Nox - Anne Carson

Hakusai - Anne Carson - Marília Garcia

A raiva é uma cadeado doloroso
mas que pode ser aberto.

Hokusai, 83 anos, 
disse, 
é hora de fazer meus leões.

Todas as manhãs
até sua morte

219 dias depois
ele desenhou
um leão.

Rajadas de vento do noroeste.

Leões balançavam
e saltavam
do alto

dos pinheiros
para as ruas

cobertas de
neve ou sei
estatelavam

sobre a cabana dele,
as patas brancas

ferindo as estrelas
ao cair.

Eu sigo desenhando
em busca
de um dia calmo,

dizia Hokusai
enquanto os leões tombavam. 

Marília Garcia. Disponível aqui.

LITTLE RACKET - Anne Carson

Sunday evening, evening gray. All day the storm did not quite storm. Clouds closed in, sulked, spat. We put off swimming. Took in the chairs. Finally (about seven) a rumbling high up. A wind went round the trees tossing each once and releasing arbitrary rivulets of cool air downward, this wind which came apart, the parts swaying out, descending, bumping around the yard awhile not quite on the count then a single chord ran drenched across the roof, the porch and stopped. We all breathed. Maybe that’s it, maybe it’s over, the weatherman is often wrong these days, we can still go swimming (roll call? glimpse of sun?) when all at once the sluices opened, broke a knot and smashed the sky to bits, which fell and keep falling even now as dark comes on and fabled night is managing its manes and the birds, I can hear from their little racket, the birds are burning up and down like holy fools somewhere inside it—far in where they keep the victim, smeared, stinking, hence the pageantry, hence the pitchy cries, don’t keep saying you don’t hear it too.

Retirado daqui.