(1940 - 2007)
TOLENTINO, Bruno. O mundo como Idéia 1959 - 1999. São Paulo: Globo, 2002. 445 p. 16x23 cm. “ Bruno Tolentino “ Ex. bibl. Antonio Miranda.
ABOUT THE HUNT
Uccello's forest opens like a black furnace
into which deer and spear run alike;
blinded and brothered by the gamble in the space
they plunge into that web's couter-attack.
His dream was of a form, yet forms but raise
that dark stretching hand which pulled him back.
I say that all the flutes of the night are bright
and wreck a necklace of visions for one knot;
you say that they run mad against the light
for visions cannot see the eye they sought.
Again I see that deer-and-hunters' flight
into that web and cannot see why not.
All blazing goes the wheel and all you took
is then thrown back once more against one spark;
the dancers turn their backs and when you look
the slaughter is reaching light, all hounds bark.
But those few who went hunting in the dark
are there forever like a shade upon a hook.
Their dawn is iron-black as though some ring
were gathering time and motion in a round;
as fallen feathers from a bony wing
their dream is like a dance upon no ground.
I summon those skeletons to sing
but the huntsmen, the deer and the hounds,
the horses whose breathing, whose necks
stab down the folly of all breath,
the sempiternal dreamers on their backs,
silent and motionless, alien to death,
are in death, mere colours in her blacks.
But where are wings gone? And what is death?
II. THE INTRODUCTORY RHYMES (1973)
Beloved Master of those few who know
the task is but love (but there is no task
and words cannot hold substance), we are cut
from old spells of loving for we love
in no different way what is different enough
and entangled with the tongues in the soul
we can do little to prove it as we butt
time and again against all notions of a whole
— then, caught into the whirling vertigo,
keep howling there unto the unreal fence
of the body, unsubstancial masque,
commonplace to the stars.
Take no offence
if we come this close to your silence to ask
whether there could be other fires, whether
those spirals we nail love against, dear Master,
could seize our log-like longing, that feather
the Greek seer saw whirling faster and faster
till no shadow was left in the cavern to cast
light upon mere words. Ask me not
from which subtle hands we took our lot,
into what sombre wood was laid the spark
we are to endure and rejoice with: may the answer
keep pace with the flame though no dancer
but mere cogitation in the dark.
Yet tell us which is the stairway, the last
to perform a descent toward animal light,
light of logs meeting to be lit.
We lingered in the moth's bed; we saw
the lion's surrender, the buffalo's jaw
of unquenchable ember; we fight
the daily dove of renunciation; we stare
endlessly into the pupils of the wolf;
we fall; we are exhausted; we spit
ash as you did...
Be silent, Master, though
some will cut out one ear for love, our proof,
since we have no proof but love, this love.
Do you remember how it shone afar? Or was it,
for those few who dared to know, not as yet
uncovered from the old mud, Master, that
ascension of the flesh to be slain?
S'io salgo queste scale tu ne vieni
and such is our request: that glare
no one would ever hold, where moth and dove
together dwell again, the sombre stair
blazing with Clyties kiss; that the soul,
mere part, after all, of nought and whole,
come prove kinship with wolf and dove,
Master; that we be arrow and wing again.
THOSE STRANGE HUNTERS
Piero saw the fall
of his eastern light
before the fall of day;
he undertook to stare
from closer, from the clay.
Circle, triangle, square,
his ultimate rite
was to redeem it all.
Death was beating a drum
not so far away.
He lived on a crumb,
his last drop was pure
and impure as all light;
light: he knew the cure,
it would have matteredand it still surprises.
He saw the drummer last, then his eyes
were before end scattered.
Virginia Woolf saw
light but as a plotter,
a way to unmask time
from some depth within.
Alas, although she traced
the dark elusive shore,
she was left with no grime
that might secure a floor,
matter was unbegotten.
Yet she was to win ——
light as the foam of things...
By day of slaughter
such light cannot
hold it all up. She,
while trying to replace it,
went turning to water
had to undo her wings.
Dylan Thomas in fire
summoned light: a measure
had to rise or light
had to be complete!
As echoes in the choir,
as part of the rite,
he thought of no pleasure,
no bitter kiss, or sweet,
but of a tongue to touch
and be one with. Such
light at last blew —
neither a noon caress
nor morrow's tender bite:
the lightning was his due,
he had it. No digressing,
no mirrors in the word:
he believed the sword;
he became the pyre.
Old Yeats and his light
fought in the dark; his
was unrequitted love,
so he had to fight.
He saw the bleeding dove,
he knew of the bliss
and yet he fought:
not to turn his back,
not to escape flesh,
not ever to be caught.
The crystal shade was black;
through blackness shone the star.
Flesh was the dream, yet flesh
was dark, dark, dark.
So was light, each spark...
He shipwrecked in flesh
as a final remark.
For Leonardo light
was part of the key;
but the light of a tavern
as of eternity.
By interweaving both
he was claiming no right
to either time or place,
he was searching the face
where the flame and the moth
would suddenly unite.
Neither was it a game,
except for the soul
he would not tame;
there is no bottom, though.
So he thrusted his key
deeper into that cavern
and retreated, as slow
as that similing sea.
Página publicada em julho de 2015