People usually escape from their troubles into the future;they draw an imaginary line across the path of time,
a line beyond which their current troubles will cease to exist.
Milan Kundera "The Unbearable Lightness of Being"
domingo, 28 de fevereiro de 2010
Poema do dia: Two Sisters of Persephone
Sylvia Plath
Two Sisters of Persephone
Two girls there are: within the house
One sits; the other, without.
Daylong a duet of shade and light
Plays between these.
In her dark wainscotted room
The first works problems on
A mathematical machine.
Dry ticks mark time
As she calculates each sum.
At this barren enterprise
Rat-shrewd go her squint eyes,
Root-pale her meagre frame.
Bronzed as earth, the second lies,
Hearing ticks blown gold
Like pollen on bright air. Lulled
Near a bed of poppies,
She sees how their red silk flare
Of petalled blood
Burns open to sun's blade.
On that green altar
Freely become sun's bride, the latter
Grows quick with seed.
Grass-couched in her labour's pride,
She bears a king. Turned bitter
And sallow as any lemon,
The other, wry virgin to the last,
Goes graveward with flesh laid waste,
Worm-husbanded, yet no woman.
Two Sisters of Persephone
Two girls there are: within the house
One sits; the other, without.
Daylong a duet of shade and light
Plays between these.
In her dark wainscotted room
The first works problems on
A mathematical machine.
Dry ticks mark time
As she calculates each sum.
At this barren enterprise
Rat-shrewd go her squint eyes,
Root-pale her meagre frame.
Bronzed as earth, the second lies,
Hearing ticks blown gold
Like pollen on bright air. Lulled
Near a bed of poppies,
She sees how their red silk flare
Of petalled blood
Burns open to sun's blade.
On that green altar
Freely become sun's bride, the latter
Grows quick with seed.
Grass-couched in her labour's pride,
She bears a king. Turned bitter
And sallow as any lemon,
The other, wry virgin to the last,
Goes graveward with flesh laid waste,
Worm-husbanded, yet no woman.
sábado, 27 de fevereiro de 2010
Poema do dia: A Invisibilidade de Deus
Al Berto
A Invisibilidade de Deus
dizem que em sua boca se realiza a flor
outros afirmam:
a sua invisibilidade é aparente
mas nunca toquei deus nesta escama de peixe
onde podemos compreender todos os oceanos
nunca tive a visão de sua bondosa mão
o certo é que por vezes morremos magros até ao osso
sem amparo e sem deus
apenas um rosto muito belo surge etéreo
na vasta insónia que nos isolou do mundo
e sorri
dizendo que nos amou algumas vezes
mas não é o rosto de deus
nem o teu nem aquele outro
que durante anos permaneceu ausente
e o tempo revelou não ser o meu
A Invisibilidade de Deus
dizem que em sua boca se realiza a flor
outros afirmam:
a sua invisibilidade é aparente
mas nunca toquei deus nesta escama de peixe
onde podemos compreender todos os oceanos
nunca tive a visão de sua bondosa mão
o certo é que por vezes morremos magros até ao osso
sem amparo e sem deus
apenas um rosto muito belo surge etéreo
na vasta insónia que nos isolou do mundo
e sorri
dizendo que nos amou algumas vezes
mas não é o rosto de deus
nem o teu nem aquele outro
que durante anos permaneceu ausente
e o tempo revelou não ser o meu
O peso de uma instituição
Haverá banda de metal mais influente?
Podemos falar de Slayer, Metallica, Judas Priest, Black Sabbath, mas dificilmente existirá uma banda que tenha ajudado a criar tanta música nova no espectro do metal como os Iron Maiden. Passados tantos anos, Iron Maiden é agora uma marca, uma tribo, uma instituição. Iron Maiden é heavy metal puro. Sim, é verdade, eu tenho uma bandeira dos Iron Maiden no meu quarto, é o Eddie vestido à soldado britânico, do single The Trooper. E tenho orgulho. Não interessa onde esteja, há sempre mais alguém com uma t-shirt dos Iron Maiden vestida.
Up the Irons!
Emily Dickinson: one poem
Apocalypse
I'm wife; I've finished that,
That other state;
I'm Czar, I'm woman now:
It's safer so.
How odd the girl's life looks
Behind this soft eclipse!
I think that earth seems so
To those in heaven now.
This being comfort, then
That other kind was pain;
But why compare?
I'm wife! stop there!
I'm wife; I've finished that,
That other state;
I'm Czar, I'm woman now:
It's safer so.
How odd the girl's life looks
Behind this soft eclipse!
I think that earth seems so
To those in heaven now.
This being comfort, then
That other kind was pain;
But why compare?
I'm wife! stop there!
terça-feira, 23 de fevereiro de 2010
domingo, 21 de fevereiro de 2010
The Light: Silent Lucidity
Fonte: deviantart
there is no other light like this light
there is no other place
that makes me want to stay
and breathe
alone
and smell the smell
of trees
and taste the taste
of an invisible air
that connects me to the world
there is no-one
that will make me leave
my haven
my shelter
for their sake
there is no better nakedness
than the nakedness we feel
when the water drains us
and eats us away
we see the light
this new crimson light
that comes to us
like an unrequested dream
asking us
to disappear
Conhecer David Mourão-Ferreira: 5 poemas
a) Crepúsculo
É quando um espelho, no quarto,
se enfastia;
quando a noite se destaca
da cortina;
quando a carne tem o travo
da saliva,
e a saliva sabe a carne
dissolvida;
quando a força de vontade
ressuscita;
quando o pé sobre o sapato
se equilibra...
e quando às sete da tarde
morre o dia
- que dentro de nossas almas
se ilumina,
com luz livida, a palavra
despedida.
