Adrienne Rich
The Prisoners
Enclosed in this disturbing mutual wood
Wounded alike by thorns of the same tree,
We seek in hopeless war each other's blood
Though suffering in one identity.
Each to the other pray and untsman known,
Still driven together, lonelier than alone.
Strange mating of the loser and the lost!
With facees stiff as mourners'; we intrude
Forever on the one each turns from most,
Each wandering in a double solitude.
The unpurged ghosts of passion bound by pride
Who wake in isolation, side by side.
domingo, 31 de janeiro de 2010
Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen: dois poemas
Sophia de Mello Breyner
a) Meio-dia
Meio-dia. Um canto da praia sem ninguém.
O sol ao alto, fundo, enorme, aberto,
tornou o céu de todos o deus deserto.
A luz cai implacável como um castigo.
Não há fantasmas nem almas,
E o mar imenso solitário e antigo
Parece bater palmas.
b) Corpo a corpo
Lutaram corpo a corpo com o frio
Das casas onde nunca ninguém passa -
Sós, em quantos imesos de vazio,
Com um poente em chamas na vidraça.
a) Meio-dia
Meio-dia. Um canto da praia sem ninguém.
O sol ao alto, fundo, enorme, aberto,
tornou o céu de todos o deus deserto.
A luz cai implacável como um castigo.
Não há fantasmas nem almas,
E o mar imenso solitário e antigo
Parece bater palmas.
b) Corpo a corpo
Lutaram corpo a corpo com o frio
Das casas onde nunca ninguém passa -
Sós, em quantos imesos de vazio,
Com um poente em chamas na vidraça.
sábado, 30 de janeiro de 2010
Poema do dia
Caitríona O'Reilly
Envoi
And although it will be
the same story -
the going out
under dark starts
that seem to pin
your skull to the sky
you will do it:
bending your ear
to their furious desires.
'We realised some time
ago that restlessness
was not to be assuaged' -
so it will challenge
your store of images,
those cheques you draw
against yourself.
Who can say
if a loved face will lie
at the end of it?
Death, desirelessness:
such kinless things.
Envoi
And although it will be
the same story -
the going out
under dark starts
that seem to pin
your skull to the sky
you will do it:
bending your ear
to their furious desires.
'We realised some time
ago that restlessness
was not to be assuaged' -
so it will challenge
your store of images,
those cheques you draw
against yourself.
Who can say
if a loved face will lie
at the end of it?
Death, desirelessness:
such kinless things.
Novos concertos em 2010 - Orphaned Land em Lisboa
Afinal, os concertos que me interessam começam a aparecer. O primeiro é o dos Orphaned Land, que raramente põe cá os pés. Têm novo álbum, bom por sinal, e visitam-nos. Espero poder lá estar, até porque é a um sábado, dá mais jeito.
sexta-feira, 29 de janeiro de 2010
Books I recommend
Comprei este livro o ano passado e continuo a gostar dele. Comprei-o para a minha tese, tinha alguns poemas que me interessavam. E com a tese percebi que lia muito poucas poetisas. Se querem conhecer algumas escritoras de poesia contemporâneas, e outras de um passado mais distante, este livro tem bons exemplos, apesar de ser apenas uma amostra.
Poema do dia
Wendy Cope
The Lavatory Attendant (1986)
I counted two and seventy stenches
All well defined and several stinks!
COLERIDGE
Slumped on a chair, his body is an S
That wants to be a minus sign.
His face is overripe Wensleydale
Going blue at the edges.
In overalls of sacerdotal white
He guards a row of fonts
With lids like eye-patches. Snapped shut
They are castanets. All day he hears
Short-lived Niagaras, the clank
And gurgle of canescent cisterns.
When evening comes he sluices a thin tide
Across sand-coloured lino,
Turns Medusa on her head
And wipes the floor with her.
The Lavatory Attendant (1986)
I counted two and seventy stenches
All well defined and several stinks!
COLERIDGE
Slumped on a chair, his body is an S
That wants to be a minus sign.
His face is overripe Wensleydale
Going blue at the edges.
In overalls of sacerdotal white
He guards a row of fonts
With lids like eye-patches. Snapped shut
They are castanets. All day he hears
Short-lived Niagaras, the clank
And gurgle of canescent cisterns.
When evening comes he sluices a thin tide
Across sand-coloured lino,
Turns Medusa on her head
And wipes the floor with her.
quinta-feira, 28 de janeiro de 2010
Recomendações musicais
Raramente me entusiasmo com novos álbuns hoje em dia, normalmente os novos álbuns que oiço e realmente gosto são de bandas que já me "pescaram" há algum tempo. Apesar de ouvir um número considerável de álbuns de novas bandas por ano, dificilmente eles me entram no ouvido e ficam comigo. Mas este mês in comes an exception. É um álbum acabadinho de sair, de uma banda britânica que até anda por aí a promover o álbum por terras inglesas. Na verdade, aconteceu-me o mesmo com esta banda que me tinha acontecido antes com In Mourning, ouvi o álbum, sem esperar nada, e fiquei viciada e rendida. In Mourning foi em 2008, acabei por comprar o CD original e agora o segundo original está a caminho. Estes Stone Circle podem estar a seguir o mesmo caminho e apesar do espectro musical em que se movimentam ser próximo, são bandas bastante diferentes, e, parece-me a mim, que já demonstram alguma maturidade musical apesar de terem lançado poucos álbuns. Este post serve para dar a conhecer uma banda nova de qualidade, divulgar if you will, como se o myspace hoje em dia não fizesse já isso o suficiente, não custa nada mencionar, dizer que se gosta, e eu gosto. Provavelmente acabarei por comprar o original, mais cedo ou mais tarde. É dos poucos CDs que tenho ouvido ultimamente.
Stone Circle - Myth
Poema do dia
Ana Luísa Amaral
AS ROTAÇÕES PERFEITAS (em Se fosse um intervalo)
Se me pedisses de repente e aqui:
«fala das luas e dos dias», eu
nem falaria, diria só que estar contigo
é estar-me:
ofício de tanto tempo,
e natural,
ajustado como pequeno girassol,
ao sul: uma paisagem
Nem saberia por onde começar:
se no olhar, se na palavra,
ou se no sorriso
que me devastou o equilíbrio do igual
Não sei, meu amor,
como entender este pequeno girassol,
explicar-lhe o movimento certo,
a rotação completa e tão
perfeita,
as folhas muito verdes
de uma tal filigrana delicada
Sobretudo, este seu hino
em direcção a tudo
e já nem sei falá-lo,
porque lhe basta o tempo, e esse
- sem palavras
AS ROTAÇÕES PERFEITAS (em Se fosse um intervalo)
Se me pedisses de repente e aqui:
«fala das luas e dos dias», eu
nem falaria, diria só que estar contigo
é estar-me:
ofício de tanto tempo,
e natural,
ajustado como pequeno girassol,
ao sul: uma paisagem
Nem saberia por onde começar:
se no olhar, se na palavra,
ou se no sorriso
que me devastou o equilíbrio do igual
Não sei, meu amor,
como entender este pequeno girassol,
explicar-lhe o movimento certo,
a rotação completa e tão
perfeita,
as folhas muito verdes
de uma tal filigrana delicada
Sobretudo, este seu hino
em direcção a tudo
e já nem sei falá-lo,
porque lhe basta o tempo, e esse
- sem palavras
quarta-feira, 27 de janeiro de 2010
Quote of the day
O "The Unbearable Lightness of Being" é um poço de possibilidades. Aqui vai mais uma:
"For there is nothing heavier than compassion. Not even one's own pain weighs so heavy as the pain one feels with someone, for someone, a pain intensified by the imagination and prolonged by a hundred echoes"
"For there is nothing heavier than compassion. Not even one's own pain weighs so heavy as the pain one feels with someone, for someone, a pain intensified by the imagination and prolonged by a hundred echoes"
To make you laugh
Funny moment of the day, I just found this cartoon online, and I had to share it because it is so ironically funny and thought-provoking, at least that's what I think.
