Poem
Vasco Graça Moura
a dog for pompei
rather than a pair of embracing lovers i proposea dog from pompei. one that was no doubt
frolicking next to the forum, in search of a bone,
when friskier vesuvius caught and molded him
into pumice-stone. i insist
on seeing him as a scrawny, neglected creature
for whom poverty was a way of life. he skipped
through peristyles, a stranger to luxury, to corruption
to astrology, and no poisoned morsel ever befell him
from the triclinia, he never became
a symbolic animal or barking myth.
he was never found in any excavation, but we summon him now.
he was just a dog, un chien, who had fleas and
raised his paw like all dogs
and yelped and bit when necessary.
he lived for today and, faun of street corners, for bitches in heat.
a sign no doubt read cave canem in tiny tesserae,
making no mark in history, surviving only
in expurgated books in latin, mixed up
with the gallic wars and a few names of gods.
i sing of a dog without fable or pedigree, who didn’t escape fate,
an ordinary mutt belonging, let’s say, to pliny
the elder, who happens to have died nearby,
perhaps screaming, a few days later.
“you’re so cerebral,” said vexed and golden-haired chloe.
“yes,” i replied cautiously, “but so are a lot of other people.
and love and death have always been ponderable.”
“besides,” i added, “what harm does it do the dog?”
© Translation: 1998, Richard Zenith
um cão para pompeia
um cão para pompeia
aos amantes enlaçados contraponhoum cão de pompeia, decerto ele andaria
a brincar junto ao forum, à cata de algum osso,
quando o vesúvio o caçou, mais lesto,
para moldá-lo em pedra-pomes.
insisto em vê-lo como um bicho magro e descuidado,
de penúria diuturna. passou de leve
pelos peristilos, alheio ao luxo, à corrupção,
à astrologia, e nunca dos triclínios
lhe caiu um naco envenenado, nunca se tornou
nem animal simbólico, nem mito que ganisse.
nunca foi encontrado nas escavações, mas é para aqui chamado.
era um cão, just a dog, com pulgas e
que alçava a perna como todos os cães
e ladrava e mordia quando era preciso.
fazia pela vida e, fauno das esquinas, pelas cadelas no cio.
alguma tabuleta diria cave canem em tésseras minúsculas,
sem alaridos da história, e só sobreviveu
nos livros de latim expurgados, misturada
com a guerra das gálias e alguns nomes de deuses.
eu canto um cão sem fábula nem pedigree, que não fugiu aos fados,
um rafeiro vulgar, digamos, de plínio
o velho que, a propósito, morreu perto dali,
talvez uivando, uns dias depois dele.
“você é um cerebral”, disse-me cloé, flava e enervada.
“sim”, disse-lhe eu com prudência, “mas há tantos.
e o amor e a morte sempre foram pensáveis”.
e acrescentei “e depois? que mal faz isso ao cão?”
© 1987, Vasco Graça Moura
From: A furiosa paixão pelo tangível
Publisher: Quetzal, Lisbon
From: A furiosa paixão pelo tangível
Publisher: Quetzal, Lisbon
Poems
Poems of Vasco Graça Moura
Close
a dog for pompei
rather than a pair of embracing lovers i proposea dog from pompei. one that was no doubt
frolicking next to the forum, in search of a bone,
when friskier vesuvius caught and molded him
into pumice-stone. i insist
on seeing him as a scrawny, neglected creature
for whom poverty was a way of life. he skipped
through peristyles, a stranger to luxury, to corruption
to astrology, and no poisoned morsel ever befell him
from the triclinia, he never became
a symbolic animal or barking myth.
he was never found in any excavation, but we summon him now.
he was just a dog, un chien, who had fleas and
raised his paw like all dogs
and yelped and bit when necessary.
he lived for today and, faun of street corners, for bitches in heat.
a sign no doubt read cave canem in tiny tesserae,
making no mark in history, surviving only
in expurgated books in latin, mixed up
with the gallic wars and a few names of gods.
i sing of a dog without fable or pedigree, who didn’t escape fate,
an ordinary mutt belonging, let’s say, to pliny
the elder, who happens to have died nearby,
perhaps screaming, a few days later.
“you’re so cerebral,” said vexed and golden-haired chloe.
“yes,” i replied cautiously, “but so are a lot of other people.
and love and death have always been ponderable.”
“besides,” i added, “what harm does it do the dog?”
© 1998, Richard Zenith
From: A furiosa paixão pelo tangível
From: A furiosa paixão pelo tangível
a dog for pompei
rather than a pair of embracing lovers i proposea dog from pompei. one that was no doubt
frolicking next to the forum, in search of a bone,
when friskier vesuvius caught and molded him
into pumice-stone. i insist
on seeing him as a scrawny, neglected creature
for whom poverty was a way of life. he skipped
through peristyles, a stranger to luxury, to corruption
to astrology, and no poisoned morsel ever befell him
from the triclinia, he never became
a symbolic animal or barking myth.
he was never found in any excavation, but we summon him now.
he was just a dog, un chien, who had fleas and
raised his paw like all dogs
and yelped and bit when necessary.
he lived for today and, faun of street corners, for bitches in heat.
a sign no doubt read cave canem in tiny tesserae,
making no mark in history, surviving only
in expurgated books in latin, mixed up
with the gallic wars and a few names of gods.
i sing of a dog without fable or pedigree, who didn’t escape fate,
an ordinary mutt belonging, let’s say, to pliny
the elder, who happens to have died nearby,
perhaps screaming, a few days later.
“you’re so cerebral,” said vexed and golden-haired chloe.
“yes,” i replied cautiously, “but so are a lot of other people.
and love and death have always been ponderable.”
“besides,” i added, “what harm does it do the dog?”
© 1998, Richard Zenith
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