b) Soneto do cativo
Se é sem dúvida Amor esta explosão
de tantas sensações contraditórias;
a sórdida mistura das memórias
tão longe da verdade e da invenção;
o espelho deformante; a profusão
de frases insensatas, incensórias;
a cúmplice partilha nas histórias
do que outros dirão ou não dirão;
se é sem dúvida Amor a cobardia
de buscar nos lençóis a mais sombria
razão de encantamento e de desprezo;
não há dúvida, Amor, que te não fujo
e que, por ti, tão cego, surdo e sujo,
tenho vivido eternamente preso!
c) E por vezes
E por vezes as noites duram meses
E por vezes os meses oceanos
E por vezes os braços que apertamos
nunca mais são os mesmos E por vezes
encontramos de nós em poucos meses
o que a noite nos fez em muitos anos
E por vezes fingimos que lembramos
E por vezes lembramos que por vezes
ao tomarmos o gosto aos oceanos
só o sarro das noites não dos meses
lá no fundo dos copos encontramos
E por vezes sorrimos ou choramos
E por vezes por vezes ah por vezes
num segundo se evolam tantos anos.
d) Nocturno
Eram, na rua, passos de mulher.
Era o meu coração que os soletrava.
Era, na jarra, além do malmequer,
espectral o espinho de uma rosa brava...
Era, no copo, além do gim, o gelo;
além do gelo, a roda de limão...
Era a mão de ninguém no meu cabelo.
Era a noite mais quente deste verão.
Era no gira-discos, o Martírio
de São Sebastião, de Debussy....
Era, na jarra, de repente, um lirio!
Era a certeza de ficar sem ti.
Era o ladrar dos cães na vizinhança.
Era, na sombra, um choro de criança...
e) Pele
Quem foi que à tua pele conferiu esse papel
de mais que tua pele ser pele da minha pele
É quando um espelho, no quarto,
se enfastia;
quando a noite se destaca
da cortina;
quando a carne tem o travo
da saliva,
e a saliva sabe a carne
dissolvida;
quando a força de vontade
ressuscita;
quando o pé sobre o sapato
se equilibra...
e quando às sete da tarde
morre o dia
- que dentro de nossas almas
se ilumina,
com luz livida, a palavra
despedida.
b) Soneto do cativo
Se é sem dúvida Amor esta explosão
de tantas sensações contraditórias;
a sórdida mistura das memórias
tão longe da verdade e da invenção;
o espelho deformante; a profusão
de frases insensatas, incensórias;
a cúmplice partilha nas histórias
do que outros dirão ou não dirão;
se é sem dúvida Amor a cobardia
de buscar nos lençóis a mais sombria
razão de encantamento e de desprezo;
não há dúvida, Amor, que te não fujo
e que, por ti, tão cego, surdo e sujo,
tenho vivido eternamente preso!
c) E por vezes
E por vezes as noites duram meses
E por vezes os meses oceanos
E por vezes os braços que apertamos
nunca mais são os mesmos E por vezes
encontramos de nós em poucos meses
o que a noite nos fez em muitos anos
E por vezes fingimos que lembramos
E por vezes lembramos que por vezes
ao tomarmos o gosto aos oceanos
só o sarro das noites não dos meses
lá no fundo dos copos encontramos
E por vezes sorrimos ou choramos
E por vezes por vezes ah por vezes
num segundo se evolam tantos anos.
d) Nocturno
Eram, na rua, passos de mulher.
Era o meu coração que os soletrava.
Era, na jarra, além do malmequer,
espectral o espinho de uma rosa brava...
Era, no copo, além do gim, o gelo;
além do gelo, a roda de limão...
Era a mão de ninguém no meu cabelo.
Era a noite mais quente deste verão.
Era no gira-discos, o Martírio
de São Sebastião, de Debussy....
Era, na jarra, de repente, um lirio!
Era a certeza de ficar sem ti.
Era o ladrar dos cães na vizinhança.
Era, na sombra, um choro de criança...
e) Pele
Quem foi que à tua pele conferiu esse papel
de mais que tua pele ser pele da minha pele
Poema do dia
Ruy Belo
Oh as casas as casas as casas
Oh as casas as casas as casas
as casas nascem vivem e morrem
Enquanto vivas distinguem-se umas das outras
distinguem-se designadamente pelo cheiro
variam até de sala pra sala
As casas que eu fazia em pequeno
onde estarei eu hoje em pequeno?
Onde estarei aliás eu dos versos daqui a pouco?
Terei eu casa onde reter tudo isto
ou serei sempre somente esta instabilidade?
As casas essas parecem estáveis
mas são tão frágeis as pobres casas
Oh as casas as casas as casas
mudas testemunhas da vida
elas morrem não só ao ser demolidas
ela morrem com a morte das pessoas
As casas de fora olham-nos pelas janelas
Não sabem nada de casas os construtores
os senhorios os procuradores
Os ricos vivem nos seus palácios
mas a casa dos pobres é todo o mundo
os pobres sim têm o conhecimento das casas
os pobres esses conhecem tudo
Eu amei as casas os recantos das casas
Visitei casas apalpei casas
Só as casas explicam que exista
uma palavra como intimidade
Sem casas não haveria ruas
as ruas onde passamos pelos outros
mas passamos principalmente por nós
Na casa nasci e hei-de morrer
na casa sofri convivi amei
na casa atravessei as estações
respirei - ó vida simples problema de respiração
Oh as casas as casas as casas
Oh as casas as casas as casas
Oh as casas as casas as casas
as casas nascem vivem e morrem
Enquanto vivas distinguem-se umas das outras
distinguem-se designadamente pelo cheiro
variam até de sala pra sala
As casas que eu fazia em pequeno
onde estarei eu hoje em pequeno?
Onde estarei aliás eu dos versos daqui a pouco?
Terei eu casa onde reter tudo isto
ou serei sempre somente esta instabilidade?