Poema do dia
Charles Baudelaire
A Música
A música p'ra mim tem seduções de oceano!
Quantas vezes procuro navegar,
Sobre um dorso brumoso, a vela a todo o pano,
Minha pálida estrela a demandar!
O peito saliente, os pulmões distendidos
Como o rijo velame d'um navio,
Intento desvendar os reinos escondidos
Sob o manto da noite escuro e frio;
Sinto vibrar em mim todas as comoções
D'um navio que sulca o vasto mar;
Chuvas temporais, ciclones, convulsões
Conseguem a minh'alma acalentar.
— Mas quando reina a paz, quando a bonança impera,
Que desespero horrivel me exaspera!
Tradução de Delfim Guimarães
A Música
A música p'ra mim tem seduções de oceano!
Quantas vezes procuro navegar,
Sobre um dorso brumoso, a vela a todo o pano,
Minha pálida estrela a demandar!
O peito saliente, os pulmões distendidos
Como o rijo velame d'um navio,
Intento desvendar os reinos escondidos
Sob o manto da noite escuro e frio;
Sinto vibrar em mim todas as comoções
D'um navio que sulca o vasto mar;
Chuvas temporais, ciclones, convulsões
Conseguem a minh'alma acalentar.
— Mas quando reina a paz, quando a bonança impera,
Que desespero horrivel me exaspera!
Tradução de Delfim Guimarães
terça-feira, 26 de janeiro de 2010
Baudelaire em bom português
Baudelaire
XXIV
Adoro-te tal como à abóbada nocturna,
Ó vaso de tristeza, ó grande taciturna,
E tanto mais te amo quanto mais me foges
E quando me pareces, flôr das minhas noites,
Cavar com ironia as léguas que separam
Da imensidão azul estes meus simples braços.
Avanço pró ataque e preparo o assalto,
Como um bando de vermes junto a um cadáver,
E chego a admirar, ó monstro tão cruel!
Até mesmo a frieza que te faz mais bela!
XXIV
Adoro-te tal como à abóbada nocturna,
Ó vaso de tristeza, ó grande taciturna,
E tanto mais te amo quanto mais me foges
E quando me pareces, flôr das minhas noites,
Cavar com ironia as léguas que separam
Da imensidão azul estes meus simples braços.
Avanço pró ataque e preparo o assalto,
Como um bando de vermes junto a um cadáver,
E chego a admirar, ó monstro tão cruel!
Até mesmo a frieza que te faz mais bela!
Escritos do passado
Coisas que escrevi há muito muito tempo atrás. Ando a ler os meus velhos poemas e só me dá vontade de rir. Aqui ficam alguns exemplos:
a) Are you dead or do you need an incision?
b) Eager to escape, I might fly with the dead
c)
they will never see what I see
infinity
d)
Consumed by it, society is standing still
Never to accept, everything against my will
For they judge the cover of the book
And I no longer remain in this tight strangling suit
e)
I know how loneliness feels
I know how soft silence burns inside and you weep
a) Are you dead or do you need an incision?
b) Eager to escape, I might fly with the dead
c)
they will never see what I see
infinity
d)
Consumed by it, society is standing still
Never to accept, everything against my will
For they judge the cover of the book
And I no longer remain in this tight strangling suit
e)
I know how loneliness feels
I know how soft silence burns inside and you weep
Poema do dia
Edgar Allan Poe
Imitation
A dark unfathomed tide
Of interminable pride -
A mystery, and a dream,
Should my early life seem;
I say that dream was fraught
With a wild and waking thought
Of beings that have been,
Which my spirit hath not seen,
Had I let them pass me by,
With a dreaming eye!
Let none of earth inherit
That vision of my spirit;
Those thoughts I would control,
As a spell upon his soul:
For that bright hope at last
And that light time have past,
And my worldly rest hath gone
With a sigh as it passed on:
I care not though it perish
With a thought I then did cherish.
Imitation
A dark unfathomed tide
Of interminable pride -
A mystery, and a dream,
Should my early life seem;
I say that dream was fraught
With a wild and waking thought
Of beings that have been,
Which my spirit hath not seen,
Had I let them pass me by,
With a dreaming eye!
Let none of earth inherit
That vision of my spirit;
Those thoughts I would control,
As a spell upon his soul:
For that bright hope at last
And that light time have past,
And my worldly rest hath gone
With a sigh as it passed on:
I care not though it perish
With a thought I then did cherish.
domingo, 24 de janeiro de 2010
Music and artwork
Food for thought.
Riverside sleeves:
Out of Myself
Second Life Syndrome
Rapid Eye Movement
Anno Domini High Definition
sábado, 23 de janeiro de 2010
sexta-feira, 22 de janeiro de 2010
Poema do dia
Gillian Clarke
The Plumber
He'd often work crouched on the floor
his tool-bag agape beside him
like a wound.
He'd choose spanner or wrench,
tap for an airlock, blockage, leak,
for water's sound.
Not a man for talk. His work
a translation, his a clean trade
for silent hands.
Sweet water washed away waste,
the mud, the blood, the dirt.
the dead, the drowned,
the outcry, outfall, outrage of war
transformed
to holy ground.
The Plumber
He'd often work crouched on the floor
his tool-bag agape beside him
like a wound.
He'd choose spanner or wrench,
tap for an airlock, blockage, leak,
for water's sound.
Not a man for talk. His work
a translation, his a clean trade
for silent hands.
Sweet water washed away waste,
the mud, the blood, the dirt.
the dead, the drowned,
the outcry, outfall, outrage of war
transformed
to holy ground.
Carol Ann Duffy 2009
Carol Ann Duffy
Last Post
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If poetry could tell it backwards, true, begin
that moment shrapnel scythed you to the stinking mud…
but you get up, amazed, watch bled bad blood
run upwards from the slime into its wounds;
see lines and lines of British boys rewind
back to their trenches, kiss the photographs from home-
mothers, sweethearts, sisters, younger brothers
not entering the story now
to die and die and die.
Dulce- No- Decorum- No- Pro patria mori.
You walk away.
You walk away; drop your gun (fixed bayonet)
like all your mates do too-
Harry, Tommy, Wilfred, Edward, Bert-
and light a cigarette.
There's coffee in the square,
warm French bread
and all those thousands dead
are shaking dried mud from their hair
and queuing up for home. Freshly alive,
a lad plays Tipperary to the crowd, released
from History; the glistening, healthy horses fit for heroes, kings.
You lean against a wall,
your several million lives still possible
and crammed with love, work, children, talent, English beer, good
food.
You see the poet tuck away his pocket-book and smile.
If poetry could truly tell it backwards,then it would.
Last Post
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If poetry could tell it backwards, true, begin
that moment shrapnel scythed you to the stinking mud…
but you get up, amazed, watch bled bad blood
run upwards from the slime into its wounds;
see lines and lines of British boys rewind
back to their trenches, kiss the photographs from home-
mothers, sweethearts, sisters, younger brothers
not entering the story now
to die and die and die.
