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Ainda em 1999, quando foi criada identidade A Barata, criei uma seção denominada "Páginas Negras", com a intenção de publicar textos ligados à poesia maldita, ocultismo, etc. Ali eram publicados poemas de Augusto dos Anjos, textos sobre Aleister Crowley e, especialmente Edgar Allan Poe e particularmente o maior poema dele, e um dos maiores de todos os tempos da poesia humana, "The Raven". O conteúdo na Internet ainda não era tão vasto, e dispúnhamos de mecanismos de busca eram limitados em capacidade de encontrar coisas, como aconteceu anos depois com o surgimento do Google. Portanto, foi um sacrifício encontrar versões diferentes, em português para o poema. Mesmo assim, fiquei pasmo com a quantidade de 13 traduções e versões encontrados. Coloquei a disposição esses 13, e depois de algum tempo, criei um documento único, reunindo todos. Passados quase 20 anos, ainda recebo perguntas de gente querendo saber onde encontrar.

Eu tinha dado por perdidos esses documentos, mas agora, num projeto de arqueológico para resgatar coisas antigas de A Barata, acabei encontrando, e decidi recolocar. Acontece que estamos no século XXI e temos o fabuloso Google à disposição, então não precisei de muito esforço para encontrar outras tantas. E garanto que encontro mais, e a medida que for encontrando, coloco à disposição. Caso o amigo leitor conheça alguma, peço que mande, acompanhado, caso tenha encontrado na Internet, os devidos créditos do local encontrado.

Barata Cichetto, 13/09/2018

"The Raven ("O Corvo") é um poema do escritor e poeta norte-americano Edgar Allan Poe. Ele foi publicado pela primeira vez em 29 de Janeiro de 1845, no New York Evening Mirror. É um poema notável por sua musicalidade, língua estilizada e atmosfera sobrenatural provenientes tanto da métrica exata, permeada de rimas internas e jogos fonéticos, quanto do talento singular de Poe, um dos maiores expoentes tanto do romantismo quanto da própria literatura americana." (Wikipaedia)

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor", I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door -
- Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
>From my book surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore, -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each pruple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating:
"Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -;
This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer,
"Sir", said I, " or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you" - here I opoened wide the door -
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dare to dream before,
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word , " Lenore!"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, " Lenore!"
Merely this and nothing more.

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he,
But, with mien of lord or lady perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched and set, and nothing more.

Then, this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou", I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the nightly shore:
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quot the Raven, "Nevermore".

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning, little relevance bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blesssed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door -
With such name as "Nevermore".

But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered;
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before:
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore".

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubteless", said I, " what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom ummerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore,
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never - nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguilling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore,
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore".

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllabe expressing
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my "bossom's" core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamlight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining withthte lamplight gloated o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch", I cried, " thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent

[thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from my memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore".

"Prophet!", said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird of devil! -
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by Horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore:
Is there- is there balm im Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore?"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore".

"Prophet!", said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird of devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore:
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore".

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting:
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore".

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seemimg of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul out that shadow that lies floating on the floor.
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

 



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Todos os textos, exceto quando indicados, são de autoria de Luiz Carlos Giraçol Cichetto, nome literário Barata Cichetto, e foram registrados na Fundação Biblioteca Nacional. Não é permitida a publicação em nenhum meio de comunicação sem a prévia autorização do autor, bem como o uso das marcas "A Barata" e "Liberdade de Expressão e Expressão de Liberdade". Lei de Direitos Autorais: 9610/98.

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