Surpresa

é dificil ser tigre

Dockery and Son

Dockery and Son

By Philip Larkin 1922–1985 Philip Larkin

‘Dockery was junior to you,

Wasn’t he?’ said the Dean. ‘His son’s here now.’

Death-suited, visitant, I nod. ‘And do

You keep in touch with—’ Or remember how

Black-gowned, unbreakfasted, and still half-tight

We used to stand before that desk, to give

‘Our version’ of ‘these incidents last night’?

I try the door of where I used to live:

Locked. The lawn spreads dazzlingly wide.

A known bell chimes. I catch my train, ignored.

Canal and clouds and colleges subside

Slowly from view. But Dockery, good Lord,

Anyone up today must have been born

In ’43, when I was twenty-one.

If he was younger, did he get this son

At nineteen, twenty? Was he that withdrawn

High-collared public-schoolboy, sharing rooms

With Cartwright who was killed? Well, it just shows

How much ... How little ... Yawning, I suppose

I fell asleep, waking at the fumes

And furnace-glares of Sheffield, where I changed,

And ate an awful pie, and walked along

The platform to its end to see the ranged

Joining and parting lines reflect a strong

Unhindered moon. To have no son, no wife,

No house or land still seemed quite natural.

Only a numbness registered the shock

Of finding out how much had gone of life,

How widely from the others. Dockery, now:

Only nineteen, he must have taken stock

Of what he wanted, and been capable

Of ... No, that’s not the difference: rather, how

Convinced he was he should be added to!

Why did he think adding meant increase?

To me it was dilution. Where do these

Innate assumptions come from? Not from what

We think truest, or most want to do:

Those warp tight-shut, like doors. They’re more a style

Our lives bring with them: habit for a while,

Suddenly they harden into all we’ve got

And how we got it; looked back on, they rear

Like sand-clouds, thick and close, embodying

For Dockery a son, for me nothing,

Nothing with all a son’s harsh patronage.

Life is first boredom, then fear.

Whether or not we use it, it goes,

And leaves what something hidden from us chose,

And age, and then the only end of age.

 

Philip Larkin, “Dockery and Son” from Collected Poems. Used by permission of The Society of Authors as the Literary Representative of the Estate of Phillip Larkin.

Source: Collected Poems (Farrar Straus and Giroux, 2001)

Simples, é amar uma mulher

Hendrickje Bathing in a River1654 (130 Kb); Oil on panel, 61.8 x 47 cm; National Gallery, London

Verde, faltava aqui verde...

o mar, o mar

vale a pena ver : http://www.ranortner.com/#imagegalleries/Galleries/Painting/11

Tejo

A minha infância

A minha infância à sombra da arquitectura industrial e do zumbido das máquinas...a qualquer hora, dia ou noite, sempre luz e ruído.
Mais, mais, mais...por vezes alguém morria ou se magoava seriamente, mas nunca se parava, os tapetes rolantes continuavam a trazer a matéria prima, os moinhos a girar, as camionetas a saír carregadas dos portões...mais, mais, mais.

Night Writing

Night Writing


Only a neat margin of moonlight

there at the curtain's edge.

The room like a dark page.

I lie in bed.

Silence is ink.

The sound of my breath dips in

and out. So I begin

night writing. The stars type themselves

far out in space.

Who would guess,

to look at my sleeping face,

the rhymes and tall tales I invent?

Here be dragons; children lost

in the wood; three wishes; the wicked

and the good.

Read my lips.

The small hours are poems.

Dawn is a rubber.

(Carol Ann Duffy)

encontrado no Abrupto.

blue

keep it quiet

keep it quiet...and simple

(
My nose is completely nonfunctioning so sleeping it’s not easy anymore -
all night I hear the church bells : each hour and each half hour, get their toll
night can be dark, but has a sound map to it, around here.

Flowers - flowers I guess are the reason
For my shortness of breath - white bushes covering the hills like late snow,
Making the air vivid with scents, everything blooms, everything sings, no
everything SHOUTS and trees only a while ago, like lost souls wailing the skies
are now green, feisty, fresh, luscious and new.

I sit in the Hospital chair waiting to be called in,
It’s all quiet and I’m in front of a big window facing west,
Sun is setting and I can see it through the clouds, a little rain falls, and all is magic.
I’m alright, I’m alright.
)

Bodegón cubista

Menchu Gal ..Bodegón cubista. Óleo sobre tabla

In Memory of My Feelings

My quietness has a man in it, he is transparent
and he carries me quietly, like a gondola, through the streets.
He has several likenesses, like stars and years, like numerals.

