Nothing wrong with fear...proves that you´re a man.
Tropecei nesta pequena incursão de Mr. Reed pela poesia autobiográfica.
A rima é forçadíssima e a métrica desmazelada. O poema é completamente auto-centrado, sem ambivalências, e o inglês alterna entre o simplório e o pretensiosíssimo.
Quaisquer hipotéticas mas absolutas identificações que eu, a espaços, poderei ter sentido... remain unshattered.
Aqui fica:
WASTE
Sometimes when I'm all alone
I feel a type of fear
dawn's descending, dusk is breaking
creep my darling near.
I see my life before me
as a seamstress sees her pins
fulland lined with failure
and coated then with sin.
An education gone to waste
talent left ignored
imagination rent with drugs
someone who's always bored
scared to death of life itself
but even more by death
not fit company for anyone
let alone a wife
no example for a child
therefore no sun for me
I am told never to think these thoughts
for they make me unhappy.
The sin was craziness you see
don't blame yourself for that -
a strange childhood, wel1 that is true
but nothing can be done about that.
The future is the same for all
we face it as we can
and there is nothing wrong with fear
it proves that you're a man.
Then other times I feel so good
the opposite you see
I think I'm full of talent
good old intuitive me.
I write all hours of the night
terrible poetry.
Others say that it is good
but they are lying to me.
Why would they lie, you might ask
and to this I would reply
encouraging me encourages them,
to cut me shows their lie.
For mine was illusion of life well spent,
everyone thought so.
I was courted as a rake
wherever I did go.
But I know warts, you can't fool me
with flattering and praise.
You sing my songs to prove to yourselves
that you are not a waste.
L. Reed / Waste
A rima é forçadíssima e a métrica desmazelada. O poema é completamente auto-centrado, sem ambivalências, e o inglês alterna entre o simplório e o pretensiosíssimo.
Quaisquer hipotéticas mas absolutas identificações que eu, a espaços, poderei ter sentido... remain unshattered.
Aqui fica:
WASTE
Sometimes when I'm all alone
I feel a type of fear
dawn's descending, dusk is breaking
creep my darling near.
I see my life before me
as a seamstress sees her pins
fulland lined with failure
and coated then with sin.
An education gone to waste
talent left ignored
imagination rent with drugs
someone who's always bored
scared to death of life itself
but even more by death
not fit company for anyone
let alone a wife
no example for a child
therefore no sun for me
I am told never to think these thoughts
for they make me unhappy.
The sin was craziness you see
don't blame yourself for that -
a strange childhood, wel1 that is true
but nothing can be done about that.
The future is the same for all
we face it as we can
and there is nothing wrong with fear
it proves that you're a man.
Then other times I feel so good
the opposite you see
I think I'm full of talent
good old intuitive me.
I write all hours of the night
terrible poetry.
Others say that it is good
but they are lying to me.
Why would they lie, you might ask
and to this I would reply
encouraging me encourages them,
to cut me shows their lie.
For mine was illusion of life well spent,
everyone thought so.
I was courted as a rake
wherever I did go.
But I know warts, you can't fool me
with flattering and praise.
You sing my songs to prove to yourselves
that you are not a waste.
L. Reed / Waste
