Sobre a carta que você pergunta
sobre o divã que você me vê deitada
aonde me pede para carregar uma Cruzada;
você mentor cruz, pede-me para me aproximar
da Cruzada
seu cão de caça
menor que um dedão
pequeno e oco, feito de madeira,
cara de pau, você é cara de pau-
esses espinhos caretas
de uma rosa seca-
Eu rezo por esta sombra,
lugar cinza lugar
que repousa sobre a sua carta
[aqui morre um imenso]
dentro&fundo
eu odeio os meus pecados e tento acreditar
nessa Cruzada, eu toco em seus quadris macios,
na sua cara longa feito um charuto
no seu pescoço imóvel, no seu sono marrom
É vero, Existe sim
um Jesus moreno.
Ele está colado no seus ossos igual a uma Costelinha.
Que desespero, caro amigo, em me enfiar em outros braços
que não sejam os seus mas de seus próximos!
Que desespero o meu, de querer me cortar na sua espada!
Mas não posso. Precisar não é exatamente acreditar.
Vesti,
a manhã toda vesti
a sua cruz, enrolada como coleira de cachorro
em volta do meu pescoço
Ela me batia no peito como um coração de criança
deve bater, será
Batendo em segundo plano, na barriga
esperando para nascer.
Lucas, eu valorizo a carta que enviou-me.
Caro amigo, caro, eu nasci
fazendo referências literárias sobre o pecado e
nascendo confessando-as. Isso são os poemas;
with urgency
for the Witty,
eles são um trava-línguas
a fossa do mundo e a estrela de um rato.
Traição do poema 'With mercy for the greedy' de Anne Sexton. Seguindo as idéias tradutológicas, chamadas 'Invenções' de Pound .
WITH MERCY FOR THE GREEDY
For my friend, Ruth, who urges me to make an appointment for the Sacrament of Confession
Concerning your letter in which you ask
me to call a priest and in which you ask
me to wear The Cross that you enclose;
your own cross,
your dog-bitten cross,
no larger than a thumb,
small and wooden, no thorns, this rose—
I pray to its shadow,
that gray place
where it lies on your letter ... deep, deep.
I detest my sins and I try to believe
in The Cross. I touch its tender hips, its dark jawed face,
its solid neck, its brown sleep.
True. There is
a beautiful Jesus.
He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef.
How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in!
How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes!
But I can’t. Need is not quite belief.
All morning long
I have worn
your cross, hung with package string around my throat.
It tapped me lightly as a child’s heart might,
tapping secondhand, softly waiting to be born.
Ruth, I cherish the letter you wrote.
My friend, my friend, I was born
doing reference work in sin, and born
confessing it. This is what poems are:
with mercy
for the greedy,
they are the tongue’s wrangle,
the world's pottage, the rat's star.
Concerning your letter in which you ask
me to call a priest and in which you ask
me to wear The Cross that you enclose;
your own cross,
your dog-bitten cross,
no larger than a thumb,
small and wooden, no thorns, this rose—
I pray to its shadow,
that gray place
where it lies on your letter ... deep, deep.
I detest my sins and I try to believe
in The Cross. I touch its tender hips, its dark jawed face,
its solid neck, its brown sleep.
True. There is
a beautiful Jesus.
He is frozen to his bones like a chunk of beef.
How desperately he wanted to pull his arms in!
How desperately I touch his vertical and horizontal axes!
But I can’t. Need is not quite belief.
All morning long
I have worn
your cross, hung with package string around my throat.
It tapped me lightly as a child’s heart might,
tapping secondhand, softly waiting to be born.
Ruth, I cherish the letter you wrote.
My friend, my friend, I was born
doing reference work in sin, and born
confessing it. This is what poems are:
with mercy
for the greedy,
they are the tongue’s wrangle,
the world's pottage, the rat's star.