Dulce- No- Decorum- No- Pro patria mori.
You walk away.
You walk away; drop your gun (fixed bayonet)
like all your mates do too-
Harry, Tommy, Wilfred, Edward, Bert-
and light a cigarette.
There's coffee in the square,
warm French bread
and all those thousands dead
are shaking dried mud from their hair
and queuing up for home. Freshly alive,
a lad plays Tipperary to the crowd, released
from History; the glistening, healthy horses fit for heroes, kings.
You lean against a wall,
your several million lives still possible
and crammed with love, work, children, talent, English beer, good
food.
You see the poet tuck away his pocket-book and smile.
If poetry could truly tell it backwards,then it would.
quarta-feira, 20 de janeiro de 2010
Trying to find me again
I was doing a bit of soul searching this afternoon and so I decided to bring out my graduation ribbons. I knew they would remind me of what is important. One in particular, the one I wrote for myself, always tells me exactly what I am, and brings me back to the right place. The right state of mind. And I need it now. Here are some of the quotes I wrote in that ribbon, which still make a lot of sense to me today:
a) "Love is an irresistable desire to be irresistibly desired", Robert Frost
b) "What else is love but understanding and rejoicing in the fact that another person lives, acts, and experiences otherwise than we do?, Nietzsche
c) "Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before", Edgar Allan Poe
d) "I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity", Edgar Allan Poe
a) "Love is an irresistable desire to be irresistibly desired", Robert Frost
b) "What else is love but understanding and rejoicing in the fact that another person lives, acts, and experiences otherwise than we do?, Nietzsche
c) "Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before", Edgar Allan Poe
d) "I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity", Edgar Allan Poe
Electricity: Poema do dia
Lavinia Greenlaw
Electricity (1993)
The night you called to tell me
that the unevenness between the days
is as simple as meeting or not meeting,
I was thinking about electricity -
how at no point on a circuit
can power diminish or accumulate,
how you also need a lack of balance
for energy to be released. Trust it.
Once, being held like that,
no edge, no end and no beginning,
I could not tell our actions apart:
if it was you who lifted my head to the light,
if it was I who said how much I wanted
to look at your face. Your beautiful face.
*Soundtrack to this poem (intersemiotic possibilities):
Anathema - Electricity
Electricity (1993)
The night you called to tell me
that the unevenness between the days
is as simple as meeting or not meeting,
I was thinking about electricity -
how at no point on a circuit
can power diminish or accumulate,
how you also need a lack of balance
for energy to be released. Trust it.
Once, being held like that,
no edge, no end and no beginning,
I could not tell our actions apart:
if it was you who lifted my head to the light,
if it was I who said how much I wanted
to look at your face. Your beautiful face.
*Soundtrack to this poem (intersemiotic possibilities):
Anathema - Electricity
terça-feira, 19 de janeiro de 2010
Poema do dia
Menna Elfyn
Handkerchief Kiss (2001)
A poem in translation is like kissing through a handkerchief.
R.S. Thomas
A caress in the dark.
What a tame lot we were,
with our secretive yesterday's kisses.
Today, it's a common greeting,
and we watch on the small screen
world leaders deal peace
with a cold embrace,
or an adder's kiss. The lyric
translated is like kissing
through a hanky, said the bard.
As for me, I hug those poems between pages
that bring back the word-lovers.
Let the poem carry a handkerchief
and leave on my lip
its veiled kiss.
Handkerchief Kiss (2001)
A poem in translation is like kissing through a handkerchief.
R.S. Thomas
A caress in the dark.
What a tame lot we were,
with our secretive yesterday's kisses.
Today, it's a common greeting,
and we watch on the small screen
world leaders deal peace
with a cold embrace,
or an adder's kiss. The lyric
translated is like kissing
through a hanky, said the bard.
As for me, I hug those poems between pages
that bring back the word-lovers.
Let the poem carry a handkerchief
and leave on my lip
its veiled kiss.
Knowing Philip Larkin: two poems
Philip Larkin
a) Aubade
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.
And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
b) Dockery and Son
'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.
a) Aubade
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.
And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.
b) Dockery and Son
'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.
segunda-feira, 18 de janeiro de 2010
Poema do dia
Ana Luísa Amaral
Viagens e Desvios (em Entre dois rios e outras noites)
Rasguei o tempo tantas
vezes: como linha de eléctrico
partida,
a direcção: desvio,
rasgados: sedimentos
de passagem
Onde encontrar as margens
precisas de navio
para acostar?
Se o frio penetrou
fundo em camisola,
foi porque a sua malha:
tecida de luar
Repetir a viagem
não consigo:
só rasgar os minutos
e as horas
até ao infinito do poder
Talvez então a linha
se defina
e as portas amarelas
(junto das campainhas)
desistam de bater
Viagens e Desvios (em Entre dois rios e outras noites)
Rasguei o tempo tantas
vezes: como linha de eléctrico
partida,
a direcção: desvio,
rasgados: sedimentos
de passagem
Onde encontrar as margens
precisas de navio
para acostar?
Se o frio penetrou
fundo em camisola,
foi porque a sua malha:
tecida de luar
Repetir a viagem
não consigo:
só rasgar os minutos
e as horas
até ao infinito do poder
Talvez então a linha
se defina
e as portas amarelas
(junto das campainhas)
desistam de bater
domingo, 17 de janeiro de 2010
Carol Ann Duffy (mais poemas)
Carol Ann Duffy
Elegy (em Rapture)
Who’ll know then, when they walk by the grave
where your bones will be brittle things – this bone here
that swoops away from your throat, and this,
which perfectly fits the scoop of my palm, and these
which I count with my lips, and your skull,
which blooms on the pillow now, and your fingers,
beautiful in their little rings – that love, which wanders history,
singled you out in your time?
Love loved you best; lit you
with a flame, like talent, under your skin; let you
move through your days and nights, blessed in your flesh,
blood, hair; as though they were lovely garments
you wore to pleasure the air. Who’ll guess, if they read
your stone, or press their thumbs to the scars
of your dates, that were I alive, I would lie on the grass
above your bones till I mirrored your pose, your infinite grace?
Elegy (em Rapture)
Who’ll know then, when they walk by the grave
where your bones will be brittle things – this bone here
that swoops away from your throat, and this,
which perfectly fits the scoop of my palm, and these
which I count with my lips, and your skull,
which blooms on the pillow now, and your fingers,
beautiful in their little rings – that love, which wanders history,
singled you out in your time?
Love loved you best; lit you
with a flame, like talent, under your skin; let you
move through your days and nights, blessed in your flesh,
blood, hair; as though they were lovely garments
you wore to pleasure the air. Who’ll guess, if they read
your stone, or press their thumbs to the scars
of your dates, that were I alive, I would lie on the grass
above your bones till I mirrored your pose, your infinite grace?
Poema do dia
Elaine Feinstein
Patience (1977)
In water nothing is mean. The fugitive
enters the river, she is washed free;
her thoughts unravel like weeds of
green silk, she moves downstream
as easily as any cold-water creature.
can swim between furred stones, brown
fronds, boots and tins the river holds equally.
The trees hiss overhead. She feels their shadows.
She imagines herself clean as a fish,
evasive, solitary, dumb. Her prayer:
to make peace with her own monstrous nature.
