(Rhonda Fleming)

RARITY --  March 31, 2006

 

Let you ever bear no doubt

On the shape of my infatuation,

On the splendor of my attention,

Or on the emotions lying about,

 

For no one shall love you as much,

Had you a hundred years to live,

You shall never a love achieve

In song as great as my touch.

 

Cannot then you perceive

To which degree are filled

Of you the tears I shed?

 

To which point you conceive:

The measureless love you instilled

From this single sight I had?

 

abaixo a versão original em português:

 

RARIDADE I -- ?

 

Não tenhas dúvidas nunca

Da forma do meu desvelo,

Do esplendor deste meu zelo,

Das emoções que te junca,

 

Que ninguém te amará tanto,

Quer vivas cem anos mais,

Não terás amor jamais,

Parelho amor a meu canto.

 

Pois então, tu não percebes

Até que ponto estão cheias

Minhas lágrimas de ti?

 

Até que ponto concebes:

Com teu olhar me incendeias

De amor qual nunca eu senti?

 

RARIDADE II -- 13 OUT 2017

 

Não tenhas dúvida nunca

Que o amor é bem maior

Que as batidas do órgão-mór,

Que a emoção que ali junca.

 

Amor de garra que adunca

E rasga todo o interior,

Nunca prendes tal amor,

Requestado em sempre-nunca.

 

Amor que é igual sempre-viva,

Já morta e sem umidade,

Porém sem jamais murchar,

 

Amor qual sépala esquiva,

Triste talo sem vaidade,

Por seu poder de lanhar.

 

RARIDADE III

 

Não tenhas dúvida, então,

Que essa coisa tão rara,

Que te parece tão cara:

O que restou da paixão,

 

Tem fibras de coração,

Cortante em sua luz amara,

Luz monótona e preclara,

Qual hemácia em borbotão.

 

Que eu te dei com vastidão,

Esvaziando todo o peito,

Sem para mim guardar nada,

 

Que nem poderia, então,

Reservar qualquer direito

Para outra prenda encontrada.

 

RARIDADE IV

 

Não tenhas dúvida, assim,

Sem guardar para ninguém,

O amor que do peito vem,

Pois te dei tudo de mim.

 

Porém que chegou ao fim,

Sem buscar flores além,

Nem aceitar as que vêm,

Sem beijar qualquer jasmim.

 

Com teu olhar me incendiaste

De amor que nunca senti:

Dei-te o meu, sem acabar,

 

Pois quanto mais me tiraste,

Mais no meu peito fervi,

Para mais poder-te dar!...

 

APRIL FOOL -- April the 1st., 2006

 

A fisherman draggin' ashore his empty net,

That's what I am, after hours travailin',

My heart tried, my body is all a-wet

Of sorrows thousand and hopeless a'waitin'.

 

Yeah, a fisherman, after years castin'

And rowin' abroad for the ransom that

My life would change, anglin' and baitin'

Until my hands bled; and then i'd squat

 

On that empty beach spanned by empty eyes,

All hope broken shells, yet nought a fish,

A crab, a lobster, not even the smallest

 

Shrimp to chew on, for all my sighs;

And realize then ---- that for a conquest,

Spilt salty blood after an empty wish...

 

 

ASH FLAKES -- 1/4/2006

 

Now I am to write about love achieved

And yet unfulfilled, for the target, somehow,

Tarnished when obtained, a closed show

After so much was promised and little viewed.

 

For sonnets accepted but as a tribute,

As well they were to be, but set aside

Without a further look, and then abide

As brackish water, like chimney's soot.

 

They were forgotten, poems turned flinders

By daily chores and tasks unromantic,

As prose can be, as pages only flicked

 

In a contract, sounding as pedantic

As faculty speeches --- and yet were licked

Black by fire and eaten into cinders.

 

GIVEUPPANCE -- 2/4/2006

 

now every time i see You i feel Dismayed.

it's like i've bled, Exhilaration

no longer to be found, all Infatuation

spent... as if  never ever 'twas Assayed.

 

now every time i think of You there's Emptiness.

i expect no more, all hope is Gone,

feel again as before, to Spurn prone,

on reality thrown back and wrapt in Numbness.

 

now every time i reach for You, i found Nothing,

nor shadow, nor substance, only the Laughter

of a white swan, trying away Her wings...

 

and yet, how beautifully She swings

among the clouds, while i remain the Sifter

of dried sand and watch my life's withering...

 

FREE BOON -- 2/4/2006

 

Once I gave her a flower of blue

To plant within her breast and let grow,

And well she did; her sorrow did allow

Space for the flower to chase away her rue.

 

And it took root and spread anew

Her buds and her twigs, and a bow

Was raised to protect; and a low

Kindly scent to her life was due.

 

At last, it was a tree and bore fruit,

But very strange indeed, not a sweet

Plum or a cherry, not a wan

 

Fig or a berry.   It wore a suit

Of feathers, for the sun to greet

To take proudly flight as a blue swan.

 

   HINTING -- April 7, 2006

 

She swept recklessly a goblet of wine

with the back of her hand -- and it broke.

It was an old goblet, no gift of mine

but a heirloom of yore a casual poke

 

sent rolling down the tablecloth to soak

of red spilled wine  -- a bloody line

and then a clink -- like a deathly joke

the brim fell out as does a petal fine

 

of a wilted rose.   With a wry smile,

she tossed away the shards and said no way

there was for keeping broken glass as token

 

of past memories from a lost while.

And such is a love, that, once broken,

no longer can be kept, but 's thrown away.