As casas essas parecem estáveis
mas são tão frágeis as pobres casas
Oh as casas as casas as casas
mudas testemunhas da vida
elas morrem não só ao ser demolidas
ela morrem com a morte das pessoas
As casas de fora olham-nos pelas janelas
Não sabem nada de casas os construtores
os senhorios os procuradores
Os ricos vivem nos seus palácios
mas a casa dos pobres é todo o mundo
os pobres sim têm o conhecimento das casas
os pobres esses conhecem tudo
Eu amei as casas os recantos das casas
Visitei casas apalpei casas
Só as casas explicam que exista
uma palavra como intimidade
Sem casas não haveria ruas
as ruas onde passamos pelos outros
mas passamos principalmente por nós
Na casa nasci e hei-de morrer
na casa sofri convivi amei
na casa atravessei as estações
respirei - ó vida simples problema de respiração
Oh as casas as casas as casas
Citação do dia
The Unbearable Lightness of Being - Milan Kundera
The thing that gives our every move its meaning is always totally unknown to us.
The thing that gives our every move its meaning is always totally unknown to us.
sábado, 20 de fevereiro de 2010
Poema do dia
É de um poeta contemporâneo que gosto muito. Comecei a lê-lo quando ia à procura de poesia na biblioteca da Faculdade de Letras, vá-se lá saber porquê...
António Ramos Rosa (em Intacta Ferida)
Não tenho lágrimas
estou mais baixo
junto à cal
Vejo o solo extinto
Não oiço ninguém
e não regresso
Adormecer talvez
junto a uma estaca
com uma pequena pedra
sobre as pálpebras
António Ramos Rosa (em Intacta Ferida)
Não tenho lágrimas
estou mais baixo
junto à cal
Vejo o solo extinto
Não oiço ninguém
e não regresso
Adormecer talvez
junto a uma estaca
com uma pequena pedra
sobre as pálpebras
Recomendações musicais: Symphony X - The Odyssey
O heavy metal é provavelmente o género musical (que comporta outros sub-géneros) mais subvalorizado do mundo. Muito já se escreveu sobre as ligações entre o metal e a literatura, que para mim são muito interessantes e estimulantes. Na verdade, o metal bebe muitos das composições literárias, há vários exemplos de diálogos intertextuais e intersemióticos entre música, literatura, palavras e melodias. Não se deve subestimar o poder que a música tem de acrescentar significados a uma obra literária. Nem se pode esquecer que o metal tem muito de poético, de outsider, contra sistema, de iconoclasta. O tom reflexivo, agressivo, contemplativo que encontramos em muitas obras literárias, também encontramos em muitos álbuns de metal, e em todos os seus sub-géneros, sem distinção. Apraz-me também dizer que venero muitos desses álbuns, muitos deles incompreendidos, ignorados, deixados num canto, como tanta literatura afinal. Vale a pena deixar um exemplo do que estou a falar, certamente se recordarão de uma tal Odisseia de um tal Homero, grego por sinal, qual poesia incessante. Pois bem, há uma banda estado-unidense que se atreveu a compor uma versão musical, épica, deste longo poema, que não fica nada atrás do seu ponto de partida em termos de talento e extensão, porque não dizê-lo. Vale a pena ouvir, metal progressivo no seu melhor. Das ligações entre a música clássica e a música progressiva, seja rock ou metal progressivo, falarei mais tarde, mas irão também encontrá-las neste álbum, decididamente.
Symphony X - The Odyssey
Knowing E. J. Scovell: two poems
a) Child Walking (1956)
This child sleeps in the daytime,
With his abandoned, with his jetsam look,
On the bare mattress, across the cot's corner;
Covers and toys thrown out, a routine labour.
Relaxed in sleep and light,
Face upwards, never so clear a prey to eyes;
Like a walled town surprised out of the air -
All life called in, yet all laid bare
To the enemy above -
He has taken cover in daylight, gone to ground
In his own short length, his body strong in bleached
Blue cotton and his arms outstretched.
Now he opens eyes but not
to see at first; they reflect the light like snow,
And I wait in doubt if he sleeps or wakes, till I see
Slight pain of effort at the boundary
And hear how the trifling wound
Of bewilderment fetches a caverned cry
As he crosses out of sleep - at once to recover
His place and poise, and smile as I lift him over.
But I recall the blue-
White snowfield of his eyes empty of sight
High between dream and day, and think how there
The soul might rise visible as a flower.
b) The Space Between (1982)
From this high window best, you see the briar rose
In its short flowering - how the yellow one has spread
Rangy above the white on the deep-sea garden bed;
As clouds lie over clouds in archipelagos,
But small as petals on the grass, under the wing
Of the soaring plane. And are they clouds or can they be
Those deepest down, foam flecks or mountain waves of sea?
Our eyes are dazed by nature's see-through curtaining,
Layer upon layer stretched, woven to all degrees
Of part-transparency: the rose, knotted like lace
To a star pattern, thins between to stellar space.
Through eyes before they learn level the galaxies,
It is not the flowers' selves only, webbed in their skies of green,
It is depth they grand to sight; it is the space between.
This child sleeps in the daytime,
With his abandoned, with his jetsam look,
On the bare mattress, across the cot's corner;
Covers and toys thrown out, a routine labour.
Relaxed in sleep and light,
Face upwards, never so clear a prey to eyes;
Like a walled town surprised out of the air -
All life called in, yet all laid bare
To the enemy above -
He has taken cover in daylight, gone to ground
In his own short length, his body strong in bleached
Blue cotton and his arms outstretched.
Now he opens eyes but not
to see at first; they reflect the light like snow,
And I wait in doubt if he sleeps or wakes, till I see
Slight pain of effort at the boundary
And hear how the trifling wound
Of bewilderment fetches a caverned cry
As he crosses out of sleep - at once to recover
His place and poise, and smile as I lift him over.