Patience (1977)
In water nothing is mean. The fugitive
enters the river, she is washed free;
her thoughts unravel like weeds of
green silk, she moves downstream
as easily as any cold-water creature.
can swim between furred stones, brown
fronds, boots and tins the river holds equally.
The trees hiss overhead. She feels their shadows.
She imagines herself clean as a fish,
evasive, solitary, dumb. Her prayer:
to make peace with her own monstrous nature.
sábado, 16 de janeiro de 2010
New Poem
bugs too
it crawls
out of my skin
this bug
– the scar
it moves slowly
from my reach
like holy water
wasting itself through my fingers
I shrink back
timidly
and there it is again
trying to see me
trying to be me
I create myself
again
and take it in
the bug
the compass
that ticks
I open myself
permanently
lose hope
in redemption
it grows
inside of me
like new blood
floating around
the surface of things
it wounds me
convincingly
it opens a cavity
a hollow
meaningless
ardour
aren’t you afraid?
afraid of opening your eyelids
and finding
nothing
but your self?
it crawls
out of my skin
this bug
– the scar
it moves slowly
from my reach
like holy water
wasting itself through my fingers
I shrink back
timidly
and there it is again
trying to see me
trying to be me
I create myself
again
and take it in
the bug
the compass
that ticks
I open myself
permanently
lose hope
in redemption
it grows
inside of me
like new blood
floating around
the surface of things
it wounds me
convincingly
it opens a cavity
a hollow
meaningless
ardour
aren’t you afraid?
afraid of opening your eyelids
and finding
nothing
but your self?
Pessoas
Fernando Pessoa/Álvaro de Campos
Ao volante do Chevrolet pela estrada de Sintra
Ao volante do Chevrolet pela estrada de Sintra,
Ao luar e ao sonho, na estrada deserta,
Sozinho guio, guio quase devagar, e um pouco
Me parece, ou me forço um pouco para que me pareça,
Que sigo por outra estrada, por outro sonho, por outro mundo,
Que sigo sem haver Lisboa deixada ou Sintra a que ir ter,
Que sigo, e que mais haverá em seguir senão não parar mas seguir?
Vou passar a noite a Sintra por não poder passá-la em Lisboa,
Mas, quando chegar a Sintra, terei pena de não ter ficado em Lisboa.
Sempre esta inquietação sem propósito, sem nexo, sem consequência,
Sempre, sempre, sempre,
Esta angústia excessiva do espírito por coisa nenhuma,
Na estrada de Sintra, ou na estrada do sonho, ou na estrada da vida...
Maleável aos meus movimentos subconscientes do volante,
Galga sob mim comigo o automóvel que me emprestaram.
Sorrio do símbolo, ao pensar nele, e ao virar à direita.
Em quantas coisas que me emprestaram guio como minhas!
Quanto me emprestaram, ai de mim!, eu próprio sou!
À esquerda o casebre — sim, o casebre — à beira da estrada.
À direita o campo aberto, com a lua ao longe.
O automóvel, que parecia há pouco dar-me liberdade,
É agora uma coisa onde estou fechado,
Que só posso conduzir se nele estiver fechado,
Que só domino se me incluir nele, se ele me incluir a mim.
À esquerda lá para trás o casebre modesto, mais que modesto.
A vida ali deve ser feliz, só porque não é a minha.
Se alguém me viu da janela do casebre, sonhará: Aquele é que é feliz.
Talvez à criança espreitando pelos vidros da janela do andar que está em cima
Fiquei (com o automóvel emprestado) como um sonho, uma fada real.
Talvez à rapariga que olhou, ouvindo o motor, pela janela da cozinha
No pavimento térreo,
Sou qualquer coisa do príncipe de todo o coração de rapariga,
E ela me olhará de esguelha, pelos vidros, até à curva em que me perdi.
Deixarei sonhos atrás de mim, ou é o automóvel que os deixa?
Eu, guiador do automóvel emprestado, ou o automóvel emprestado que eu guio?
Na estrada de Sintra ao luar, na tristeza, ante os campos e a noite,
Guiando o Chevrolet emprestado desconsoladamente,
Perco-me na estrada futura, sumo-me na distância que alcanço,
E, num desejo terrível, súbito, violento, inconcebível,
Acelero...
Mas o meu coração ficou no monte de pedras, de que me desviei ao vê-lo sem vê-lo,
À porta do casebre,
O meu coração vazio,
O meu coração insatisfeito,
O meu coração mais humano do que eu, mais exacto que a vida.
Na estrada de Sintra, perto da meia-noite, ao luar, ao volante,
Na estrada de Sintra, que cansaço da própria imaginação,
Na estrada de Sintra, cada vez mais perto de Sintra,
Na estrada de Sintra, cada vez menos perto de mim...
Ao volante do Chevrolet pela estrada de Sintra
Ao volante do Chevrolet pela estrada de Sintra,
Ao luar e ao sonho, na estrada deserta,
Sozinho guio, guio quase devagar, e um pouco
Me parece, ou me forço um pouco para que me pareça,
Que sigo por outra estrada, por outro sonho, por outro mundo,
Que sigo sem haver Lisboa deixada ou Sintra a que ir ter,
Que sigo, e que mais haverá em seguir senão não parar mas seguir?
Vou passar a noite a Sintra por não poder passá-la em Lisboa,
Mas, quando chegar a Sintra, terei pena de não ter ficado em Lisboa.
Sempre esta inquietação sem propósito, sem nexo, sem consequência,
Sempre, sempre, sempre,
Esta angústia excessiva do espírito por coisa nenhuma,
Na estrada de Sintra, ou na estrada do sonho, ou na estrada da vida...
Maleável aos meus movimentos subconscientes do volante,
Galga sob mim comigo o automóvel que me emprestaram.
Sorrio do símbolo, ao pensar nele, e ao virar à direita.
Em quantas coisas que me emprestaram guio como minhas!
Quanto me emprestaram, ai de mim!, eu próprio sou!
À esquerda o casebre — sim, o casebre — à beira da estrada.
À direita o campo aberto, com a lua ao longe.
O automóvel, que parecia há pouco dar-me liberdade,
É agora uma coisa onde estou fechado,
Que só posso conduzir se nele estiver fechado,
Que só domino se me incluir nele, se ele me incluir a mim.
À esquerda lá para trás o casebre modesto, mais que modesto.
A vida ali deve ser feliz, só porque não é a minha.
Se alguém me viu da janela do casebre, sonhará: Aquele é que é feliz.
Talvez à criança espreitando pelos vidros da janela do andar que está em cima
Fiquei (com o automóvel emprestado) como um sonho, uma fada real.
Talvez à rapariga que olhou, ouvindo o motor, pela janela da cozinha
No pavimento térreo,
Sou qualquer coisa do príncipe de todo o coração de rapariga,
E ela me olhará de esguelha, pelos vidros, até à curva em que me perdi.
Deixarei sonhos atrás de mim, ou é o automóvel que os deixa?
Eu, guiador do automóvel emprestado, ou o automóvel emprestado que eu guio?
Na estrada de Sintra ao luar, na tristeza, ante os campos e a noite,
Guiando o Chevrolet emprestado desconsoladamente,
Perco-me na estrada futura, sumo-me na distância que alcanço,
E, num desejo terrível, súbito, violento, inconcebível,
Acelero...
Mas o meu coração ficou no monte de pedras, de que me desviei ao vê-lo sem vê-lo,
À porta do casebre,
O meu coração vazio,
O meu coração insatisfeito,
O meu coração mais humano do que eu, mais exacto que a vida.
