sexta-feira, 14 de outubro de 2016

Um poema de Robert Zimmerman


Nos media chamam-lhe "letras" de Bob Dylan. São poemas, mas eles não sabem.


Deixo aqui um dos meus favoritos, a senhora com olhos tristes das terras planas.


Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands

With your mercury mouth in the missionary times,
And your eyes like smoke and your prayers like rhymes,
And your silver cross, and your voice like chimes,
Oh, who do they think could bury you?

With your pockets well protected at last,
And your streetcar visions which you place on the grass,
And your flesh like silk, and your face like glass,
Who could they get to carry you?

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I put them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

With your sheets like metal and your belt like lace,
And your deck of cards missing the jack and the ace,
And your basement clothes and your hollow face,
Who among them can think he could outguess you?

With your silhouette when the sunlight dims
Into your eyes where the moonlight swims,
And your match-book songs and your gypsy hymns,
Who among them would try to impress you?

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I put them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

The kings of Tyrus with their convict list
Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss,
And you wouldn't know it would happen like this,
But who among them really wants just to kiss you?

With your childhood flames on your midnight rug,
And your Spanish manners and your mother's drugs,
And your cowboy mouth and your curfew plugs,
Who among them do you think could resist you?

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

Oh, the farmers and the businessmen, they all did decide
To show you the dead angels that they used to hide.
But why did they pick you to sympathize with their side?
Oh, how could they ever mistake you?

They wished you'd accepted the blame for the farm,
But with the sea at your feet and the phony false alarm,
And with the child of a hoodlum wrapped up in your arms,
How could they ever had persuaded you?

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

With your sheet-metal memory of Cannery Row,
And your magazine-husband who one day just had to go,
And your gentleness now, which you just can't help but show,
Who among them do you think would employ you?

Now you stand with your thief, you're on his parole
With your holy medallion which your fingertips now fold,
And your saintlike face and your ghostlike soul,
Oh, who among them do you think could destroy you?

Sad-eyed lady of the lowlands,
Where the sad-eyed prophet says that no man comes,
My warehouse eyes, my Arabian drums,
Should I leave them by your gate,
Or, sad-eyed lady, should I wait?

3 comentários :

Virginia disse...

Não coheço a obra de Bob Dylan, nem sequer toda a sua música. Que foi um mentor de gerações é verdade. Se merece o prémio, não sei, nem me interessa. Fico contente com a diversificação, sempre achei que devia haver um premio Nobel da Música. Ele merece-o.

Mário Gonçalves disse...

Dylan não é um músico, Virgínia. As canções são simples, esta que publiquei é bonita, mas não passam de sol-e-dós mais ou menos adaptadps ao poema. Dylan é acima de tudo escritor, escritor de poemas, poeta. E também não acho que sejam os poemas de mensagem política, como o tal "The times they are a-changing" que os media sacralizam, ou mesmo os de contra-cultura, os seus melhores.

São sobretudo os poemas onde se fala de amores, da vida, do que lhe vai na alma, de morte, que mais me interessam.

Virginia disse...

Obrigada pela partilha, desconhecia a sua vertente literária. Nunca li nada dele, como li a de Leonard Cohen ou Chico Buarque , por exemplo.
Bom Domingo.