But I recall the blue-
White snowfield of his eyes empty of sight
High between dream and day, and think how there
The soul might rise visible as a flower.
b) The Space Between (1982)
From this high window best, you see the briar rose
In its short flowering - how the yellow one has spread
Rangy above the white on the deep-sea garden bed;
As clouds lie over clouds in archipelagos,
But small as petals on the grass, under the wing
Of the soaring plane. And are they clouds or can they be
Those deepest down, foam flecks or mountain waves of sea?
Our eyes are dazed by nature's see-through curtaining,
Layer upon layer stretched, woven to all degrees
Of part-transparency: the rose, knotted like lace
To a star pattern, thins between to stellar space.
Through eyes before they learn level the galaxies,
It is not the flowers' selves only, webbed in their skies of green,
It is depth they grand to sight; it is the space between.
quarta-feira, 17 de fevereiro de 2010
terça-feira, 16 de fevereiro de 2010
Charles Baudelaire
Charles Baudelaire, traduzido por Maria Gabriela Llansol
LXXXII (em As Flores do Mal)
UM MAL FASCINANTE
Diz-me Libertino
Nessas olheiras estranhas
Atormentadas pelo destino
Que pensamentos acalentas no coração vazio?
Um gosto insaciável pelo obscuro e pelo incerto Certamente
Não me queixo como Ovídio
De ter perdido o paraíso
Pelo contrário
É nos teus céus rasgados como falésias
Que meu orgulho se contempla
Aquelas nuvens imensas
Estão de luto por meus sonhos lixados
O luar libidinal que te passa pelos olhos
São reflexos de inferno
No meu coração realizado
LXXXII (em As Flores do Mal)
UM MAL FASCINANTE
Diz-me Libertino
Nessas olheiras estranhas
Atormentadas pelo destino
Que pensamentos acalentas no coração vazio?
Um gosto insaciável pelo obscuro e pelo incerto Certamente
Não me queixo como Ovídio
De ter perdido o paraíso
Pelo contrário
É nos teus céus rasgados como falésias
Que meu orgulho se contempla
Aquelas nuvens imensas
Estão de luto por meus sonhos lixados
O luar libidinal que te passa pelos olhos
São reflexos de inferno
No meu coração realizado
banda do mês: Dark Tranquillity
Apetece-me homenagear as minhas bandas preferidas. Esta até é uma boa altura porque os Dark Tranquillity estão prestes a lançar um novo álbum, o muito aguardado "We Are The Void".
Artwork for you. Skydancer, Projector, Haven, The Gallery, The Mind's I, Fiction, Character, We are the Void, Damage Done. Os meus preferidos são o Fiction, o Character, o The Gallery e o Projector e o Damage Done, mas recomendo todos porque esta banda sueca é uma marca de qualidade. Em relação ao novo, é esperar pelo original e depois de certeza que vou postar uma mensagem sobre esse álbum, talvez seja o álbum do próximo mês, caso corresponda às minhas expectativas.
Forward Prize Winners: Wicki Feaver 1993
Vicki Feaver
Judith
Wondering how a good woman can murder
I enter the tent of Holofernes,
holding in one hand his long oiled hair
and in the other, raised above
his sleeping, wine flushed face,
his falchion with its unsheathed
curved blade. And I feel a rush
of tenderness, a longing
to put down my weapon, to lie
sheltered and safe in a warrior's
fumy sweat, under the emerald stars
of his purple and gold canopy,
to melt like a sweet on his tongue
to nothing. And I remember the glare
of the barley field; my husband
pushing away the sponge I pressed
to his burning head; the stubble
puncturing my feet as I ean,
flinging myself on a body
that was already cooling
and stiffening; and the nights
when I lay on the roof - my emptiness
like the emptiness of a temple
with the doors kicked in; and the mornings
when I rolled in the ash of the fire
just to be touched and dirtied
by something. And I bring my blade
down on his neck - and it's easy
like slicing through fish.
And I bring it down again,
cleaving the bone.
Judith
Wondering how a good woman can murder
I enter the tent of Holofernes,
holding in one hand his long oiled hair
and in the other, raised above
his sleeping, wine flushed face,
his falchion with its unsheathed
curved blade. And I feel a rush
of tenderness, a longing
to put down my weapon, to lie
sheltered and safe in a warrior's
fumy sweat, under the emerald stars
of his purple and gold canopy,
to melt like a sweet on his tongue
to nothing. And I remember the glare
of the barley field; my husband
pushing away the sponge I pressed
to his burning head; the stubble
puncturing my feet as I ean,
flinging myself on a body
that was already cooling
and stiffening; and the nights
when I lay on the roof - my emptiness
like the emptiness of a temple
with the doors kicked in; and the mornings
when I rolled in the ash of the fire
just to be touched and dirtied
by something. And I bring my blade
down on his neck - and it's easy
like slicing through fish.
And I bring it down again,
cleaving the bone.
Poema do dia
Fernando Ribeiro
War ensemble (em Diálogo de Vultos)
(Slayer)
Virá o tempo de amanhecer
Brricado outra vez pela distância
Das línguas de ferro
Atravessando a luz dos corpos nus.
Estilhaços de chuva,
Trilho luminoso,
Poeira de cinza,
Secura da terra.
Sim, virá o tempo de renascer:
Estrela de David rolando cortante sobre cabeças;
Luz crescente explodindo em corpos;
Cruz ceifadora da raiz da vida.
Homem
Centro
Universo
Voragem
Coragem:
Virá
O tempo
De renascer.
Paz:
Flores anónimas brotam das órbitas dos mortos não recolhidos
Crianças sem pele revoltas em anjo correndo
Como brinquedos partidos nas ruas primaveris.
A palidez do sol fundindo as peças deste quebra-cabeças animal.
Solene:
Este é o tempo dos homens,
Aconteceu tudo há muito tempo,
Aconteceu tudo mesmo agora.
Esta é a sua música,
Um requiem tocado
Por entre as ruínas do coração podre do mundo.