Na estrada de Sintra, perto da meia-noite, ao luar, ao volante,
Na estrada de Sintra, que cansaço da própria imaginação,
Na estrada de Sintra, cada vez mais perto de Sintra,
Na estrada de Sintra, cada vez menos perto de mim...
Poema do dia
Alexandre O'Neill
Há Palavras Que Nos Beijam
Há palavras que nos beijam
Como se tivessem boca,
Palavras de amor, de esperança,
De imenso amor, de esperança louca.
Palavras nuas que beijas
Quando a noite perde o rosto,
Palavras que se recusam
Aos muros do teu desgosto.
De repente coloridas
Entre palavras sem cor,
Esperadas, inesperadas
Como a poesia ou o amor.
(O nome de quem se ama
Letra a letra revelado
No mármore distraído,
No papel abandonado)
Palavras que nos transportam
Aonde a noite é mais forte,
Ao silêncio dos amantes.
Há Palavras Que Nos Beijam
Há palavras que nos beijam
Como se tivessem boca,
Palavras de amor, de esperança,
De imenso amor, de esperança louca.
Palavras nuas que beijas
Quando a noite perde o rosto,
Palavras que se recusam
Aos muros do teu desgosto.
De repente coloridas
Entre palavras sem cor,
Esperadas, inesperadas
Como a poesia ou o amor.
(O nome de quem se ama
Letra a letra revelado
No mármore distraído,
No papel abandonado)
Palavras que nos transportam
Aonde a noite é mais forte,
Ao silêncio dos amantes.
sexta-feira, 15 de janeiro de 2010
Poemas Pós-modernistas, dois exemplos
a) Incisive Reading according to Dr Drop (K. Michel)
After one
reading we will
all find it
a difficult poem,
this hand o.a.
Yet we can through
patient reading
come a long way. But
in advance we must
accept that in
this kind of poem some
‘blind spots’ often
remain.
These are the places where the poet’s
associations were apparently
so personal
that it is more or less a coincidence
if you can feel them still.
b) Multiple Choice (Arjen Duinker)
Perhaps it is true
That a collection of blue splinters
Is fed by monotonous tunes
On a white square.
Bird, go sit in the gutter!
Perhaps it is true
That a red peach would be made shy
By small groups of sour children
In a red month.
Bird, do not look for the cloud on the water!
Perhaps it is true
That a collection of black tunes
Can be fully appreciated
In blue splinters.
Bird, the moon has a mouth-ache!
Perhaps it is true
That a white square offers more space
For getting lost in the world
Than a red peach.
Bird, pick your favorite feather!
After one
reading we will
all find it
a difficult poem,
this hand o.a.
Yet we can through
patient reading
come a long way. But
in advance we must
accept that in
this kind of poem some
‘blind spots’ often
remain.
These are the places where the poet’s
associations were apparently
so personal
that it is more or less a coincidence
if you can feel them still.
b) Multiple Choice (Arjen Duinker)
Perhaps it is true
That a collection of blue splinters
Is fed by monotonous tunes
On a white square.
Bird, go sit in the gutter!
Perhaps it is true
That a red peach would be made shy
By small groups of sour children
In a red month.
Bird, do not look for the cloud on the water!
Perhaps it is true
That a collection of black tunes
Can be fully appreciated
In blue splinters.
Bird, the moon has a mouth-ache!
Perhaps it is true
That a white square offers more space
For getting lost in the world
Than a red peach.
Bird, pick your favorite feather!
Poema do dia 'oxy(morons)'
John Ashbery
Paradoxes and Oxymorons
This poem is concerned with language on a very plain level.
Look at it talking to you. You look out a window
Or pretend to fidget. You have it but you don't have it.
You miss it, it misses you. You miss each other.
This poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot.
What's a plain level? It is that and other things,
Bringing a system of them into play. Play?
Well, actually, yes, but I consider play to be
A deeper outside thing, a dreamed role-pattern,
As in the division of grace these long August days
Without proof. Open-ended. And before you know
It gets lost in the steam and chatter of typewriters.
It has been played once more. I think you exist only
To tease me into doing it, on your level, and then you aren't there.
Or have adopted a different attitude. And the poem
Has set me softly down beside you. The poem is you.
Paradoxes and Oxymorons
This poem is concerned with language on a very plain level.
Look at it talking to you. You look out a window
Or pretend to fidget. You have it but you don't have it.
You miss it, it misses you. You miss each other.
This poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot.
What's a plain level? It is that and other things,
Bringing a system of them into play. Play?
Well, actually, yes, but I consider play to be
A deeper outside thing, a dreamed role-pattern,
As in the division of grace these long August days
Without proof. Open-ended. And before you know
It gets lost in the steam and chatter of typewriters.
It has been played once more. I think you exist only
To tease me into doing it, on your level, and then you aren't there.
Or have adopted a different attitude. And the poem
Has set me softly down beside you. The poem is you.
quinta-feira, 14 de janeiro de 2010
Felicidade
Happiness is like freedom, never entirely achievable.
Momentary,
Solitary, hallucinatory,
Chaotic and autistic.
Knowing Mark Strand: two poems
Mark Strand
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.
When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.
We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.
b) Eating Poetry
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.
I am a new man,
I snarl at her and bark,
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
a) Keeping Things Whole
In a fieldI am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.
When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.
We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.
b) Eating Poetry
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.
I am a new man,
I snarl at her and bark,
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
Fernando Pessoa em inglês
Hoje recomendo Fernando Pessoa em inglês. A sua poesia inglesa também tem interesse. Pelo menos, eu gosto bastante. Só tenho este primeiro volume, é uma edição bilingue. Deixo-vos com um exemplo, um soneto:
VIII
Upon our countenance of soul, and when,
If for self-sport the soul itself unmasks,
Knows it the last mask off and the face plain?
The true mask feels no inside to the mask
But looks out of the mask by co-masked eyes.
Whatever consciousness begins the task
The task's accepted use to sleepness ties.
Like a child frigted by its mirrored faces,
Our souls, that children are, being thought-losing,
Foist otherness upon their seen grimaces
And get a whole world on their forgot causing;
And, when as thought would unmask our soul's masking,
Itself goes unmasked to the unmasking.
VIII
Upon our countenance of soul, and when,
If for self-sport the soul itself unmasks,
Knows it the last mask off and the face plain?
The true mask feels no inside to the mask
But looks out of the mask by co-masked eyes.
Whatever consciousness begins the task
The task's accepted use to sleepness ties.
Like a child frigted by its mirrored faces,
Our souls, that children are, being thought-losing,
Foist otherness upon their seen grimaces
And get a whole world on their forgot causing;
And, when as thought would unmask our soul's masking,
Itself goes unmasked to the unmasking.
Poema do dia
Julia Copus
Love Like Water
Tumbling from some far-flung cloud
into your bathroom alone, to sleeve
a toe, five toes, a metatarsal arch,
it does its best to feign indifference
to the body, but will go on creeping
up to the neck till it's reading the skin
like braille, though you're certain it sees
under the surface of things and knows
the routes your nerves take as they branch
from the mind, which lately has been curling
in on itself like the spine of a dog
as it circles a ptach of ground to sleep.
Now through the dappled window,
propped open slightly for the heat,
a light rain is composing
the lake it falls into, the way a lover's hand
composes the body it touches - Love,
like water! How it gives and gives,
wearing the deepest of grooves in our sides
and filling them up again, ever so gently
wounding us, making us whole.
