Sons da Escrita 281

5 de Junho de 2010

Terceiro programa do ciclo Paulo Ramalho

Compasso a compasso, palavra a palavra, alinham-se, rigorosos, os sons da escrita.

Quando um homem interroga a água pura dos sentidos e ousa caminhar, serenamente, os esquecidos atalhos de todas as memórias, acontecem viagens — viagens entre o quase tudo e o quase nada.

Então, da raíz dos nervos da memória surge a planta de uma vida escutada no silêncio dos sons da escrita.

Sons da Escrita – à volta de uma ideia de José-António Moreira.


•••

Paulo Ramalho

O hóspede

Eu vivo a um canto de mim,
encerrado no armário velho dos dias,
esquecido entre sonhos e bolas de naftalina,
cercado por trevas e portas que rangem no silêncio.
Eu habito a margem obscura do meu corpo,
onde todo os barcos se perdem
e todos os poemas naufragam.
Alma minha atormentada, eu sou o teu prisioneiro,
o teu hóspede pobre que mendiga a sopa de cada dia.


The guests (Leonard Cohen)

One by one, the guests arrive
The guests are coming through
The open-hearted many
The broken-hearted few

And no one knows where the night is going
And no one knows why the wine is flowing
Oh love I need you
I need you
I need you
I need you
Oh . . . I need you now

And those who dance, begin to dance
Those who weep begin
And "Welcome, welcome" cries a voice
"Let all my guests come in."

And no one knows where the night is going ...

And all go stumbling through that house
in lonely secrecy
Saying "Do reveal yourself"
or "Why has thou forsaken me?"

And no one knows where the night is going ...

All at once the torches flare
The inner door flies open
One by one they enter there
In every style of passion

And no one knows where the night is going ...

And here they take their sweet repast
While house and grounds dissolve
And one by one the guests are cast
Beyond the garden wall

And no one knows where the night is going ...

Those who dance, begin to dance
Those who weep begin
Those who earnestly are lost
Are lost and lost again

And no one knows where the night is going ...

One by the guests arrive
The guests are coming through
The broken-hearted many
The open-hearted few

And no one knows where the night is going ...


Paulo Ramalho

Caixa de Pandora

As portas de um poema são sílabas de outras sílabas,
são poeira azul sobre os lábios do tempo
e desnudam o silêncio dos frutos redondos
(revelam indizíveis romãs).
As janelas das palavras são encruzilhadas do destino
encostadas à estrada do dizer. Elas esmagam
o poeta contra a nudez do papel. No segredo
das casas fechadas está encerrado o universo
e os Deuses dormem no telhado da nossa ignorância.


Pandora’s box (Procol Harum)

While horsemen ride across the green
and Snow White still remains unseen.
Pegasus, the winged horse,
relays his messages by Morse.
And like some pirate sailor
We crossed the Spanish Main
And brought our magic carpet
to a marble staircased plain. 

While Handel plays his melody
Doctors cause uncertainty
And though I know the lifeguard's brave
There is no one for him to save.
And like some pirate sailor
We crossed the Spanish Main
And brought our magic carpet
to a marble staircased plain. 

Cock Robin views his frozen feet
and wraps them in a winding sheet
and calls out for his favourite drink
the Persian that's as warm as mink.
And like some pirate sailor
We crossed the Spanish Main
And brought our magic carpet
to a marble staircased plain.

Paulo Ramalho

Ofício imperfeito

Atormenta-me a certeza calma e clara
de que jamais concluirei um único poema.
Atormentam-me, mas não me afligem,
as estrelas infinitamente brilhantes
e a luz do sol exacto sobre os dias.
Flor ou pássaro são palavras que me agradam
mas não sei se dão sentido ao silêncio.
São-me gratas todas as formas e cores do amor,
mesmo quando coisa amada e amor possível
se confundem no objecto impossível do desejo.
Gosto das praias que se despem no Outono,
embora me incomode o vento quando não traz gaivotas.
Sinto prazer em imaginar labirintos (sobretudo de versos)
ou perder-me na encruzilhada dos sonhos.
Sei que tudo isto (uma nuvem azul, um sorriso)
fica aquém do poema, fica no limiar da palavra,
mas mesmo assim persisto no ofício de contemplar a esfinge.


Writing to reach you (Travis)

Every day I wake up and it's Sunday
Whatever's in my head won't go away
The radio is playing all the usual
What's a Wonderwall anyway?

Because my inside is outside
My right side's on the left side
Cause I'm writing to reach you now but
I might never reach you
Only want to teach you
About you
But that's not you

It's good to know that you are home for Christmas
It's good to know that you are doing well
It's good to know that you all know I'm hurting
It's good to know I'm feeling not so well

Because my inside is outside
My right side's on the left side
Cause I'm writing to reach you now but
I might never reach you
Only want to teach you
About you
But that's not you
And you know it's true
But that won't do

Maybe then tomorrow will be Monday
And whatever's in my head should go away
But still the radio keeps playing all the usual
And what's a Wonderwall anyway?

Because my inside is outside
My right side's on the left side
Cause I'm writing to reach you now but
I might never reach you
Only want to teach you
About you
But that's not you
And you know it's true
But that won't do
And you know it's you
I'm talking to


A porta dava para dentro de mim. Quem rodasse
a grande chave enferrujada teria depois que descer
por uma escada de degraus escorregadios até chegar
à sala do coração...


Música:

Genérico
Davy Spillane (abertura e fecho), Beatles (Fecho)

Fundos
Djivan Gasparian, Rob Lansberg, Andreas Vollenweider

Ligações
Leonard Cohen, Procol Harum, Travis

Textos:
Paulo Ramalho

Edição e voz:
José-António Moreira


•••|•••|•••


And in the end

the love you'll take

is equal to the love you make

© José-António Moreira 2012