War ensemble (em Diálogo de Vultos)
(Slayer)
Virá o tempo de amanhecer
Brricado outra vez pela distância
Das línguas de ferro
Atravessando a luz dos corpos nus.
Estilhaços de chuva,
Trilho luminoso,
Poeira de cinza,
Secura da terra.
Sim, virá o tempo de renascer:
Estrela de David rolando cortante sobre cabeças;
Luz crescente explodindo em corpos;
Cruz ceifadora da raiz da vida.
Homem
Centro
Universo
Voragem
Coragem:
Virá
O tempo
De renascer.
Paz:
Flores anónimas brotam das órbitas dos mortos não recolhidos
Crianças sem pele revoltas em anjo correndo
Como brinquedos partidos nas ruas primaveris.
A palidez do sol fundindo as peças deste quebra-cabeças animal.
Solene:
Este é o tempo dos homens,
Aconteceu tudo há muito tempo,
Aconteceu tudo mesmo agora.
Esta é a sua música,
Um requiem tocado
Por entre as ruínas do coração podre do mundo.
segunda-feira, 15 de fevereiro de 2010
domingo, 14 de fevereiro de 2010
Poema do dia
Lynzi Berner
Trophies of a Broken Mind
I fear you
but it's not hard
to imagine
such evil
in the world
such
horrible
and
nightmarish
things
that plague
this world
Monsters
disguised
as humans
Humans
disguised
as human
Evil
in hellos
stealing
their goodbyes
playing
god
and
satan
to a world
that thrives
on fear
the human
mind
capable
of such
horrors
that we
pretend
shock
and
surprise us
while we
try not
to think
about
how we
have
thought
about them
the neverending
cycle
new generations
of evil
born daily
fraudulent
innocence
leaving
footprints
like
breadcrumbs
on the doorsteps
of those
whos life
gets
invaded
with the
sickness
of those
wolves
in sheeps'
clothing
teasing
taunting
the naivity
of others
waiting
to horrify
and show
their evil
off
like
a trophy
for having
a broken mind
Do not
be deceived
everyone
has the
power
to be
truly
evil
but
do you
have the
strength of will
to control it
or
do you
wait
for the
perfect
moment
to unleash
your
disease
like
an infection
that will
consume some
and
drive
others
insane
Trophies of a Broken Mind
I fear you
but it's not hard
to imagine
such evil
in the world
such
horrible
and
nightmarish
things
that plague
this world
Monsters
disguised
as humans
Humans
disguised
as human
Evil
in hellos
stealing
their goodbyes
playing
god
and
satan
to a world
that thrives
on fear
the human
mind
capable
of such
horrors
that we
pretend
shock
and
surprise us
while we
try not
to think
about
how we
have
thought
about them
the neverending
cycle
new generations
of evil
born daily
fraudulent
innocence
leaving
footprints
like
breadcrumbs
on the doorsteps
of those
whos life
gets
invaded
with the
sickness
of those
wolves
in sheeps'
clothing
teasing
taunting
the naivity
of others
waiting
to horrify
and show
their evil
off
like
a trophy
for having
a broken mind
Do not
be deceived
everyone
has the
power
to be
truly
evil
but
do you
have the
strength of will
to control it
or
do you
wait
for the
perfect
moment
to unleash
your
disease
like
an infection
that will
consume some
and
drive
others
insane
sábado, 13 de fevereiro de 2010
Forward Prize Winners: Ian Duhig 2001
IAN DUHIG
The Lammas Hireling
After the fair, I'd still a light heart
and a heavy purse, he struck so cheap.
And cattle doted on him: in his time
mine only dropped heifers, fat as cream.
Yields doubled. I grew fond of company
that knew when to shut up. Then one night,
disturbed from dreams of my dear late wife,
I hunted down her torn voice to his pale form.
Stock-still in the light from the dark lantern,
stark-naked but for one bloody boot of fox-trap,
I knew him a warlock, a cow with leather horns.
To go into the hare gets you muckle sorrow,
the wisdom runs, muckle care. I levelled
and blew the small hour through his heart.
The moon came out. By its yellow witness
I saw him fur over like a stone mossing.
His lovely head thinned. His top lip gathered.
His eyes rose like bread. I carried him
in a sack that grew lighter at every step
and dropped him from a bridge. There was no
splash. Now my herd's elf-shot. I don't dream
but spend my nights casting ball from half-crowns
and my days here. Bless me Father for I have sinned.
It has been an hour since my last confession.
The Lammas Hireling
After the fair, I'd still a light heart
and a heavy purse, he struck so cheap.
And cattle doted on him: in his time
mine only dropped heifers, fat as cream.
Yields doubled. I grew fond of company
that knew when to shut up. Then one night,
disturbed from dreams of my dear late wife,
I hunted down her torn voice to his pale form.
Stock-still in the light from the dark lantern,
stark-naked but for one bloody boot of fox-trap,
I knew him a warlock, a cow with leather horns.
To go into the hare gets you muckle sorrow,
the wisdom runs, muckle care. I levelled
and blew the small hour through his heart.
The moon came out. By its yellow witness
I saw him fur over like a stone mossing.
His lovely head thinned. His top lip gathered.
His eyes rose like bread. I carried him
in a sack that grew lighter at every step
and dropped him from a bridge. There was no
splash. Now my herd's elf-shot. I don't dream
but spend my nights casting ball from half-crowns
and my days here. Bless me Father for I have sinned.
It has been an hour since my last confession.
Forward Prize Winners: Daljit Nagra 2004
Daljit Nagra
Look we have coming to Dover!
So various, so beautiful, so new - Matthew Arnold, "Dover Beach"
Stowed in the sea to invade
the lash alfresco of a diesel-breeze
ratcheting speed into the tide with the brunt
gobfuls of surf phlegmed by cushy,
come-and-go tourists prow'd on the cruisers, lording the waves.
