All about Walt Whitman

5 CONCLUSION (Part 19)

“Memories of President Lincoln” was composed in the weeks after Lincoln’s assassination on April 14, 1865, and was published together with Drum-Taps that same year. Everything that Whitman presents in the poem “When Lilacs…” actually took place: the “great star”, Venus, excessively low in the sky, the lilacs blooming at every dooryard, the bird singing, the processions throughout the United States, the coffin being taken to many cities, the cloud over the President after his second inauguration, as he appeared on the Capitol portico (seen or heard and recorded by Whitman), the atmosphere of fear. Everything was uncommonly strange during that month. In The Solitary Singer (1955, chapter VIII), Allen portrays this period in the life of Washington, Whitman and the Nation in great detail as well as Whitman does in the poem. As for our work in this section, we do not intend to present any passages from “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d;” we only want to stress the extreme difficulty to re-create its title, which in Portuguese became too long: “Da Última Vez Que Lilases Floriram no Pátio.” However, it is one that mirrors the original, which is also made up of two sound/sense units. In English they are divided or separated by “in,” and in Portuguese by “Que,” which also begins the second part. We tried many variables, but it was very hard to find one that carried all the meaning and at the same time sounded well. As it is a sad and sweet elegy, it must be read in a smooth and calm tone. In this way, we may feel the sounds echoing in each other through the line. In this way, the title can sound very well in Portuguese, because it carries in itself the tearing apart, the grieving and the tiredness of the nation portrayed in the poem. On the other hand, we shall present two stanzas from “Oh Captain! My Captain!,” which is a very rare piece in Whitman’s poetry, mostly written in iambs (verses with short/unstressed syllables followed by long/stressed syllables), and dedicated to the same person addressed in “When Lilacs…” Naturally, we did the best to maintain the beating pulse and rhymes of the original, and, in comparison to it, we may say that the result is fairly good:

.

WHITMAN:

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

[…]

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

But I with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

.

OUR RE-CREATION:

Oh Capitão! Meu Capitão!

Oh Capitão! meu Capitão! findou nossa horrível jornada,

O navio superou toda tormenta, alcançamos a meta almejada,

O porto está próximo, os sinos eu ouço, a gente toda exultando,

Enquanto olhos miram a estável quilha, o casco duro e ousado;

Mas Oh coração! coração! coração!

Oh os pingos de vermelho sangrados,

Onde jaz no convés meu Capitão,

Prostrado morto e gelado.

[...]

Meu Capitão não responde, seus lábios, pálidos, calados,

Meu pai não sente meu braço, não tem pulso ou vontade,

O navio ancorado são e salvo, encerrada e finda a jornada,

Da horrível jornada o navio vencedor adentra com o fim conquistado;

Exultai Oh praias e dobrai Oh sinos!

Mas eu com passo pesado,

Percorro o convés onde jaz meu Capitão,

Prostrado morto e gelado.

.

MEIRA:

Ó Capitão! Meu Capitão!

Ò Capitão! Meu Capitão! Finda é a temível jornada,

Vencida cada tormenta, a busca foi laureada.

O porto é ali, os sinos ouvi, exulta o povo inteiro,

Com o olhar na quilha estanque do vaso ousado e austero.

Mas ó coração, coração!

O sangue mancha o navio,

No convés, meu Capitão

Vai caído, morto e frio.

[...]

Ah, meu Capitão não fala, foi do lábio o sopro expulso,

Meu calor meu pai não sente, já não tem vontade ou pulso.

Da nau ancorada e ilesa, a jornada é concluída.

E lá vem ela em triunfo da viagem antes temida.

Povo, exulta! Sino, dobra!

Mas meu passo é tão sombrio…

No convés meu Capitão

Vai caído, morto e frio.

.

(WHITMAN, 2005, pp.334-5; texto da edição de Folhas de Relva da Martin Claret)

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