Love Like Water
Tumbling from some far-flung cloud
into your bathroom alone, to sleeve
a toe, five toes, a metatarsal arch,
it does its best to feign indifference
to the body, but will go on creeping
up to the neck till it's reading the skin
like braille, though you're certain it sees
under the surface of things and knows
the routes your nerves take as they branch
from the mind, which lately has been curling
in on itself like the spine of a dog
as it circles a ptach of ground to sleep.
Now through the dappled window,
propped open slightly for the heat,
a light rain is composing
the lake it falls into, the way a lover's hand
composes the body it touches - Love,
like water! How it gives and gives,
wearing the deepest of grooves in our sides
and filling them up again, ever so gently
wounding us, making us whole.
quarta-feira, 13 de janeiro de 2010
Álbuns instrumentais
Não é só para geeks, mas creio que a maior parte das pessoas que ouve estes álbuns o faz porque toca um instrumento, ou porque realmente faz algum esforço para ter uma forte ligação com a música. Apresento-vos três dos meus álbuns instrumentais preferidos, todos eles bem diferentes, um acústico, outro mais pesado e progressivo, e outro mais melódico:
a) Joe Satriani - The Extremist
b) Liquid Tension Experiment - LTE 1
c) Craig D'Andrea - Crazy is Catching
a) Joe Satriani - The Extremist
b) Liquid Tension Experiment - LTE 1
c) Craig D'Andrea - Crazy is Catching
Recomendação musical do dia/ Músicas para ouvir
Porcupine Tree - Collapse the Light Into Earth
Do álbum "In Absentia".
Poema do dia
Freda Downie
Some Poetry
Poetry is a loose term and only
A fool would offer a definition.
Those not concerned with the form
At all usually refer to some
Beautiful manifestation or the other.
Chopin, dying in hellish foggy London,
Wrote to say he was leaving for
Paris to finish the ultimate act,
Begging Grzymala to make his room ready
And not to forget a bunch of violets
So that he would have a little poetry
Around him when he returned.
I like to think the violets were
Easily obtainable and that the poetry
Was there, on the table, breathing
Wordlesss volumes for one too tired
To turn pages while moving swiftly
Towards an inevitable incomprehensible form.
Some Poetry
Poetry is a loose term and only
A fool would offer a definition.
Those not concerned with the form
At all usually refer to some
Beautiful manifestation or the other.
Chopin, dying in hellish foggy London,
Wrote to say he was leaving for
Paris to finish the ultimate act,
Begging Grzymala to make his room ready
And not to forget a bunch of violets
So that he would have a little poetry
Around him when he returned.
I like to think the violets were
Easily obtainable and that the poetry
Was there, on the table, breathing
Wordlesss volumes for one too tired
To turn pages while moving swiftly
Towards an inevitable incomprehensible form.
terça-feira, 12 de janeiro de 2010
Poema novo, acabado de sair do forno
absentmindedly
quantas mentes temos
quantos cérebros
a agitar-se ao mesmo tempo?
quanta inquietação geram
estes prodígios
na deslocação do sentido?
em quantas formas de dizer infância
consegues pensar
sem mexer no coração de corda
sem ter um contratempo
com a língua nativa
com o resíduos da memória a perderem a sensibilidade?
quantos relógios
quantas pernas
consegues perder
num dia?
diz a voz estranha
da sabedoria
que é preciso uma acrobacia
para ouvir os outros
que é preciso fantasia
para viver sem envelhecer
é preciso estar longe da nossa mente
tê-la fora do corpo
como companhia
para fazer um auto-retrato,
que não seja um sonho,
do órfão que mantemos refém – embrião –
um órfão que chora
num vulto
e demora a regressar
ao estado puro
da solidão
esse órfão que contamos
quantas vezes destruição
quantas vezes perdão
quantas vezes temos a sensação que o esquecemos.
quantas mentes temos
quantos cérebros
a agitar-se ao mesmo tempo?
quanta inquietação geram
estes prodígios
na deslocação do sentido?
em quantas formas de dizer infância
consegues pensar
sem mexer no coração de corda
sem ter um contratempo
com a língua nativa
com o resíduos da memória a perderem a sensibilidade?
quantos relógios
quantas pernas
consegues perder
num dia?
diz a voz estranha
da sabedoria
que é preciso uma acrobacia
para ouvir os outros
que é preciso fantasia
para viver sem envelhecer
é preciso estar longe da nossa mente
tê-la fora do corpo
como companhia
para fazer um auto-retrato,
que não seja um sonho,
do órfão que mantemos refém – embrião –
um órfão que chora
num vulto
e demora a regressar
ao estado puro
da solidão
esse órfão que contamos
quantas vezes destruição
quantas vezes perdão
quantas vezes temos a sensação que o esquecemos.
Álbuns mais aguardados de 2010
Em termos de expectativas criadas, este ano parece ser positivo. Veremos, ao longo dos meses, se essas expectativas se concretizam. No entanto, e até ver, estou optimista em relação ao lançamentos que vão sair este ano. Mal posso esperar por ter os CDs originais a baterem-me à porta, à espera que os vá buscar. Os álbuns mais aguardados para 2010, pela minha parte, são:
a) Orphaned Land - The Never Ending Way of ORwarriOR
b) Nevermore - The Obsidian Conspiracy
c) In Mourning - Monolith (já disponível online para ouvir)
d) Rotting Christ - Aealo
e) Dark Tranquillity - We Are The Void
f) novo álbum de Symphony X
g) novo álbum de Darkwater
h) novo álbum de Anathema (a espera já vai longa)
i*) novo DVD dos Porcupine Tree, em Março
Tem tudo para ser um bom ano, com muita variedade e poder, espero eu.
a) Orphaned Land - The Never Ending Way of ORwarriOR
b) Nevermore - The Obsidian Conspiracy
c) In Mourning - Monolith (já disponível online para ouvir)
d) Rotting Christ - Aealo
e) Dark Tranquillity - We Are The Void
f) novo álbum de Symphony X
g) novo álbum de Darkwater
h) novo álbum de Anathema (a espera já vai longa)
i*) novo DVD dos Porcupine Tree, em Março
Tem tudo para ser um bom ano, com muita variedade e poder, espero eu.
Poema do dia
Hilda Doolittle (H.D.)
Sea Violet
The white violet
is scented on its stalk,
the sea-violet
fragile as agate,
lies fronting all the wind
among the torn shells
on the sand-bank.
The greater blue violets
flutter on the hill,
but who would change for these
one root of the white sort?
Violet
your grasp is frail
on the edge of the sand-hill,
but you catch the light -
frost, a star edges with its fire.
Sea Violet
The white violet
is scented on its stalk,
the sea-violet
fragile as agate,
lies fronting all the wind
among the torn shells
on the sand-bank.
The greater blue violets
flutter on the hill,
but who would change for these
one root of the white sort?
Violet
your grasp is frail
on the edge of the sand-hill,
but you catch the light -
frost, a star edges with its fire.
segunda-feira, 11 de janeiro de 2010
Poema do dia
Sylvia Plath
Mirror
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful -
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
Mirror
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful -
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.
domingo, 10 de janeiro de 2010
Disintegration
Apetece-vos ouvir um álbum qualquer?
Álbum aleatório do mês: The Cure - Disintegration.
A minha desintegração é obra da minha mente. A minha interpretação daquilo que me separa dos outros é feita de suturas irreais.