Seagull and shoal life bletching
vexed blarnies at our camouflage past
the vast crumble of scummed cliffs.
Thunder in its bluster unbladdering yobbish
rain and wind on our escape, hutched in a Bedford can.
Seasons or years we reap
inland, unclocked by the national eye
or a stab in the back, teemed for breathing
sweeps of grass through the whistling asthma
of parks, burdened, hushed, poling sparks across pylon and pylon.
Swarms of us, grafting
in the black within shot of the moon's spotlight,
banking on the miracle of sun to span
its rainbow, passport us to life. Only then
can it be human to bare-faced, hoick ourselves for the clear.
Imagine my love and I,
and our sundry others, blared in the cash
of our beeswax'd cars, our crash clothes,
free, as we sip from an unparasol'd table
babbling our lingoes, flecked by the chalk of Britannia.
Look we have coming to Dover!
So various, so beautiful, so new - Matthew Arnold, "Dover Beach"
Stowed in the sea to invade
the lash alfresco of a diesel-breeze
ratcheting speed into the tide with the brunt
gobfuls of surf phlegmed by cushy,
come-and-go tourists prow'd on the cruisers, lording the waves.
Seagull and shoal life bletching
vexed blarnies at our camouflage past
the vast crumble of scummed cliffs.
Thunder in its bluster unbladdering yobbish
rain and wind on our escape, hutched in a Bedford can.
Seasons or years we reap
inland, unclocked by the national eye
or a stab in the back, teemed for breathing
sweeps of grass through the whistling asthma
of parks, burdened, hushed, poling sparks across pylon and pylon.
Swarms of us, grafting
in the black within shot of the moon's spotlight,
banking on the miracle of sun to span
its rainbow, passport us to life. Only then
can it be human to bare-faced, hoick ourselves for the clear.
Imagine my love and I,
and our sundry others, blared in the cash
of our beeswax'd cars, our crash clothes,
free, as we sip from an unparasol'd table
babbling our lingoes, flecked by the chalk of Britannia.
Conhecer Natália Correia: 3 poemas
Natália Correia
a) O Livro dos Amantes I
Glorifiquei-te no eterno.
Eterno dentro de mim
fora de mim perecível.
Para que desses um sentido
a uma sede indefinível.
Para que desses um nome
à exactidão do instante
do fruto que cai na terra
sempre perpendicularà humidade onde fica.
E o que acontece durante
na rapidez da descida
é a explicação da vida.
b) Livro dos Amantes II
Harmonioso vulto que em mim se dilui.
Tu és o poema
e és a origem donde ele flui.
Intuito de ter. Intuito de amor
não compreendido.
Fica assim amor. Fica assim intuito.
Prometido.
c) Livros dos Amantes IX
Pusemos tanto azul nessa distância
ancorada em incerta claridade
e ficamos nas paredes do vento
a escorrer para tudo o que ele invade.
Pusemos tantas flores nas horas breves
que secam folhas nas árvores dos dedos.
E ficámos cingidos nas estátuas
a morder-nos na carne dum segredo.
a) O Livro dos Amantes I
Glorifiquei-te no eterno.
Eterno dentro de mim
fora de mim perecível.
Para que desses um sentido
a uma sede indefinível.
Para que desses um nome
à exactidão do instante
do fruto que cai na terra
sempre perpendicularà humidade onde fica.
E o que acontece durante
na rapidez da descida
é a explicação da vida.
b) Livro dos Amantes II
Harmonioso vulto que em mim se dilui.
Tu és o poema
e és a origem donde ele flui.
Intuito de ter. Intuito de amor
não compreendido.
Fica assim amor. Fica assim intuito.
Prometido.
c) Livros dos Amantes IX
Pusemos tanto azul nessa distância
ancorada em incerta claridade
e ficamos nas paredes do vento
a escorrer para tudo o que ele invade.
Pusemos tantas flores nas horas breves
que secam folhas nas árvores dos dedos.
E ficámos cingidos nas estátuas
a morder-nos na carne dum segredo.
domingo, 7 de fevereiro de 2010
Forward Prize Winners: Paul Farley 2005
Paul Farley
Liverpool Disappears for a Billionth of a Second
Shorter than the blink inside a blink
the National Grid will sometimes make, when you'll
turn to a room and say: Was that just me?
People sitting down for dinner don't feel
their chairs taken away/put back again
much faster than that trick with tablecloths.
A train entering the Olive Mount cuttings
hudders, but not a single passenger
complains when it pulls in almost on time.
The birds feel it, though, and if you see
starlings in shoal, seagulls abandoning
cathedral ledges, or a mob of pigeons
lifting from a square as at gunfire,
be warned, it may be happening, but then
those sensitive to bat-squeak in the backs
of necks, who claim to hear the distant roar
of comets on the turn - these may well smile
at a world restored, in one piece; though each place
where mineral Liverpool goes wouldn't believe
what hit it: all that sandstone out to sea
or meshed into the quarters of Cologne.
I've felt it a few times when I've gone home,
if anything, more often now I'm old,
and the gaps between get shorter all the time.
Liverpool Disappears for a Billionth of a Second
Shorter than the blink inside a blink
the National Grid will sometimes make, when you'll
turn to a room and say: Was that just me?
People sitting down for dinner don't feel
their chairs taken away/put back again
much faster than that trick with tablecloths.
A train entering the Olive Mount cuttings
hudders, but not a single passenger
complains when it pulls in almost on time.
The birds feel it, though, and if you see
starlings in shoal, seagulls abandoning
cathedral ledges, or a mob of pigeons
lifting from a square as at gunfire,
be warned, it may be happening, but then
those sensitive to bat-squeak in the backs
of necks, who claim to hear the distant roar
of comets on the turn - these may well smile
at a world restored, in one piece; though each place
where mineral Liverpool goes wouldn't believe
what hit it: all that sandstone out to sea
or meshed into the quarters of Cologne.
