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ANDRADE, Carlos Drummond de


Square Dance

João loved Teresa who loved Raimundo

who loved Maria who loved Joaquim who loved Lili

who didn’t love anyone.

João went to the United States, Teresa to a convent,

Raimundo died in an accident, Maria became a spinster,

Joaquim committed suicide, and Lili married J. Pinto Fernandes,

who had nothing to do with the story.



A bunda, que engraçada

A bunda, que engraçada.
Está sempre sorrindo, nunca é trágica.

Não lhe importa o que vai
pela frente do corpo. A bunda basta-se.
Existe algo mais? Talvez os seios.
Ora - murmura a bunda - esses garotos
ainda lhes falta muito que estudar.

A bunda são duas luas gêmeas
em rotundo meneio. Anda por si
na cadência mimosa, no milagre
de ser duas em uma, plenamente.

A bunda se diverte
por conta própria. E ama.
Na cama agita-se. Montanhas
avolumam-se, descem. Ondas batendo
numa praia infinita.

Lá vai sorrindo a bunda. Vai feliz
na carícia de ser e balançar
Esferas harmoniosas sobre o caos.

A bunda é a bunda
redunda.


Het kontje, ach hoe aardig

Het kontje, ach hoe aardig,
Lacht altijd, nooit tragisch.

Kan niet schelen wat
van voren zit. Het kontje is zichzelf genoeg.
Is er nog meer? Misschien de borsten.
Nou - moppert het kontje - die jongens
hebben nog heel wat voor de boeg.

Het kontje is tweelingmanen
in een onbelemmerd wiegen. Loopt vanzelf
in zijn lieftallige cadans, zijn wonder
twee in een te zijn, volledig.

Het kontje vermaakt zich
in zijn eentje. En bemint.
In bed beweegt het. Bergen
rijzen, dalen. Golven slaan
op grenzeloze kust.

Daar gaat het kontje, lachend. Blij
met de streling er te zijn, te schommelen.
Harmonieuze sferen hoog boven de chaos.

Het kontje is het kontje,
een rondje.


Vertaling : August WILLEMSEN



José

What now, José?

The party’s over,

the lights are off,

the crowd’s gone,

the night’s gone cold,

what now, José?

what now, you?

you without a name,

who mocks the others,

you who write poetry

who love, protest?

what now, José?

You have no wife,

you have no speech

you have no affection,

you can’t drink,

you can’t smoke,

you can’t even spit,

the night’s gone cold,

the day didn’t come,

the tram didn’t come,

laughter didn’t come

utopia didn’t come

and everything ended

and everything fled

and everything rotted

what now, José?

what now, José?

Your sweet words,

your instance of fever,

your feasting and fasting,

your library,

your gold mine,

your glass suit,

your incoherence,

your hate—what now?

Key in hand

you want to open the door,

but no door exists;

you want to die in the sea,

but the sea has dried;

you want to go to Minas

but Minas is no longer there.

José, what now?

If you screamed,

if you moaned,

if you played

a Viennese waltz,

if you slept,

if you tired,

if you died…

But you don’t die,

you’re stubborn, José!

Alone in the dark

like a wild animal,

without tradition,

without a naked wall

to lean against,

without a black horse

that flees galloping,

you march, José!

José, where to?