Poetic Synesthesia : Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats/ Poética Sinestesia: Ode a um Rouxinol de John Keats

Poetry fragment. For complete poetry/information go to John Keats webpage. 

While feeling the senses of scent and taste, I see the written lines of the dead poet, I hear his whispering fragrant voice in the nocturnal darkness and  an aromatic breath goes deeper in my  olfaction, warms some dewy drops on my skin and the nightingale kisses me, the soul... touches me, my senses, awakes me, all of me, into the perfume of the poetry.

Sense it!Feel it!

 

 

"...tender is the night,

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,

Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;

But here there is no light,

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet

Wherewith the seasonable month endows

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;

Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;

And mid-May's eldest child,

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

No sentir a sensação dos cheiros e dos aromas, vejo nas linhas escritas do poeta morto, o som da sua sussurante voz perfumada na escuridão brilhante, e um hálito profundamente oloroso penetra no meu olfato, aquece as gotas de minha pele orvalhada e o rouxinol beija-me a alma, toca-me os sentidos, desperta-me  para o perfume da poesia.

Sinestesie-se!

"...suave é a noite

E talvez a Rainha Lua esteja em seu trono,

cercadas por suas fadas estelares,

Mas aqui não há luz

Senão aquela que do céu com as brisas sopra

Pelas glaucas trevas e sendas sinuosas de musgo.

Não vejo que flores estão aos meus pés,

Nem qual suave incenso dos ramos exala

Mas, na treva embalsamada, desvelo o aroma doce

que cada mês regala

A relva, a coifa, e as frutíferas árvores silvestres;

Branco pilriteiro, e madressilva pastoral;

Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;

And mid-May's eldest child,

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.