I've felt it a few times when I've gone home,
if anything, more often now I'm old,
and the gaps between get shorter all the time.
Forward Prize Winners: Sean O'Brien 2006
Sean O'Brien
Fantasia on a Theme of James Wright
There are miners still
In the underground rivers
Of West Moor and Palmersville.
There are guttering cap-lamps bound up in the roots
Where the coal is beginning again.
They are sinking slowly further
In between the shiftless seams,
To black pools in the bed of the world.
In their long home the miners are labouring still -
Gargling dust, going down in good order,
Their black-braided banners aloft,
Into flooding and firedamp, there to inherit
Once more the tiny corridors of the immense estate
They line with prints of Hedley's Coming Home.
We hardly hear of them.
There are the faint reports of spent economies,
Explosions in the ocean floor,
The thud of iron doors sealed once for all
On prayers and lamentation,
On pragmatism and the long noyade
Of a class which dreamed itself
Immortalized by want if nothing else.
The singing of the dead inside the earth
Is like the friction of great stones, or like the rush
Of water into newly opened darkness. Oh my brothers,
The living will never persuade them
That matters are otherwise, history done.
Fantasia on a Theme of James Wright
There are miners still
In the underground rivers
Of West Moor and Palmersville.
There are guttering cap-lamps bound up in the roots
Where the coal is beginning again.
They are sinking slowly further
In between the shiftless seams,
To black pools in the bed of the world.
In their long home the miners are labouring still -
Gargling dust, going down in good order,
Their black-braided banners aloft,
Into flooding and firedamp, there to inherit
Once more the tiny corridors of the immense estate
They line with prints of Hedley's Coming Home.
We hardly hear of them.
There are the faint reports of spent economies,
Explosions in the ocean floor,
The thud of iron doors sealed once for all
On prayers and lamentation,
On pragmatism and the long noyade
Of a class which dreamed itself
Immortalized by want if nothing else.
The singing of the dead inside the earth
Is like the friction of great stones, or like the rush
Of water into newly opened darkness. Oh my brothers,
The living will never persuade them
That matters are otherwise, history done.
Family Ties
I know I never tell them, but I love my family dearly, they let me love the music I love, they don't judge me by the way I look or by the statements I might wanna make, they know what they know.
Poema do dia
Este poema ganhou o prémio de melhor poema individual no Forward Prize de 2009, por essa razão, parece-me uma boa escolha para poema do dia. Ao longo dos próximos tempos mostrarei outros poemas que venceram este prémio em edições anteriores numa "rubrica" que intitularei de "Forward Prize winners".
Robin Robinson
At Roane Head
for John Burnside
You’d know her house by the drawn blinds –
by the cormorants pitched on the boundary wall,
the black crosses of their wings hung out to dry.
You’d tell it by the quicken and the pine that hid it
from the sea and from the brief light of the sun,
and by Aonghas the collie, lying at the door
where he died: a rack of bones like a sprung trap.
A fork of barnacle geese came over, with that slow
Robin Robinson
At Roane Head
for John Burnside
You’d know her house by the drawn blinds –
by the cormorants pitched on the boundary wall,
the black crosses of their wings hung out to dry.
You’d tell it by the quicken and the pine that hid it
from the sea and from the brief light of the sun,
and by Aonghas the collie, lying at the door
where he died: a rack of bones like a sprung trap.
A fork of barnacle geese came over, with that slow
squeak of rusty saws. The bitter sea’s complaining pull
and roll; a whicker of pigeons, lifting in the wood.
She’d had four sons, I knew that well enough,
and each one wrong. All born blind, they say,
slack-jawed and simple, web-footed,
rickety as sticks. Beautiful faces, I’m told,
though blank as air.
Someone saw them once, outside, hirpling
down to the shore, chittering like rats,
and said they were fine swimmers,
but I would have guessed at that.
Her husband left her: said
they couldn’t be his, they were more
fish than human;
he said they were beglamoured,
and searched their skin for the showing marks.
For years she tended each difficult flame:
their tight, flickering bodies.
Each night she closed
the scales of their eyes to smoor the fire.
Until he came again,
that last time,
thick with drink, saying
he’d had enough of this,
all this witchery,
and made them stand
in a row by their beds,
twitching. Their hands
flapped; herring-eyes
rolled in their heads.
He went along the line
relaxing them
one after another
with a small knife.
They say she goes out every night to lay
blankets on the graves to keep them warm.
It would put the heart across you, all that grief.
There was an otter worrying in the leaves, a heron
loping slow over the water when I came
at scraich of day, back to her door.
She’d hung four stones in a necklace, wore
four rings on the hand that led me past the room
with four small candles burning
which she called ‘the room of rain’.
Milky smoke poured up from the grate
like a waterfall in reverse
and she said my name,
and it was the only thing
and the last thing that she said.
She gave me a skylark’s egg in a bed of frost;
gave me twists of my four sons’ hair; gave me
her husband’s head in a wooden box.
Then she gave me the sealskin, and I put it on.
and roll; a whicker of pigeons, lifting in the wood.
She’d had four sons, I knew that well enough,
and each one wrong. All born blind, they say,
slack-jawed and simple, web-footed,
rickety as sticks. Beautiful faces, I’m told,
though blank as air.
Someone saw them once, outside, hirpling
down to the shore, chittering like rats,
and said they were fine swimmers,
but I would have guessed at that.
Her husband left her: said
they couldn’t be his, they were more
fish than human;
he said they were beglamoured,
and searched their skin for the showing marks.
For years she tended each difficult flame:
their tight, flickering bodies.
Each night she closed
the scales of their eyes to smoor the fire.
Until he came again,
that last time,
thick with drink, saying
he’d had enough of this,
all this witchery,
and made them stand
in a row by their beds,
twitching. Their hands
flapped; herring-eyes
rolled in their heads.
