Edgar Allan Poe
Hoje celebram-se os 207ª aniversário do nascimento do escritor Poe. Desde que o conheci que me sinto cativada pela a sua escrita. Inicialmente foram os poemas, mas rapidamente passei para as restantes obras literárias.
Apesar de não ser muito conhecido pela população geral ("Ah e tal, é um escritor gótico"), a sua obra teve imenso impacto na cultura actual. A sua obra inspira dezenas (se não são centenas) de escritores, realizadores e cantores. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Júlio Verne, H. G. Wells, Bob Dylan, the Beatles, Queen, White Stripes, Marilyn Manson, Thirty Seconds to Mars, Anthony and the Johnsons... Fora todas as peças de teatro, filmes e séries televisivas baseadas no seu trabalho.
Pena não se dar mais valor a este escritor, pois os seus textos são de uma beleza rara...!
O poema que se segue não é o meu preferido, que é o "The Raven", mas é um dos primeiros que li dele.
The Haunted Palace
In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace-
Radiant palace- reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion-
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This- all this- was in the olden
Time long ago,)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.
Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute's well-tuned law,
Round about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well-befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!- for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh- but smile no more.
