Poesia . 16

De volta à poesia …
Ganhei um gosto especial por este poema e isto apesar do mesmo se vestir com um inglês rebuscado e entrelaçado, como que a querer dizer “não me leiam!”. Uma confusão para uma mente com raízes linguísticas procedentes mais das narrativas da terra do Tio Sam e do que da pátria de Shakespeare. Até o modo como o poema se me surge é curiosa já que resulta da magnífica, admirável, estrondosa série dos Simpsons, o que acho que lhe deu um toque especial, essencial e permita talvez ver neste o que não consigo ver em outros escritos do género e época. Basta de conversa, deixo uma parte e uns links do poema, da tradução do Mestre Pessoa e da animação que originou tudo.

THE RAVEN

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;
Only this, and nothing more."
(…)

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door.
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the nightly shore.
Tell me what the lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore."
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."
(…)
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! -- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the raven, "Nevermore."

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming.
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--- nevermore!

Edgar Allan Poe

Link1 . versão original
Link2 . versão traduzida (Fernando Pessoa)
Link3 . versão imperdível