Poema do dia
Já está na altura de homenagear um dos meus escritores preferidos, mostrando um belíssimo poema.
Edgar Allan Poe
A Dream Within a Dream
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem I
s but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
Edgar Allan Poe
A Dream Within a Dream
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem I
s but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
sábado, 9 de janeiro de 2010
O melhor álbum de 2009
Esta é a minha escolha, obviamente. Oiçam este álbum e esta banda, vale a pena. Também sou suspeita, eu sei, sigo-os desde o primeiro álbum, "Out of Myself" (2004).
Riverside - Anno Domini High Definition
Riverside - Anno Domini High Definition
Poema do Dia
Ana Hatherly
O PAVÃO NEGRO (em O Pavão Negro)
1
O pavão negro da escrita
abre um leque de opções
exibe o luxo
do seu traje-cárcere
Babel silente
no vazio da página
prende o tumulto da voz
fixa o assalto da mão
Última instância rebelde
é jogo
luta
luto
grito calado
sexta-feira, 8 de janeiro de 2010
Poema do dia
Ricardo Reis (Fernando Pessoa)
Prefiro rosas, meu amor, à Pátria
Prefiro rosas, meu amor, à Pátria,
E antes magnólias amo
E antes magnólias amo
Que a glória e a virtude.
Logo que a vida me não canse, deixo
Que a vida por mim passe
Logo que eu fique o mesmo.
Que importa àquele a quem já nada importa
Que um perca e outro vença,
Se a aurora raia sempre,
Se cada ano com a Primavera
As folhas aparecem
E com o Outono cessam?
E o resto, as outras coisas que os humanos
Acrescentam à vida,
Que me aumentam na alma?
Nada, salvo o desejo de infid'rença
E a confiança mole
Na hota fugitiva.
Curiosidades
Sabiam que a maior palavra registada em dicionários não técnicos é pneumoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis?
Ah pois é! E não queiram ter esta doença!
Ah pois é! E não queiram ter esta doença!
quinta-feira, 7 de janeiro de 2010
Poema do dia
Nunca escondi que acho que gosto muito do Peixoto, especialmente quando escreve poesia.
José Luís Peixoto
DESCRIÇÃO DO MARTÍRIO (em A Casa, a Escuridão)
lançam-no no chão e as lâminas. cortam-lhe os braços
e, depois, as pernas. arrancalham-lhe os braços e as pernas
do corpo. sim, o sangue.
deixaram-no sozinho e o corpo. lentamente apodreceu devagar.
a pele e a carne a apodrecerem diante das crianças e da inocência.
a carne podre até aos ossos.
o martírio foi quando ela partiu. ele olhou para ela. e não
conseguiu acenar, não conseguiu dizer palavras impossíveis
como a palavra adeus.
José Luís Peixoto
DESCRIÇÃO DO MARTÍRIO (em A Casa, a Escuridão)
lançam-no no chão e as lâminas. cortam-lhe os braços
e, depois, as pernas. arrancalham-lhe os braços e as pernas
do corpo. sim, o sangue.
deixaram-no sozinho e o corpo. lentamente apodreceu devagar.
a pele e a carne a apodrecerem diante das crianças e da inocência.
a carne podre até aos ossos.
o martírio foi quando ela partiu. ele olhou para ela. e não
conseguiu acenar, não conseguiu dizer palavras impossíveis
como a palavra adeus.
quarta-feira, 6 de janeiro de 2010
Poema do dia
Daphne Marlatt
Seven glass bowls (em The Given)
you remember – what is it you remember?
the feel of home, that moment of coming into your body,
its familiar ache and shift, its little cough of consciousness
resuming (Monday claims). i’m awake. i can’t quite see
your face assume its usual definition. your shoulder rises
like a hill i climb getting on my side of the bed to pad
to the sunroom, lift the blind on a spectral world. one early
dog racing across the park, its breath steaming up through
pallid light, though it isn’t light, not yet. still in bed, you
turn to rise like some revenant, asking what time is it?
you remember – what is it you remember?
the feel of home, that moment of coming into your body,
its familiar ache and shift, its little cough of consciousness
resuming (Monday claims). i’m awake. i can’t quite see
your face assume its usual definition. your shoulder rises
like a hill i climb getting on my side of the bed to pad
to the sunroom, lift the blind on a spectral world. one early
dog racing across the park, its breath steaming up through
pallid light, though it isn’t light, not yet. still in bed, you
turn to rise like some revenant, asking what time is it?
As minhas composições poéticas em inglês: dois exemplos
- i give and take
i give and take the minds
of those who dare
to think outside of heaven.
i give new bones
new skulls
new gestures
of peace.
i take old mirages
old sacrifices
old manifestations
of hate.
i give and take.
- minefield
i’m sleeping in a minefield
forcibly filled with the heads of the past.
and i’m smiling
for my life is vested in somebody else’s ruin.
terça-feira, 5 de janeiro de 2010
Hoje descobri uma das coisas mais fantásticas que já vi sobre o Woodstock. Para amantes do rock and roll e quem se interesse pelo mundo do Woodstock, façam favor de visitar este site, e já agora, só passam música daquele tempo (cool isn't it?):
http://ww1.rtp.pt/radios/online/woodstock/index.php
Free spirit everyone :)
http://ww1.rtp.pt/radios/online/woodstock/index.php
Free spirit everyone :)
Recomendações visuais
Aqui está um óptimo site para encontrar imagens diferentes, normalmente algo "estranhas" se assim lhe quiser chamar, daí o seu interesse.
http://www.obsessionart.com/find.asp?manufacturer_id=Gernot
http://www.obsessionart.com/find.asp?manufacturer_id=Gernot
Poema do dia
Adélia Prado
MEDITAÇÃO DO REI NO MEIO DE SUA TROPA
Só à conta de biógrafos pertencem
os grandes feitos de homens memoráveis.
Biografias são desejs,
ainda as dos malfeitores e as dos santos.
A vida, a pura,
a crua e nua vida
é cascalho,
teatrinho de sombras
que a mão de uma criança faz mover.
Como aves migrando a estações mais quentes
a comando invisível prosseguimos
e perfilados somos até felizes.
MEDITAÇÃO DO REI NO MEIO DE SUA TROPA
Só à conta de biógrafos pertencem
os grandes feitos de homens memoráveis.
Biografias são desejs,
ainda as dos malfeitores e as dos santos.
A vida, a pura,
a crua e nua vida
é cascalho,
teatrinho de sombras
que a mão de uma criança faz mover.
Como aves migrando a estações mais quentes
a comando invisível prosseguimos
e perfilados somos até felizes.
domingo, 3 de janeiro de 2010
Conhecendo outros poetas
Hoje apetece-me continuar a mostrar o que de melhor se faz em termos de poesia por esse mundo fora. E quero dar a conhecer outra escritora que me parece interessante: Sharon Olds. Também me interessa mostrar poetas que possam eventualmente ser desconhecidos, ou pelo menos mais "exóticos", no sentido em que pouco se fala deles.
Sharon Olds
THAT YEAR (em Satan Says)
The year of the mask of blood, my father
hammering on the glass door to get in
was the year they found her body in the hills,
in a shallow grave, naked, white as
mushroom, partially decomposed,
raped, murdered, the girl from the class.
That was the year my mother took us
and hid us so we would not be there
when she told him to leave; so there wasn't another
tying by the wrist to the chair,
or denial of food, not another
forcing of food, the head held back,
down the throat at the restaurant,
the shame of vomited buttermilk
down the sweater with its shame of new breasts.
