A Voz de Ezra Pound - Sestina: Altaforte

Deixo aqui mais um poema cheio de emoção e energia - tanto na escrita como na interpretação - do eterno Ezra Pound. Não foi traduzido, mas creio que é de fácil entendimento com um pouco de esforço. Nesse poema de 1909, Pound encarna o trovador amante da guerra Bertran de Born, no castelo Altaforte, reclamando ao seu jogral Papiols sobre como prefere a guerra a paz que ''fede'' no Sul da França.
Existe uma série de palavras que vai se repetindo de forma não-ordenada ao decorrer das Stanzas, resultando em um efeito interessante:

peace – music – clash – opposing – crimson – rejoicing [Stanza I]
rejoicing – peace – crimson – music – opposing – clash [Stanza II]
clash – rejoicing – opposing – peace – music – crimson [Stanza III]
crimson – clash – rejoicing – music – peace – opposing [Stanza IV]
opposing – crimson – peace – clash – rejoicing – music [Stanza V]
music – opposing – rejoicing – crimson – clash – Peace [Stanza VI]
crimson – clash – Peace [Envoi]  [1]
Na realidade, a voz do poeta em si já consegue transmitir qualquer sentimento ou conteúdo que uma análise textual poderia trazer. Portanto eis o poema, repleto de energia kshatrya, tergum hostis:



LOQUITUR: En Bertrans de Born.
Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer up of strife.
Eccovi!
Judge ye!
Have I dug him up again?
The scene is at his castle, Altaforte. "Papiols" is his jongleur. "The Leopard," the device of Richard Coeur de Lion.

I

Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let's to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howls my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.
II

In hot summer have I great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,
And the lightnings from black heav'n flash crimson,
And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.
III

Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing!
Better one hour's stour than a year's peace
With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!
Bah! there's no wine like the blood's crimson!
IV

And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
And I watch his spears through the dark clash
And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And pries wide my mouth with fast music
When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing.
V

The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson
But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth's won and the swords clash
For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music.
VI

Papiols, Papiols, to the music!
There's no sound like to swords swords opposing,
No cry like the battle's rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
And our charges 'gainst "The Leopard's" rush clash.
May God damn for ever all who cry "Peace!"
VII

And let the music of the swords make them crimson!
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
Hell blot black for always the thought "Peace!"
              -- Ezra Pound


[1] http://modernism.research.yale.edu/wiki/index.php/Sestina:_Altaforte