He went along the line
relaxing them
one after another
with a small knife.
They say she goes out every night to lay
blankets on the graves to keep them warm.
It would put the heart across you, all that grief.
There was an otter worrying in the leaves, a heron
loping slow over the water when I came
at scraich of day, back to her door.
She’d hung four stones in a necklace, wore
four rings on the hand that led me past the room
with four small candles burning
which she called ‘the room of rain’.
Milky smoke poured up from the grate
like a waterfall in reverse
and she said my name,
and it was the only thing
and the last thing that she said.
She gave me a skylark’s egg in a bed of frost;
gave me twists of my four sons’ hair; gave me
her husband’s head in a wooden box.
Then she gave me the sealskin, and I put it on.
Knowing Elizabeth Daryush: two poems
Elizabeth Daryush
a) 'You should at times go out...' (1934)
You should at times go out
from where the faithful kneel,
visit the slums of doubt
and feel what the lost feel;
you should at times walk on,
away from your friends' ways,
go where the scorned have gone,
pass beyond the blame and praise;
and at times you should quit
(at yes) your sunny home,
sadly awhile should sit,
even, in wrong's dark room,
or ever, suddenly
by simple bliss betrayed,
you shall be forced to flee,
unloved, alone, afraid.
b) 'Children of wealth in your warm nursery...' (1938)
Children of wealth in your warm nursery,
Set in the cushioned window-seat to watch
The volleying snow, guarded invisibly
By the clear double pane through which no touch
Ultimately penetrates, you cannot tell
What winter means; its cruel truths to you
Are only sound and sight; your citadel
Is safe from feeling, and from knowledge too.
Go down, go out to elemental wrong,
Waste your too round limbs, tan your skin too white;
The glass of comfort, ignorance, seems strong
Today, and yet perhaps this very night
You'll wake to horror's wrecking fire - your home
Is wired within for this, in every room.
a) 'You should at times go out...' (1934)
You should at times go out
from where the faithful kneel,
visit the slums of doubt
and feel what the lost feel;
you should at times walk on,
away from your friends' ways,
go where the scorned have gone,
pass beyond the blame and praise;
and at times you should quit
(at yes) your sunny home,
sadly awhile should sit,
even, in wrong's dark room,
or ever, suddenly
by simple bliss betrayed,
you shall be forced to flee,
unloved, alone, afraid.
b) 'Children of wealth in your warm nursery...' (1938)
Children of wealth in your warm nursery,
Set in the cushioned window-seat to watch
The volleying snow, guarded invisibly
By the clear double pane through which no touch
Ultimately penetrates, you cannot tell
What winter means; its cruel truths to you
Are only sound and sight; your citadel
Is safe from feeling, and from knowledge too.
Go down, go out to elemental wrong,
Waste your too round limbs, tan your skin too white;
The glass of comfort, ignorance, seems strong
Today, and yet perhaps this very night
You'll wake to horror's wrecking fire - your home
Is wired within for this, in every room.
sábado, 6 de fevereiro de 2010
Poema novo
a erosão do fumo
o vento
pode ter o encanto de um necrotério
é como a brisa nocturna que vem do tejo
pegar-se a mim
por entre o fumo
que se vê
na palidez
de um mar de destroços
detritos
restos
que ajudam a construir o silêncio
e a aumentar a distância – intervalo de separação
entre o corpo e a mente reflectora
o fumo
é como uma lâmpada que se acende
uma corporalidade de luz – densidade
é um edifício que se sobe
nas horas de fraqueza
nas horas de certeza
vale mais a pena
esticar-me na terra
quando o fumo
me entra pelos olhos
na erosão
há sempre um preço a pagar
na hora da deterioração
vale mais a pena
pulverizar-me
pelos fragmentos de pó
falsificar-me assim
salvar-me-á
quando o céu se abrir
o vento
pode ter o encanto de um necrotério
é como a brisa nocturna que vem do tejo
pegar-se a mim
por entre o fumo
que se vê
na palidez
de um mar de destroços
detritos
restos
que ajudam a construir o silêncio
e a aumentar a distância – intervalo de separação
entre o corpo e a mente reflectora
o fumo
é como uma lâmpada que se acende
uma corporalidade de luz – densidade
é um edifício que se sobe
nas horas de fraqueza
nas horas de certeza
vale mais a pena
esticar-me na terra
quando o fumo
me entra pelos olhos
na erosão
há sempre um preço a pagar
na hora da deterioração
vale mais a pena
pulverizar-me
pelos fragmentos de pó
falsificar-me assim
salvar-me-á
quando o céu se abrir
Poema do dia
Denise Levertov
Terror (1960)
Face-down; odor
of dusty carpet. the grip
of anguished stillness.
Then your naked voice, your
head knocking the wall, sideways,
the beating of trapped thoughts against iron.
If I remember, how is it
my face shows
barely a line? Am I
a monster, to sing
in the wind on this sunny hill
and not taste the dust always,
and not hear
that rending, that retching?
How did morning come, and the days
that followed, and quiet nights?
Terror (1960)
Face-down; odor
of dusty carpet. the grip
of anguished stillness.
Then your naked voice, your
head knocking the wall, sideways,
the beating of trapped thoughts against iron.
If I remember, how is it
my face shows
barely a line? Am I
a monster, to sing
in the wind on this sunny hill
and not taste the dust always,
and not hear
that rending, that retching?
How did morning come, and the days
that followed, and quiet nights?
quinta-feira, 4 de fevereiro de 2010
Odd Title Prize: Título mais estranho
Vejam a lista, prometo que será divertido. E não, não morri, regresso em breve.
http://www.thebookseller.com/news/111542-record-number-of-submissions-for-the-2009-odd-title-prize.html
http://www.thebookseller.com/news/111542-record-number-of-submissions-for-the-2009-odd-title-prize.html
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