as pessoas precisam de pessoas
as bocas de bocas
as mãos de mãos...
os olhares de olhares
e os risos alimentam-se de risos.
First Known Use: 1676
Thursday, December 13, 2012
I am no grateful
“
Do not think I am no grateful for your small
kindness to me.
I like small kindnesses.
In fact I actually prefer them to the more
substantial kindness, that is always eyeing you,
like a large animal on a rug,
until your whole life reduces
to nothing but waking up morning after morning
cramped, and the bright sun shining on its tusks.
”-Louise Glück-Gratitude
Louise Glück, The House on Marshland
The Ecco Press, New York (1975), p. 17
also The First Five Books of Poems
Carcanet Press, Manchester, UK, 1997, p. 75
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
o Natal quase a chegar
o sol é apenas um ponto branco,
alto no céu afogado em nuvens
eu digo que acredito no pai natal,
rio-me como uma rena (mas sem o nariz vermelho...)
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
esplanada
ESPLANADA
Naquele tempo falavas muito de perfeição,
da prosa dos versos irregulares
onde cantam os sentimentos irregulares.
Envelhecemos todos, tu, eu e a discussão,
da prosa dos versos irregulares
onde cantam os sentimentos irregulares.
Envelhecemos todos, tu, eu e a discussão,
agora lês saramago & coisas assim
eu já não fico a ouvir-te como antigamente
olhando as tuas pernas que subiam lentamente
até um sítio escuro dentro de mim.
eu já não fico a ouvir-te como antigamente
olhando as tuas pernas que subiam lentamente
até um sítio escuro dentro de mim.
O café agora é um banco, tu professora do liceu:
Bob Dylan encheu-se de dinheiro, o Che morreu.
Agora as tuas pernas são coisas úteis, andantes,
e não caminhos de andar como dantes,
chamando do fundo do meu coração.
Bob Dylan encheu-se de dinheiro, o Che morreu.
Agora as tuas pernas são coisas úteis, andantes,
e não caminhos de andar como dantes,
chamando do fundo do meu coração.
Manuel António Pina
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
Friday, October 26, 2012
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
The best people
The best people possess a feeling for beauty, the courage to
take risks, the discipline to tell the truth, the capacity for
sacrifice. Ironically, their virtues make them vulnerable; they
are often wounded, sometimes destroyed.
—Ernest Hemingway (A Farewell To Arms)
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Prayer
 Prayer | ||
| by Jorie Graham | ||
Over a dock railing, I watch the minnows, thousands, swirl
themselves, each a minuscule muscle, but also, without the
way to create current, making of their unison (turning, re-
infolding,
entering and exiting their own unison in unison) making of themselves a
visual current, one that cannot freight or sway by
minutest fractions the water's downdrafts and upswirls, the
dockside cycles of finally-arriving boat-wakes, there where
they hit deeper resistance, water that seems to burst into
itself (it has those layers) a real current though mostly
invisible sending into the visible (minnows) arrowing
motion that forces change--
this is freedom. This is the force of faith. Nobody gets
what they want. Never again are you the same. The longing
is to be pure. What you get is to be changed. More and more by
each glistening minute, through which infinity threads itself,
also oblivion, of course, the aftershocks of something
at sea. Here, hands full of sand, letting it sift through
in the wind, I look in and say take this, this is
what I have saved, take this, hurry. And if I listen
now? Listen, I was not saying anything. It was only
something I did. I could not choose words. I am free to go.
I cannot of course come back. Not to this. Never.
It is a ghost posed on my lips. Here: never.
| ||
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
A chuva voltou hoje
A chuva voltou hoje,
depois de um longo estio
a chuva cai tristeza em gotas.
Ainda de manhã demorei a atravessar a
rua
só para olhar melhor as pernas nuas
da rapariga que atravessava -
por ora acabaram as pernas nuas
a partir de agora sombras,
volumes a cobrir o frio.
Regatos correm ao longo dos passeios,
Outra música, outro tempo.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Sudden
“People think of history in the long term, but history, in
fact, is a very sudden thing.”
Phillip Roth’s American Pastoral
Phillip Roth’s American Pastoral
Thursday, September 6, 2012
The Unknown Citizen
He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be
One against whom there was no official complaint,
And all the reports on his conduct agree
That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a
saint,
For in everything he did he served the Greater Community.
Except for the War till the day he retired
He worked in a factory and never got fired,
But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc.
Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views,
For his Union reports that he paid his dues,
(Our report on his Union shows it was sound)
And our Social Psychology workers found
That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink.
The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day
And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way.
Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured,
And his Health-card shows he was once in hospital but left it cured.
Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare
He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Instalment Plan
And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,
A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire.
Our researchers into Public Opinion are content
That he held the proper opinions for the time of year;
When there was peace, he was for peace: when there was war, he went.
He was married and added five children to the population,
Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his
generation.
And our teachers report that he never interfered with their
education.
Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd:
Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.
(W.H. Auden)
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Friday, August 31, 2012
Clear-cut
"Xxxxxx's biography was in need of a plot and his worldview was in need of a moral."
Just at the beginning of Martha Gellhorn "The Face of war" she states that things with the Nazis were clear-cut : what they attacked we could very clearly support...Now in the days of the 50 or more shades of gray things get more complicated, reality though is making a comeback and it's costing us – but one has only to remember that in some parts of the world there was never gray, it was either black or white as always was, you couldn’t just stand on the wall, life always forces you to be in one of the sides of it…
Clear-cut : life will get rougher in Europe, just hope that somebody remembers the history of the XXth century and its wars…Hope that’s not the same path we’re following…Egg of the serpent looming in the shadow always.
found in Grand Old Marxists
Timothy Snyder - The New York Review of Books
Just at the beginning of Martha Gellhorn "The Face of war" she states that things with the Nazis were clear-cut : what they attacked we could very clearly support...Now in the days of the 50 or more shades of gray things get more complicated, reality though is making a comeback and it's costing us – but one has only to remember that in some parts of the world there was never gray, it was either black or white as always was, you couldn’t just stand on the wall, life always forces you to be in one of the sides of it…
Clear-cut : life will get rougher in Europe, just hope that somebody remembers the history of the XXth century and its wars…Hope that’s not the same path we’re following…Egg of the serpent looming in the shadow always.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Hugo
Hugo Cabret:
I'd imagine the whole world was one big machine. Machines never come with any extra parts, you know.They always come with the exact amount they need. So I figured if the entire world was one big machine... I couldn't be an extra part. I had to be here for some reason.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
I remain
After they all leave,
I remain alone with the poems,
some poems of mine, some of others.
I prefer poems that others have written.
I remain quiet, and slowly
the knot in my throat dissolves.
I remain.
I remain alone with the poems,
some poems of mine, some of others.
I prefer poems that others have written.
I remain quiet, and slowly
the knot in my throat dissolves.
I remain.
Monday, August 20, 2012
take me home...
I’m about to leave. I ask him to take me home. […] The road home isn’t very
long, and I know I’ll be getting off soon. But at this moment, I’m feeling such
lovely warmth.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Orwell/Huxley
What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one. Orwell feared those who would deprive us information. Huxley feared those who would give us so much that we would be reduced to passivity and egoism. Orwell feared that the truth would be concealed from us. Huxley feared the truth would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance. Orwell feared we would become a captive culture. Huxley feared we would become a trivial culture, preoccupied with some equivalent of the feelies, the orgy porgy, and the centrifugal bumblepuppy.Neil Postman, interviewed on the McNeil/Lehrer Hour in 1995.
found in fette.tumblr.com
found in fette.tumblr.com
Friday, August 10, 2012
Noite
A luz é só outro ruído na noite,
cúmplice o rio corre, carregando o seu silêncio
tudo o que nasce, desagua numa foz.
BARREN
1bar·ren
adj \ˈber-ən, ˈba-rən\Definition of BARREN
1
: not reproducing: as a: incapable of producing offspring —used especially of females or matings b: not yet or not recently pregnant c: habitually failing to fruit
4
: lacking interest or charm barren
5
: lacking inspiration or ideas barren
— bar·ren·lyadverb
— bar·ren·ness \-ə(n)-nəs\noun
A "Thank You" Note
There is much I owe
to those I do not love.
The relief in accepting
they are closer to another.
Joy that I am not
the wolf to their sheep.
My peace be with them
for with them I am free,
and this, love can neither give,
nor know how to take.
I don't wait for them
from window to door.
Almost as patient
as a sun dial,
I understand
what love does not understand.
I forgive
what love would never have forgiven.
Between rendezvous and letter
no eternity passes,
only a few days or weeks.
My trips with them always turn out well.
Concerts are heard.
Cathedrals are toured.
Landscapes are distinct.
And when seven rivers and mountains
come between us,
they are rivers and mountains
well known from any map.
It is thanks to them
that I live in three dimensions,
in a non-lyrical and non-rhetorical space,
with a shifting, thus real, horizon.
They don't even know
how much they carry in their empty hands.
"I don't owe them anything",
love would have said
on this open topic.
Monday, August 6, 2012
MULHERES CORRENDO, CORRENDO PELA NOITE
Mulheres correndo, correndo pela noite.
O som de mulheres correndo, lembradas, correndo
como éguas abertas, como sonoras
corredoras magnólias.
Mulheres pela noite dentro levando nas patas
grandiosos lenços brancos.
Correndo com lenços muito vivos nas patas
pela noite dentro.
Lenços vivos com suas patas abertas
como magnólias
correndo, lembradas, patas pela noite
viva. Levando, lembrando, correndo.
É o som delas batendo como estrelas
nas portas. O céu por cima, as crinas negras
batendo: é o som delas. Lembradas,
correndo. Estrelas. Eu ouço: passam, lembrando.
As grandiosas patas brancas abertas no som,
à porta, com o céu lembrando.
Crinas correndo pela noite, lenços vivos
batendo como magnólias levadas pela noite,
abertas, correndo, lembrando.
De repente, as letras. O rosto sufocado como
se fosse abril num canto da noite.
O rosto no meio das letras, sufocado a um canto,
de repente.
Mulheres correndo, de porta em porta, com lenços
sufocados, lembrando letras, levando
lenços, letras - nas patas
negras, grandiosamente abertas.
Como se fosse abril, sufocadas no meio.
Era o som delas, como se fosse abril a um canto
da noite, lembrando.
Ouço: são elas que partem. E levam
o sangue cheio de letras, as patas floridas
sobre a cabeça, correndo, pensando.
Atiram-se para a noite com o sonho terrível
de um lenço vivo.
E vão batendo com as estrelas nas portas. E sobre
a cabeça branca, as patas lembrando
pela noite dentro.
O rosto sufocado, o som abrindo, muito
lembrado. E a cabeça correndo, e eu ouço:
são elas que partem, pensando.
Então acordo de dentro e, lembrando, fico
de lado. E ouço correr, levando
grandiosos lenços contra a noite com estrelas
batendo nas patas
como magnólias pensando, abertas, correndo.
Ouço de lado: é o som. São elas, lembrando
de lado, com as patas
no meio das letras, o rosto sufocado
correndo pelas portas grandiosas, as crinas
brancas batendo. E eu ouço: é o som delas
com as patas negras, com as magnólias negras
contra a noite.
Correndo, lembrando, batendo.
|
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Leda e o cisne
Escondemos as nossas intenções num emaranhado de traços, falsas partidas, somos difusos onde se exige o concreto...não sei do sim ou do não, só do talvez, do assim-assim, do já que tu o queres...gente que ficou no cais a ver partir, os que nunca regressam...Jupiter conseguiu o que queria, resta-nos a eternidade para revelar as máscaras
É um caminho.
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Do not go gentle into that good night
by Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
1/0
INOCÊNCIA
No pórtico da casa, entre lilases,
o par de namorados brincava de apertar-se as mãos
e de contar os dedos.Havia sempre um dedo a mais.
SABEDORIA
Tarde da noite, o «party» terminava
num desabar de bêbados
e de falsos bêbados.
O bêbado despiu-se lentamente,
os falsos bêbados rodearam-no.
No dia seguinte, ninguém conseguia lembrar-se do que acontecera.
JORGE DE SENA in "Sequências", Série «América, América, I Love You", colecção Círculo de Poesia da Moraes Editores, 1ª ed. de Julho de 1980
(Os dois poemas foram escritos a 12/Ago/1969)
Soneto de Separação
De repente do riso fez-se o pranto
Silencioso e branco como a bruma
E das bocas unidas fez-se a espuma
E das mãos espalmadas fez-se o espanto.
De repente da calma fez-se o vento
Que dos olhos desfez a última chama
E da paixão fez-se o pressentimento
E do momento imóvel fez-se o drama.
De repente, não mais que de repente
Fez-se de triste o que se fez amante
E de sozinho o que se fez contente.
Fez-se do amigo próximo o distante
Fez-se da vida uma aventura errante
De repente, não mais que de repente.
Vinicius de Moraes
De repente do riso fez-se o pranto
Silencioso e branco como a bruma
E das bocas unidas fez-se a espuma
E das mãos espalmadas fez-se o espanto.
De repente da calma fez-se o vento
Que dos olhos desfez a última chama
E da paixão fez-se o pressentimento
E do momento imóvel fez-se o drama.
De repente, não mais que de repente
Fez-se de triste o que se fez amante
E de sozinho o que se fez contente.
Fez-se do amigo próximo o distante
Fez-se da vida uma aventura errante
De repente, não mais que de repente.
Vinicius de Moraes
Monday, July 23, 2012
I rose in it
“Don’t ever think I fell for you, or fell over you. I didn’t fall in love, I rose in it.”
- Toni Morrison
- Toni Morrison
Kerouac
““It’s not that I can’t fall in love. It’s really that I can’t help falling in love with too many things all at once So, you must understand why I can’t distinguish between what’s platonic and what isn’t, because it’s all too much and not enough at the same time.””
-
Jack Kerouac
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
noite
aponto a minha câmara para o centro da galáxia, deixo o canto das cigarras tratar da focagem...as noites sem lua têm muito mais céu
Thursday, July 5, 2012
a un gato
No son más silenciosos los espejos
ni más furtiva el alba aventurera;
eres, bajo la luna, esa pantera
que nos es dado divisar de lejos.
Por obra indescifrable de un decreto
divino, te buscamos vanamente;
más remoto que el Ganges y el poniente,
tuya es la soledad, tuyo el secreto.
Tu lomo condesciende a la morosa
caricia de mi mano. Has admitido,
desde esa eternidad que ya es olvido,
el amor de la mano recelosa.
En otro tiempo estás. Eres el dueño
de un ámbito cerrado como un sueño.
A lição de Fukushima
"A catástrofe de Fukushima "é o resultado de um conluio entre o Governo, as agências de regulação e o operador Tepco (Tokyo Electric Power Company), e de uma falta de gestão naquelas mesmas instâncias", concluiu o relatório final. O documento apontou graves deficiências na actuação do Governo - nomeadamente do então primeiro-ministro Naoto Kan, que se demitiu no ano passado depois de críticas à forma como geriu a crise - e dos responsáveis da central nuclear. “Durante a investigação, a comissão encontrou uma ignorância e uma arrogância que não têm desculpa para qualquer pessoa ou organização que lide com energia nuclear."
Este painel de peritos considera que houve várias oportunidades perdidas e que a companhia responsável poderia ter adoptado medidas para evitar o acidente, vários anos antes de este acontecer. "A direcção da Tepco estava consciente dos atrasos nos trabalhos anti-sísmicos e nas medidas contra os tsunamis. Sabia que Fukushima Daiichi era vulnerável”, salientou a comissão."
No Público de hoje, 5/7/2012
A energia nuclear dizem alguns é neste momento viável e a solução para comportar as nossas necessidades de energia, enquanto as mesmas não são satisfeitas pelas energias renováveis...A pergunta no fundo é sempre a mesma : a que preço ?
Este painel de peritos considera que houve várias oportunidades perdidas e que a companhia responsável poderia ter adoptado medidas para evitar o acidente, vários anos antes de este acontecer. "A direcção da Tepco estava consciente dos atrasos nos trabalhos anti-sísmicos e nas medidas contra os tsunamis. Sabia que Fukushima Daiichi era vulnerável”, salientou a comissão."
No Público de hoje, 5/7/2012
A energia nuclear dizem alguns é neste momento viável e a solução para comportar as nossas necessidades de energia, enquanto as mesmas não são satisfeitas pelas energias renováveis...A pergunta no fundo é sempre a mesma : a que preço ?
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Muddle (from the free Merriam-Webster)
1mud·dle
verb \ˈmə-dəl\
mud·dledmud·dling\ˈməd-liŋ, ˈmə-dəl-iŋ\
Definition of MUDDLE
transitive verb
1
: to make turbid or muddy
2
: to befog or stupefy especially with liquor
3
: to mix confusedly
4
: to make a mess of : bungle
intransitive verb
: to think or act in a confused aimless way
— mud·dler \ˈməd-lər, ˈmə-dəl-ər\noun
Origin of MUDDLE
probably from obsolete Dutch moddelen, from Middle Dutch, from modde mud; akin to Middle Low German mudde
Monday, July 2, 2012
Late Night
Late Night, Margaret Atwood
Late night and rain wakes me, a downpour,
wind thrashing in the leaves, huge
ears, huge feathers,
like some chased animal, a giant
dog or wild boar. Thunder & shivering
windows; from the tin roof
the rush of water.
I lie askew under the net,
tangled in damp cloth, salt in my hair.
When this clears there will be fireflies
& stars, brighter than anywhere,
which I could contemplate at times
of panic. Lightyears, think of it.
Screw poetry, it’s you I want,
your taste, rain
on you, mouth on your skin.
normalmente quem não tem passado, também não costuma ter futuro...
“A situação é muito grave porque os islamistas já destruíram seis mausoléus dos 16 que estão inscritos na lista do Património Mundial da UNESCO”, disse ao PÚBLICO, por email, Lassana Cissé, que está no Mali a acompanhar de perto a situação, lamentando a actual falta de resposta.
A cidade de Tombuctu, que é considerada a jóia africana, foi tomada pelo Ansar Dine, um grupo com ligações à Al-Qaeda e que quer impor no Mali a sharia (lei islâmica), que não aceita que a população local, sufista, venere mausoléus de santos. O grupo islamista prometeu destruir todos os mausoléus e locais de culto e segundo Cissé a ameaça é para levar a sério."
in Público de 2/7/2012
Friday, June 29, 2012
Count That Day Lost
Count That Day Lost
If you sit down at set of sun
And count the acts that you have done,
And, counting, find
One self-denying deed, one word
That eased the heart of him who heard,
One glance most kind
That fell like sunshine where it went –
Then you may count that day well spent.
But if, through all the livelong day,
You’ve cheered no heart, by yea or nay –
If, through it all
You’ve nothing done that you can trace
That brought the sunshine to one face–
No act most small
That helped some soul and nothing cost –
Then count that day as worse than lost.
George Eliot
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Não mais palavras
Não mais palavras
Roubam os cemitérios : levam as cruzes, os anjos protectores, as fotos dos entes queridos
Tudo reduzido ao metal mais simples, segue em trânsito para
novas utilizações,( a orgia do uso não pode parar)
Se uma parte do mundo abranda outras têm de tomar o seu
lugar, para que o ritmo nunca abrande
Em África acendem fogueiras, queimam as presas dos elefantes
mortos, a ideia é impedir que matem mais
Que matem de novo, que dizimem o que é livre, o que é belo,
o que não precisa de nós -
O fumo das fogueiras sobe aos céus, o espirito dos
elefantes mortos eleva-se nos ares e o seu tropel ouve-se. Ouve-se,
Ouve-se o tropel das manadas de elefantes mortos e os seus
gritos - os seus gritos rasgam-nos por dentro
Tudo treme e ribomba, pó, fumo e vento, um vento que tudo
leva numa voragem.
Não mais palavras, não mais palavras, palavras não mudam
nada.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Soneto XVII
No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.
Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.
Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,
sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.
Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.
Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,
sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
SHALLOW
Definition of SHALLOW
1
: having little depth <shallow water>
2
: having little extension inward or backward shallow slabs — Lewis Mumford>
3
a: penetrating only the easily or quickly perceived <shallow generalizations> b: lacking in depth of knowledge, thought, or feeling shallow demagogue>
4
: displacing comparatively little air :
Monday, June 25, 2012
toda a luz é sagrada
toda a luz é sagrada
cresce cabelo novo na tua cabeça
roubam todo o metal dos cemitérios,
derretem-no e mandam-no para o estrangeiro
cresce cabelo novo na tua cabeça
passam ruidosos grandes carros, cheios de fatos escuros
cala a rua o seu mal dizer, encolhidos os ombros ao mal viver
cresce cabelo novo na tua cabeça
é belo o teu andar, sensual o baloiçar das tuas ancas
é cálido e luminoso o dia, vale a pena viver
toda a luz é sagrada
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
How To Be a Poet
How To Be a Poet
(to remind myself)
i
Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill—more of each
than you have—inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.
ii
Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.
iii
Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.
i
Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill—more of each
than you have—inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.
ii
Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.
iii
Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.
Monday, June 18, 2012
YO VOY SOÑANDO CAMINOS
YO VOY SOÑANDO CAMINOS
Yo voy soñando caminos
de la tarde. ¡Las colinas
doradas, los verdes pinos,
las polvorientas encinas!…
¿Adónde el camino irá?
Yo voy cantando, viajero
a lo largo del sendero…
-la tarde cayendo está-.
“En el corazón tenía
la espina de una pasión;
logré arrancármela un día:
“ya no siento el corazón”.
de la tarde. ¡Las colinas
doradas, los verdes pinos,
las polvorientas encinas!…
¿Adónde el camino irá?
Yo voy cantando, viajero
a lo largo del sendero…
-la tarde cayendo está-.
“En el corazón tenía
la espina de una pasión;
logré arrancármela un día:
“ya no siento el corazón”.
Y todo el campo un momento
se queda, mudo y sombrío,
meditando. Suena el viento
en los álamos del río.
se queda, mudo y sombrío,
meditando. Suena el viento
en los álamos del río.
La tarde más se oscurece;
y el camino que serpea
y débilmente blanquea
se enturbia y desaparece.
y el camino que serpea
y débilmente blanquea
se enturbia y desaparece.
Mi cantar vuelve a plañir:
“Aguda espina dorada,
quién te pudiera sentir
en el corazón clavada”.
“Aguda espina dorada,
quién te pudiera sentir
en el corazón clavada”.
Friday, June 15, 2012
The Hours Rise Up
the hours rise up putting off stars and it is dawn into the street of the sky light walks scattering poems on earth a candle is extinguished the city wakes with a song upon her mouth having death in her eyes and it is dawn the world goes forth to murder dreams…. i see in the street where strong men are digging bread and i see the brutal faces of people contented hideous hopeless cruel happy and it is day, in the mirror i see a frail man dreaming dreams dreams in the mirror and it is dusk on earth a candle is lighted and it is dark. the people are in their houses the frail man is in his bed the city sleeps with death upon her mouth having a song in her eyes the hours descend, putting on stars…. in the street of the sky night walks scattering poems
Online text © 1998-2012 Poetry X. All rights reserved. From Tulips and Chimneys | New York: Thomas Seltzer, 1923
Now I become myself
Now I become myself. It's taken
Time, many years and places;
I have been dissolved and shaken,
Worn other people's faces,
Run madly, as if Time were there,
Terribly old, crying a warning,
"Hurry, you will be dead before--"
(What? Before you reach the morning?
Or the end of the poem is clear?
Or love safe in the walled city?)
Now to stand still, to be here,
Feel my own weight and density!
The black shadow on the paper
Is my hand; the shadow of a word
As thought shapes the shaper
Falls heavy on the page, is heard.
All fuses now, falls into place
From wish to action, word to silence,
My work, my love, my time, my face
Gathered into one intense
Gesture of growing like a plant.
As slowly as the ripening fruit
Fertile, detached, and always spent,
Falls but does not exhaust the root,
So all the poem is, can give,
Grows in me to become the song,
Made so and rooted by love.
Now there is time and Time is young.
O, in this single hour I live
All of myself and do not move.
I, the pursued, who madly ran,
Stand still, stand still, and stop the sun!
Thursday, June 14, 2012
O dominó que vesti era errado
...
Fiz de mim o que não soube
E o que podia fazer de mim não o fiz.
O dominó que vesti era errado.
Conheceram-me logo por quem não era e não desmenti, e perdi-me.
Quando quis tirar a máscara,
Estava pegada à cara.
Quando a tirei e me vi ao espelho,
Já tinha envelhecido.
Estava bêbado, já não sabia vestir o dominó que não tinha tirado.
Deitei fora a máscara e dormi no vestiário
Como um cão tolerado pela gerência
Por ser inofensivo
E vou escrever esta história para provar que sou sublime.
Essência musical dos meus versos inúteis
...
Álvaro de Campos, 15-1-1928
(extracto da Tabacaria)
Espaço-Tempo-Mar
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Um dia um homem
Um dia um homem
Pega numa moeda olha as suas faces
existirão sempre sem saber uma da outra
Um dia um homem
Chega a casa despe-se por completo
Deita-se ao lado da maior janela e deixa-se ficar ali
A sentir o vento a luz a diminuir
Um dia um homem
Caminha por um jardim dá uma flor
a flor é logo comida o homem pensa :
- Que raro alguém que come flores…
Um dia um homem
Posta-se diante de um quadro e sente
As cores músicas distintas a reverberar nele
Um dia um homem
Acaba como um rio que chega ao mar deixa de ter nome
Um rio mesmo grande dilui-se sempre no mar maior
Um dia um homem
Não ri nem diz mais os nomes que ama
Todos os seus gestos perdidos no mar
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
The Imaginary Iceberg
The Imaginary Iceberg
We'd rather have the iceberg than the ship,
although it meant the end of travel.
Although it stood stock-still like cloudy rock
and all the sea were moving marble.
We'd rather have the iceberg than the ship;
we'd rather own this breathing plain of snow
though the ship's sails were laid upon the sea
as the snow lies undissolved upon the water.
O solemn, floating field,
are you aware an iceberg takes repose
with you, and when it wakes may pasture on your snows?
This is a scene a sailor'd give his eyes for.
The ship's ignored. The iceberg rises
and sinks again; its glassy pinnacles
correct elliptics in the sky.
This is a scene where he who treads the boards
is artlessly rhetorical. The curtain
is light enough to rise on finest ropes
that airy twists of snow provide.
The wits of these white peaks
spar with the sun. Its weight the iceberg dares
upon a shifting stage and stands and stares.
The iceberg cuts its facets from within.
Like jewelry from a grave
it saves itself perpetually and adorns
only itself, perhaps the snows
which so surprise us lying on the sea.
Good-bye, we say, good-bye, the ship steers off
where waves give in to one another's waves
and clouds run in a warmer sky.
Icebergs behoove the soul
(both being self-made from elements least visible)
to see them so: fleshed, fair, erected indivisible.
although it meant the end of travel.
Although it stood stock-still like cloudy rock
and all the sea were moving marble.
We'd rather have the iceberg than the ship;
we'd rather own this breathing plain of snow
though the ship's sails were laid upon the sea
as the snow lies undissolved upon the water.
O solemn, floating field,
are you aware an iceberg takes repose
with you, and when it wakes may pasture on your snows?
This is a scene a sailor'd give his eyes for.
The ship's ignored. The iceberg rises
and sinks again; its glassy pinnacles
correct elliptics in the sky.
This is a scene where he who treads the boards
is artlessly rhetorical. The curtain
is light enough to rise on finest ropes
that airy twists of snow provide.
The wits of these white peaks
spar with the sun. Its weight the iceberg dares
upon a shifting stage and stands and stares.
The iceberg cuts its facets from within.
Like jewelry from a grave
it saves itself perpetually and adorns
only itself, perhaps the snows
which so surprise us lying on the sea.
Good-bye, we say, good-bye, the ship steers off
where waves give in to one another's waves
and clouds run in a warmer sky.
Icebergs behoove the soul
(both being self-made from elements least visible)
to see them so: fleshed, fair, erected indivisible.
Elizabeth Bishop
Thursday, May 31, 2012
os nomes dos ventos
os nomes dos ventos
das árvores e dos pássaros
o valor de um abraço
o momento certo para um beijo
por tudo isto a vida
das árvores e dos pássaros
o valor de um abraço
o momento certo para um beijo
por tudo isto a vida
uma pedra
um "ploc" na água
círculos
um "ploc" na água
círculos
um momento
um momento só
Nós
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