There Is A Silence

There is a silence where hath been no sound
There is a silence where no sound may be
. . .
Existe um silêncio onde nunca houve som
Existe um silêncio onde nenhum som pode existir

Thomas Hood, 1799-1845

Underwater Sculptures by Jason deCaires Taylor

Arte Poética / Art Poétique

Antes de qualquer coisa, música
e, para isso, prefere o Ímpar
mais vago e mais solúvel no ar,
sem nada que pese ou que pouse.

E preciso também que não vás nunca
escolher tuas palavras em ambiguidade:
nada mais caro que a canção cinzenta
onde o Indeciso se junta ao Preciso.

São belos olhos atrás dos véus,
é o grande dia trêmulo de meio-dia,
é, através do céu morno de outono,
o azul desordenado das claras estrelas!

Porque nós ainda queremos o Matiz,
nada de Cor, nada a não ser o matiz!
Oh! O matiz único que liga
o sonho ao sonho e a flauta à trompa.

Foge para longe da Piada assassina,
do Espírito cruel e do Riso impuro
que fazem chorar os olhos do Azul
e todo esse alho de baixa cozinha!

Toma a eloquência e torce-lhe o pescoço!
Tu farás bem, já que começaste,
em tornar a rima um pouco razoável.
Se não a vigiarmos, até onde ela irá?

Oh! Quem dirá os malefícios da Rima?
Que criança surda ou que negro louco
nos forjou esta joia barata
que soa oca e falsa sob a lima?

Ainda e sempre, música!
(...)

Que teu verso seja um bom acontecimento
esparso no vento crispado da manhã
que vai florindo a hortelã e o timo...
E tudo o mais é só literatura.


Arte Poética, de Paul Verlaine

. . .

Of music before everything—
And for this like the Odd more—
Vaguer and more melting in air,
Without anything in it which weighs or arrests.

It must also be that you do not go about
Choosing your words without some carelessness:
Nothing dearer than the greyish song
Where the Wavering and Precise are joined.

Something like beautiful eyes behind veils,
Something like the trembling wide day of noon,
Something like (when made gentle by an autumn sky)
The blue jumble of clear stars!

For we desire Nuance yet more—
Not color, nothing but Nuance!
Oh! only nuance brings
Dream to dream and flute to horn!

Keep away from the murderous Sharp Saying,
Cruel Wit and Impure Laugh,
Which make weep the eyes of Blue Space—
And all that garlic of low cooking.

Take eloquence and wring its neck!
You will do well, in energetic mood,
To use Rhyme made wise somewhat.
If it is not watched, where may it not go?

Oh, who can tell the wrong-doings of Rhyme?
What deaf child or mad black man
Has made for us this penny toy,
That sounds hollow and false heard precisely.

Let music be, more of it and always!
Let your verse be the thing in motion
Which one feels who flees from an altering soul,
Towards other skies to other loves.

Let your verse be the happy occurrence,
Somehow within the restless morning wind,
Which goes about smelling of mint and thyme...
And all the rest is literature.


Art Poétique, by Paul Verlaine
Translation by Eli Siegel

I will do nothing now but listen

I think I will do nothing now but listen,
To accrue what I hear into myself—to let sounds contribute toward me.

I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames, clack of sticks cooking my meals;
I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice;
I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following;

Sounds of the city, and sounds out of the city—sounds of the day and night;
Talkative young ones to those that like them—the loud laugh of work-people at their meals;
The angry base of disjointed friendship—the faint tones of the sick;
The judge with hands tight to the desk, his pallid lips pronouncing a death-sentence;
The heave’e’yo of stevedores unlading ships by the wharves—the refrain of the anchor-lifters;
The ring of alarm-bells—the cry of fire—the whirr of swift-streaking engines and hose-carts, with premonitory tinkles, and color’d lights;
The steam-whistle—the solid roll of the train of approaching cars;
The slow-march play’d at the head of the association, marching two and two,
(They go to guard some corpse—the flag-tops are draped with black muslin.)

I hear the violoncello (’tis the young man’s heart’s complaint;)
I hear the key’d cornet—it glides quickly in through my ears;
It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast.

I hear the chorus—it is a grand opera;
Ah, this indeed is music! This suits me.

A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me;
The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full.

I hear the train’d soprano—(what work, with hers, is this?)
The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies;
It wrenches such ardors from me, I did not know I possess’d them;
It sails me—I dab with bare feet—they are lick’d by the indolent waves;
I am exposed, cut by bitter and angry hail—I lose my breath,
Steep’d amid honey’d morphine, my windpipe throttled in fakes of death;
At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles,
And that we call BEING.


Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.