Ugio

Foto de Ugio (Caamanho, claro)

Disse o que disse. Não estou exactamente arrependido, ainda que duvide dalgumas das afirmações que fiz em seu dia. Também disse que lhe tenho grande estima pessoal. Não mentia. E ler agora a última entrada do seu blogue clandestino traz-me lembranças de tempos que vivo recentes e talvez comecem já a não sê-lo. Aquela reunião do Conseho Nacional de Estudantes Independentistas (procuro na net algo que diga respeito à minha antiga organização e encontro só uma foto de uma pintada no antigo blogue da Sabela) aquela reunião -dizia- num bar qualquer da zona velha de compostela, todos à volta de duas mesas juntadas para a ocasião, inclinados para a frente para podermos ouvir o que dizia o companheiro ou a companheira, porque todos falávamos baixinho para não sermos ouvidos não se sabe por quem, tal era a sensação de clandestinidade em que vivíamos submersos (ou pelo menos eu, reconheço). Parecia uma reunião da máfia, ironizou Ugio, já daquela com os pés na terra, apesar de ser o mais novo dos que lá estávamos. E quando eu e ele (e mais alguém?) morríamos de risa com a ideia, e outros companheiros pediam ordem para continuar a reunião, guardando de novo a compostura disse Ugio de novo entre risas "Está bem, tem a palavra o companheiro Cara-cortada". E já não pude continuar a reunião sem morrer de risa.

Tinha uma retranca de espantar o nosso Ugio. Alegra-me comprovar no seu blogue que ainda a conserva. Diz: "Umha brincadeira que nom faz maldita a graça ao Eduardo, por certo, porque nunca sabe se falo a sério ou nom (...)". Essa retranca. A mim passa-me por aqui. E tenho mesmo vontade de voltar a desfrutar dela e com ele. Na rua, é claro.

Mais de Hughes

YOU HATED SPAIN

Spain frightened you. Spain
Where I felt at home. The blood raw light,
The oiled anchovy faces, the African,
Black edges to everything, frightened you.
Your schooling had somehow neglected Spain.
The wrought iron grille, death and the Arab drum.
You did not know the language,your soul was empty
Of the signs, and the welding light
Made your blood shrivel. Bosch
Held out a spidery hand and you took it
Timidly a bobby-sox American.
You saw right down to the Goya funeral grin
And recognised it and recoiled
As your poems winced into chill, as your panic
Clutched back towards college America.
So we sat as tourists at the bullfight
Watching bewildered bulls awkwardly butchered,
Seeing the grey faced matador, at the barrier
Just below us, straightening his bent sword
And vomiting with fear. And the horn
That hid itself inside the blowfly belly
Of the toppled picador punctured
What was waiting for you. Spain
Was the land of your dreams: the dust red cadaver
You dared not wake with, the puckering amputations
No literature course had glamorised.
The juju land behind your African lips.
Spain was what you tried to wake up from
And could not. I see you, in moonlight,
Walking the empty wharf at Alicante
Like a soul waiting for a ferry,
A new soul, still not understanding,
Thinking it is still your honeymoon
In the happy world, with your whole life waiting,
Happy, and all your poems still to be found.

Ted Hughes ? Birthday Letters

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Ted Hughes, outra vez e como sempre






CROW'S UNDERSONG


She cannot come all the way


She comes as far as water no further


She comes with the birth push

Into eyelashes into nipples the fingertips
She comes as far as blood and to the tips of hair

She comes to the fringe of voice
She stays

Even after life even among the bones


She comes singing she cannot manage an instrument
She comes too cold afraid of clothes

And too slow with eyes wincing frightened
When she looks into the wheels


She comes sluttish she cannot keep house

She can just keep clean
She cannot count she cannot last


She comes dumb she cannot manage words

She brings petals in their nectar fruits in their plush
She brings a cloak of feathers an animal rainbow

She brings her fabourite furs and these are her speeches


She has come amorous it is all she has come for


If there had been no hope she would not have come


And there would have been no crying in the city


(There would be no city)


Ted Hughes, Crow.



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