My quietness has a number of naked selves,
so many pistols I have borrowed to protect myselves
from creatures who too readily recognize my weapons
and have murder in their heart!
though in winter
they are warm as roses, in the desert
taste of chilled anisette.
At times, withdrawn,
I rise into the cool skies
and gaze on at the imponderable world with the simple identification
of my colleagues, the mountains. Manfred climbs to my nape,
speaks, but I do not hear him,
I'm too blue.
An elephant takes up his trumpet,
money flutters from the windows of cries, silk stretching its mirror
across shoulder blades. A gun is "fired."
One of me rushes
to window #13 and one of me raises his whip and one of me
flutters up from the center of the track amidst the pink flamingoes,
and underneath their hooves as they round the last turn my lips
are scarred and brown, brushed by tails, masked in dirt's lust,
definition, open mouths gasping for the cries of the bettors for the lungs
of earth.
So many of my transparencies could not resist the race!
Terror in earth, dried mushrooms, pink feathers, tickets,
a flaking moon drifting across the muddied teeth,
the imperceptible moan of covered breathing,
love of the serpent!
I am underneath its leaves as the hunter crackles and pants
and bursts, as the barrage balloon drifts behind a cloud
and animal death whips out its flashlight,
whistling
and slipping the glove off the trigger hand. The serpent's eyes
redden at sight of those thorny fingernails, he is so smooth!
My transparent selves
flail about like vipers in a pail, writhing and hissing
without panic, with a certain justice of response
and presently the aquiline serpent comes to resemble the Medusa.


Frank O'Hara

Love poem

I wake up in your bed. I know I have been dreaming.
Much earlier, the alarm broke us from each other,
you’ve been at your desk for hours. I know what I dreamed:
our friend the poet comes into my room
where I’ve been writing for days,
drafts, carbons, poems are scattered everywhere,
and I want to show her one poem
which is the poem of my life. But I hesitate,
and wake. You’ve kissed my hair
to wake me. I dreamed you were a poem,
I say, a poem I wanted to show someone . . .
and I laugh and fall dreaming again
of the desire to show you to everyone I love,
to move openly together
in the pull of gravity, which is not simple,
which carried the feathered grass a long way down the upbreathing air.

Adrienne Rich from the sequence “Twenty-One Love Poems”. This is poem #2
found here :
http://shigekuni.wordpress.com/2012/03/29/the-poem-of-my-life/

Artemisia Gentileschi

read about her...

chuva de primavera

é o pôr do sol na minha cozinha

é o pôr do sol na minha cozinha,
mais um dia que acaba
penso no que vou fazer,
até que a noite me envolva.

no escuro crescemos, no escuro muito acontece
as coisas mudam e medram, renovam-se
a Terra repõe o nosso sustento
novos frutos, nova seiva, pão fresco na nossa mesa.

tudo é mistério - nem ciência nem fé
o mistério da vida, descobre-se como a faca a maçã,
com gestos medidos.

jasmim em flor

O jasmim do nosso quintal floriu ontem...

do Livro do Desassossego

"Há só um presente imóvel com um muro de angústia em torno. A margem de lá do rio nunca, enquanto é a de lá, é a de cá; e é esta a razão íntima de todo o meu sofrimento. Há barcos para muitos portos, mas nenhum para a vida não doer, nem há desembarque onde se esqueca. Tudo isto aconteceu há muito tempo, mas a minha mágoa é mais antiga."

Santa Apolónia

Os nossos passos carregados de cansaços...
Muitas vezes em tom jocoso quando alguém me pergunta se não tenho medo de que alguma coisa me faça mal, pergunto de volta : "- E eu quero lá morrer saudável ?!...".
A verdade é que todos sonhamos com uma hora doce e breve, de preferência sem a consciência dela...
Todos queremos uma vida longa, saudável e cheia de alegrias, de termos pessoas queridas felizes à nossa volta até ao fim...não sei de outros quereres, mas que os devem existir, devem, somos tão diversos uns dos outros...
Aos prisioneiros de seus corpos mortos, penso que sendo sua vontade firme partir, lhes seja concedida essa última vontade.

da transparência das cores

O Sagrado e o Profano - O Interdito Transformado" - 1987