That was the year
I started to bleed,
crossing over that border in the night,
and in Social Studies, we came at last
to Auschwitz, in my ignorance
I felt as if I recognized it
like my father's face, the face of a guard
turning away - or worse yet
turning toward me.
The symmetrical piles of white bodies,
the round, white breast-shapes of the heaps,
the smell of the smoke, the dogs the wires the
rope the hunger. This had happened to people,
just a few years ago,
in Germany, the guards were Protestants
like my father and me, but in my dreams,
every night, I was one of those
about to be killed. It had happened to six million
Jews, to Jesus's family
I was not in - and not everyone
had died, and there was a word for them
I wanted, in my ignorance,
to share part of, the word survivor.
Sharon Olds
THAT YEAR (em Satan Says)
The year of the mask of blood, my father
hammering on the glass door to get in
was the year they found her body in the hills,
in a shallow grave, naked, white as
mushroom, partially decomposed,
raped, murdered, the girl from the class.
That was the year my mother took us
and hid us so we would not be there
when she told him to leave; so there wasn't another
tying by the wrist to the chair,
or denial of food, not another
forcing of food, the head held back,
down the throat at the restaurant,
the shame of vomited buttermilk
down the sweater with its shame of new breasts.
That was the year
I started to bleed,
crossing over that border in the night,
and in Social Studies, we came at last
to Auschwitz, in my ignorance
I felt as if I recognized it
like my father's face, the face of a guard
turning away - or worse yet
turning toward me.
The symmetrical piles of white bodies,
the round, white breast-shapes of the heaps,
the smell of the smoke, the dogs the wires the
rope the hunger. This had happened to people,
just a few years ago,
in Germany, the guards were Protestants
like my father and me, but in my dreams,
every night, I was one of those
about to be killed. It had happened to six million
Jews, to Jesus's family
I was not in - and not everyone
had died, and there was a word for them
I wanted, in my ignorance,
to share part of, the word survivor.
Foto do dia (o poema é meu)
bit
every moment of my past flashing rapidly through my eyes.
what you see when you’re falling.
all those feelings rushing inside.
my memory in bits and pieces.
everything i broke. everything i wanted.
bring me the clouds
that they might clear
my head
with their peaceful guns.
sábado, 2 de janeiro de 2010
O poeta português que todos esqueceram, outros nem sequer conheceram, mas que eu aqui recordo
A bem da verdade, Tomaz de Figueiredo fez-me escrever. Quando me ofereceram a sua obra poética, imagino que há uns 3 anos ou mais, percebi que a literatura portuguesa tinha mais para oferecer que as papas que nos eram impingidas nas aulas de Português. E fiquei entusiasmada. Não que não tivesse lido outros poetas portugueses de interesse, mas este foi de facto especial. Deixo-vos com um dos meus poemas preferidos de Tomaz de Figueiredo, o escritor português que toda a gente esqueceu.
ANATHEMA SIT
Odeio-te, Poesia, bruxa fria
que me deitaste o olhar, mal que nasci
e que me perseguiste, noite e dia,
ó bruxa fria para quem vivi.
Olha-me bem, fita-me bem, aqui
a retorcer-me em pasmos de agonia.
Maldita a hora em que me dei a ti,
ó bruxa fria! Odeio-te, Poesia!
Maldigo-te, ó engano dos enganos.
que matando me vais, nocturna, aos poucos!
Maldita sejas, bruxa enganadora!
Vai-te, Poesia, engano dos humanos,
Fazedora de Cristos e de loucos!
Fora de mim, ó Poesia! Fora!
ANATHEMA SIT
Odeio-te, Poesia, bruxa fria
que me deitaste o olhar, mal que nasci
e que me perseguiste, noite e dia,
ó bruxa fria para quem vivi.
Olha-me bem, fita-me bem, aqui
a retorcer-me em pasmos de agonia.
Maldita a hora em que me dei a ti,
ó bruxa fria! Odeio-te, Poesia!
Maldigo-te, ó engano dos enganos.
que matando me vais, nocturna, aos poucos!
Maldita sejas, bruxa enganadora!
Vai-te, Poesia, engano dos humanos,
Fazedora de Cristos e de loucos!
Fora de mim, ó Poesia! Fora!
Poema do dia
Luíza Neto Jorge
Venho de dentro, abriu-se a porta...
Venho de dentro, abriu-se a porta:
nem todas as horas do dia e da noite
me darão para olhar de nascente
a poente e pelo meio as ilhas.
Há um jogo de relâmpagos sobre o mundo
de só imaginá-la a luz fulmina-me,
na outra face ainda é sombra
Banhos de sol
nas primeiras areias da manhã
Mansidões na pele e do labirinto só
a convulsa circunvolução do corpo.
Venho de dentro, abriu-se a porta...
Venho de dentro, abriu-se a porta:
nem todas as horas do dia e da noite
me darão para olhar de nascente
a poente e pelo meio as ilhas.
Há um jogo de relâmpagos sobre o mundo
de só imaginá-la a luz fulmina-me,
na outra face ainda é sombra
Banhos de sol
nas primeiras areias da manhã
Mansidões na pele e do labirinto só
a convulsa circunvolução do corpo.
sexta-feira, 1 de janeiro de 2010
Meu primeiro poema do ano
diz
diz que
um beijo não é necessário
também sabes mentir quando é preciso
só te protejo do escuro
diz que
o amor é uma promessa
não deixes que se esmoreça numa certeza – ou fraqueza –
se não recuperar do fracasso
que é olhar para o teu rosto
o resto de ti é um protesto/pretexto
para pecar
mas o teu corpo está blindado
afundado
no céu
diz que
não te arrependes
de me ter transcrito
quando me estava a recompor
de te ter absorvido por completo
diz que
um segundo a amaldiçoar-me
é o suficiente para me invadir
é o suficiente para me transgredir
é verdade que ninguém percebe
o esforço que é preciso
para te desaprender
considerando que os teus olhos são de encaixo
nos meus
diz que
é constrangedor sentirmo-nos culpados – asfixiados –
por querer sorrir com o coração a debater-se
sobre qual será a melhor forma de acordar amanhã
porquê se um beijo é só uma abreviação para rendição
se não te conseguir abraçar
na humilhação de ter que te abandonar
podes ter que me abrir
quando estiver a cair para cima da tua boca
diz que
um beijo não é necessário
também sabes mentir quando é preciso
só te protejo do escuro
diz que
o amor é uma promessa
não deixes que se esmoreça numa certeza – ou fraqueza –
se não recuperar do fracasso
que é olhar para o teu rosto
o resto de ti é um protesto/pretexto
para pecar
mas o teu corpo está blindado
afundado
no céu
diz que
não te arrependes
de me ter transcrito
quando me estava a recompor
de te ter absorvido por completo
diz que
um segundo a amaldiçoar-me
é o suficiente para me invadir
é o suficiente para me transgredir
é verdade que ninguém percebe
o esforço que é preciso
para te desaprender
considerando que os teus olhos são de encaixo
nos meus
diz que
é constrangedor sentirmo-nos culpados – asfixiados –
por querer sorrir com o coração a debater-se
sobre qual será a melhor forma de acordar amanhã
porquê se um beijo é só uma abreviação para rendição
se não te conseguir abraçar
na humilhação de ter que te abandonar
podes ter que me abrir
quando estiver a cair para cima da tua boca
Subscrever:
Mensagens (Atom)