O Amor

Lembrei-me de Dolly e de "A Harpa de Ervas" de Truman Capote ao ler um poema de Rupert Brooke, "The Great Lover", em que ele fala do que amou: a côdea do pão amigo; os arco-íris; o fumo azul e amargo da madeira; as gotas de água aninhadas nas flores frescas; o cheiro bom das roupas velhas; a frescura dos lençóis; a gravidade fria do ferro; as areias firmes; as pedras lavadas pela água do mar; as pegadas no orvalho; o sono; os lugares altos; os carvalhos; as poças de água na erva. Rupert Brooke morreu aos vinte e oito anos. Era um dos poetas preferidos de Iris Murdoch, o que é natural, o universo é o mesmo. O poema termina com as palavras: "say, 'He loved'", o que pode ser um bom epitáfio para ambos. "Ele (ela) amou".

da crónica O Amor, Agosto de 2001, O Ponto de Vista dos Demónios, Relógio D'Água, 2002

Um excerto do poema de Rupert Brooke:

These I have loved:
White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,
Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;
Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust
Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food;
Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;
And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;
And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,
Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;
Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon
Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss
Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is
Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen
Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;
The benison of hot water; furs to touch;
The good smell of old clothes; and other such -
The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,
Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers
About dead leaves and last year's ferns. . . .
Dear names,
And thousand other throng to me! Royal flames;
Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring;
Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing;
Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain,
Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;
Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam
That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;
And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold
Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;
Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;
And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;
And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass; -
All these have been my loves.

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