     .     .     . Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets              70 And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . . I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.         .     .     .     .     . And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?                  80 But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet–and here's no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid.   And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while,                                             90 To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it toward some overwhelming question, To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all" If one, settling a pillow by her head,   Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.   That is not it, at all."   And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while,                                           100 After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say:   "That is not it at all,   That is not what I meant, at all."                                          110         .     .     .     .     . No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool.   I grow old . . . I grow old . . .                                              120 I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.   Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.   I do not think they will sing to me.   I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black.   We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown               130 Till human voices wake us, and we drown.                                                               [1915]

Anno Domini - prosa líquida (e porque não?) ou só lenga-lenga

amor discreto

suave afecto

olhar directo

discurso aberto...

nas horas que são (e no tempo que nada é)

fica assim apenas um areal, nem de grãos

feito, nem de paraísos prometidos.

mais que realidades, possibilidades.

pois não há anjos prováveis

nem enredos e, menos ainda, sussurrações.

(bebido, liquidamente nú

frente ao espelho, à espera da resposta

que não há, nem é suposto haver.)

como quando se fica, assim,

com um afecto ladainhento,

cadenciado e latejado...

condenado a ser só sim:

«amor discreto

suave afecto

olhar directo

discurso aberto...»

se este (o discurso) tem rosto?

tem!

se se dele vem ou vai voz?

não sei!

propósito não terá

como um alfabeto

que comece no zê

e acabe no a

que me incompletas e inacabas,

que me misteriosas e impulsionas,

que me dóis e me apaziguas?

oh paradoxo da carne

e do que sobra dela...

humilérrimo e vexado

confesso um afirmativo pecado,

logo seguido dum esquecimento.

que recusantemente calo:

dá-me a a boca, dá-me a mão.

P.S. - nunca 'screvas 

(nem pessoal e, menos ainda,

pessoentamente...)

às três e tal

(caramba já são 4)

Também Eu

Creio nos anjos que andam pelo mundo,
Creio na deusa com olhos de diamantes,
Creio em amores lunares com piano ao fundo,
Creio nas lendas, nas fadas, nos atlantes,
.
Creio num engenho que falta mais fecundo
De harmonizar as partes dissonantes,
Creio que tudo é eterno num segundo,
Creio num céu futuro que houve dantes,
.
Creio nos deuses de um astral mais puro,
Na flor humilde que se encosta ao muro,
Creio na carne que enfeitiça o além,
.
Creio no incrível, nas coisas assombrosas,
Na ocupação do mundo pelas rosas,
Creio que o amor tem asas de ouro. Ámen*.

Natália Correia "Ó Véspera do Prodígio - IV"

* A palavra hebraica que indica uma afirmação ou adesão às vezes matizada de desejo. Pode traduzir-se em português, pelas expressões "assim seja", "verdadeiramente" etc