Archive for February 16th, 2009
Este é o poema que Hemingway escreveu em homenagem à sua colega de metiê e de copo, Dorothy Parker. Parece que à época deste poema os dois haviam se conhecido na Espanha e posteriormente se desentendido provavelmente por divergências em relação ao país. Na verdade as divergências são políticas, estéticas e culturais, e a Espanha serviu de catalizador pro rompimento. “Papa” Hemingway era um sujeito bronco e gostava de sê-lo. Parker era uma intelectual novaiorquina não muito chegada nas tragédias e contradições da realidade. Hemingway por sua vez parecia alimentar-se justamente disso. O que transparece no poema todo é que Hemingway não tolerava as frescuras da senhorita Parker e achava ridículos seus dramas e auto-comiserações. No poema Hemingway contrapõe situações de verdadeiro desespero que ele testemunhou na Espanha e conclui ironicamente que a formação de uma poetisa trágica (Parker) foi feita somente por observação. Enfim, um lance meio Cobain X Vedder.
O poema foi recitado por um Hemingway provavelmente baleado, numa festinha da CENA literária. Dorothy Parker não estava presente, mas dizem que o constrangimento foi geral e amizades foram encerradas por causa do tom da peça. Alusões às tentativas de suicídio da escritora e de seu recem-realizado aborto não agradaram muito a platéia. Com este poema, creio que Hemingway introduz o joselitismo na poesia ocidental.
To a tragic Poetess
Nothing in her life became her like her almost leaving of it.
Oh thou who with a razor blade
a new one to avoid infection
Slit both thy wrists
the scars defy detection
Who over-veronaled to try and peek
into the shade
Of that undistant country from whose bourne
no traveller returns who hasn’t been there.
But always vomited in time
and bound your wrists up
To tell how you could see his little hands
You’d waited months too long
that was the trouble.
But you loved dogs and other people’s children
and hated Spain where they are cruel to donkeys.
Hoping the bulls would kill the matadors.
The national tune of Spain was Tea for Two
you said and don’t let anyone say Spain to you -
You’d seen it with the Seldes
One jew, his wife and a consumptive
you sneered your way around
through Aragon, Castille and Andalucia.
the Jewish cheeks of your plump ass
in holy week in Seville
forgetful of our Lord and of His passion.
Returned, your ass intact, to Paris
to write more poems for the New Yorker.
To sit one day in the Luticia
and joke about a funeral passing in the rain
It gave no pain
because you did not know the people.
To celebrate in borrowed cadence
your former gnaw and and itch for Charley
who went away and left you not so flat behind him
And it performed so late those little hands
those well formed little hands
And were there little feet and had
the testicles descended?
While in Malaga the street lights in the fog
outside the hospital
A boy named Litri
returning from death’s other kingdom to discover
They’d taken off his leg without his permission
Having promised it was only to clean the wound
The leg gone at the hip
suffered a crise of desespoir
Knowing before he died of gaseous gangrene
he’d never fight again
It mattered greatly.
He died desesperado in his bed as did Maera
Althought Marea slipped from bed
to die upon the floor
Curled up under the bed
the tubes in his chest broken
His face quite happy
considering he drowned in mucous
He thinking in delirium he was a boy again and voyaging
under the seats in third class coaches
his fighting cape rolled up to make a pillow.
And old man named Valentin Mazarga
climbed in his eightieth year the tower of Miguelete
and was, the Valencian paper said,
destroyed completely on the pavement.
His grand daughter had said he was a bother
and he was getting old.
A boy named Jaime Noain
exploded in his mouth for love
a three inch stick of dynamite
And lived, unknowing, to become
the chief attraction of a troupe
who visit all the fairs in Catalonia.
Fifteen a day they average in the papers
The suicides of sunny Spain
the column headed LOS DESESPERADOS
A separate heading sometimes, AHOGADOS
or, The Drowned Ones.
Thus tragic poetess are made
Aproveitem e fiquem com dois catálogos virtuais de um leilão que pôs à venda primeiras edições e edições autografadas dessa galerinha toda:
- Were you ever interested in the so-called “underground” american cinema, either in its politically-minded directors (Kramer, Di Antonio ) or the more explicitly avant-garde New York names (Warhol, Ander, Mekas, Markopoulos)?
SK- Well, I haven’t really seen any good underground movies. I mean, one of the problems with movies is that it does require some degree of technical ability to keep the film from looking foolish. And most underground films are poorly made. But I wouldn’t call, for instance, “Girlfriends” an underground movie, that was really just a low-budget professional film. I certainly haven’t seen any underground films that I thought were important or particularly interesting. I mean, they are rather interesting in a way because people are doing things that no one would ever think of doing. But I couldn’t say that they are very stimulating or important in creating new ideas that are going to be taken up by other people.