23 outubro, 2008

NOBODY TALKED



Corot, Orfeu conduzindo Eurídice Museum of Fine Arts, Texas

Eu sempre tive dúvidas. Eu sempre suspeitei disto: será que Eurídice queria, realmente, voltar ao mundo dos vivos?

EURYDICE

Girls, I was dead and down
in the Underworld, a shade,
a shadow of my former self, nowhen.
It was a place where language stopped,
a black full stop, a black hole
where words had come to an end.
And end they did there,
last words,
famous or not.
It suited me down to the ground.

So imagine me there,
unavailable,
out of this world,
then picture my face in the place
of Eternal Repose,
in the one place you’d think a girl would be safe
from the kind of man
who follows her round
wrinting poems,
hovers about
while she reads them,
calls His Muse,
and once sulked for a nigth and a day
because she remarked on his weakness for abstract nouns.
Just picture my face
When I heard -
Ye Gods –
A familiar knock-knock-knock at Death’s door.

Him.
Big O.
Larger than life.
With his lyre
And a poem to pitch, with me as the prize.

Things were different back then.
For the men, verse-wise,
Big O was the boy. Legendary.
The blurb on the back of his books claimed
that animals,
aardvark to zebra,
flocked to his side when he sang,
fish leapt in their shoals
at the sound of his voice,
even the mute, sullen stones at his feet
wept wee, silver tears.

Bollocks. (I’d done all typing myself,
I should know.)
And given my time all over again,
rest assured that I’d rather speak for myself
than be Dearest, Beloved, Dark Lady, White Goddess,
etc., etc.

In fact, girls, I’d rather be dead.

But the Gods are like publishers,
usually male,
and what you doubtless know of my tale
is the deal.

Orpheus strutted his stuff.

The bloodless ghosts were in tears.
Sisyphus sat on his rock for the first time in years.
Tantalus was permitted a couple of beers.
The woman in question could scarcely believe her ears.

Like it or not,
I must follow him back to our life –
Eurydice, Orpheus’ wife –
to be trapped in his images, metaphors, similes,
octaves and sextets, quatrains and couplets,
elegies, limericks, villanelles,
histories, myths …

He’d been told that he mustn’t look back
or turn round,
but walk steadily upwards,
myself right behind him,
out of the Underworld
into the upper air that for me was the past.
He’d been warned
that one look would lose me
for ever and ever.

So we walked, we walked.
Nobody talked.

Carol Ann Duffy, The World’s Wife

Sem comentários: