Clear-cut

"Xxxxxx's biography was in need of a plot and his worldview was in need of a moral."

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.

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.

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.

#Dahlia Ravikovitch

VRSA

Burn

“What is to give light must endure burning.”

- Victor E. Frankl

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.

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

depois da maçã...

Adão e Eva Expulsos do Paraíso

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

2

: not productive: as a: producing little or no vegetation : desolate <barren deserts> b: producing inferior crops <barren soil> c: unproductive of results or gain : fruitless barren

scheme>

3

: devoid, lacking —used with of <barren of excitement>

4

: lacking interest or charm barren

routine>

5

: lacking inspiration or ideas barren

mind>

— 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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

 

 

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

no words

no words...the heat is on.

sono

o sono é uma praia vazia, vazia de vento e com o mar mudo