Nicolaes van Veerendael, A Tulip, Carnations, and Morning Glory in a Glass Vase.
---
Late August, given heavy rain and sun
for a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
sent us out with milk-cans, pea-tins, jam-pots
where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
we trekked and picked until the cans were full,
until the tinkling bottom had been covered
with green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
with thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
that all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.
---
Seamus Heaney.
for a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
sent us out with milk-cans, pea-tins, jam-pots
where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
we trekked and picked until the cans were full,
until the tinkling bottom had been covered
with green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
with thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.
We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
that all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.
---
Seamus Heaney.
6 comentários:
Todas amamos telas e arte e formas de pintar. Particularmente essa forma me rouba o ar. Si que é tela, sei que é real e não consigo separar uma da outra. Forte e agressivamente suave.
obrigada, hoje me fez bem olhar...vou levar uma flor comigo, poço?
bjs
Estejam à vontade: podem levar flores e amoras!! Bj!
É um poema bem bonito e simples, Margarida, de um poeta irlandês que eu estimo, particularmente. E o "sangue do Verão" (summer´s blood) das amoras de Heaney fez-me lembrar o "sangue matinal das framboesas" do Eugénio de Andrade.
Do poema de Heaney também é essa a imagem que mais gosto: «summer's blood». Não conheço o poema de E. de Andrade. Onde poderei encontrá-lo?
Creio (estou fora de casa) que integra o livro "Ostinato Rigore" (1964), e o poema intitula-se "Natureza morta com frutos". Deixo-lhe dois dísticos:
1.
O sangue matinal das framboesas
escolhe a brancura do linho para amar.
(...)
7.
Nas romãs eu amo
o repouso no coração do lume.
Em pequena, eu ia as amoras ;-))
Lindas telas, Margarida!
Bjs!
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