EATING POETRY
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.
I am a new man,
I snarl at her and bark,
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
Mark Strand
A tinta escorre-me dos cantos da boca,
isto é que é bom,
comer poesia.
Nem acredita no que vê, a bibliotecária,
tem os olhos tristes
e caminha com as mãos na véstia.
Os poemas foram-se
e a luz está fraca.
Os cães vêm da cave pelas escadas acima,
a rebolar os olhos
e com as pernas a fazer faísca.
A coitada da bibliotecária começa a bater os pés e a chorar,
sem compreender nada,
e grita quando eu me ponho de joelhos
e lhe lambo a mão.
Sou um novo homem,
rosno-lhe e ladro,
mergulhando alegre no escuro dos livros.
(Trad. A.M.)
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