Pintura

Look what they've taken from me

Quadro: Edward Munch - O Grito

Graves We Filled Before the Fire

Gabrielle Calvocoressi

Graves We Filled Before the Fire

Some lose children in lonelier ways:
tetanus, hard falls, stubborn fevers

that soak the bedclothes five nights running.
Our two boys went out to skate, broke

through the ice like battleships, came back
to us in canvas bags: curled

fossils held fast in ancient stone,
four hands reaching. Then two

sad beds wide enough for planting
wheat or summer-squash but filled

with boys, a barren crop. Our lives
stripped clean as oxen bones.

Note to Self

Note to Self: give more

Poema + imagem

the sea it whispers

sings songs of chaos

and erases the past

Poem of the day: What Angels Left

Marie Howe

What Angels Left

At first, the scissors seemed perfectly harmless.
They lay on the kitchen table in the blue light.

Then I began to notice them all over the house,
at night in the pantry, or filling up bowls in the cellar

where there should have been apples. They appeared under rugs,
lumpy places where one would usually settle before the fire,

or suddenly shining in the sink at the bottom of soupy water.
Once, I found a pair in the garden, stuck in turned dirt

among the new bulbs, and one night, under my pillow,
I felt something like a cool long tooth and pulled them out

to lie next to me in the dark. Soon after that I began
to collect them, filling boxes, old shopping bags,

every suitcase I owned. I grew slightly uncomfortable
when company came. What if someone noticed them

when looking for forks or replacing dried dishes? I longed
to throw them out, but how could I get rid of something

that felt oddly like grace? It occurred to me finally
that I was meant to use them, and I resisted a growing compulsion

to cut my hair, although in moments of great distraction,
I thought it was my eyes they wanted, or my soft belly

—exhausted, in winter, I laid them out on the lawn.
The snow fell quite as usual, without any apparent hesitation

or discomfort. In spring, as expected, they were gone.
In their place, a slight metallic smell, and the dear muddy earth.

My English poems: my

my

i hear the pieces of my head
that fall
as the clock ticks into history.

and what is left of my intellect
falters unwillingly
through the inner space.

for when the head is an empty room
of blank conclusions
that break the time

i can accept
that the pieces which now depart
were part of a logic
bigger than mine.

Meus poemas: ornato - sem agredir

ornato – sem agredir

o ligeiro ornato do teu corpo
parece estar sempre revestido
por uma vontade de viver
sem agredir

quando se é cuspido
de dentro
para fora
de ti
para esse conforto semimorto
que se vê
quando regressamos
quando subimos
pela tua pele acima

queremos ouvir novamente o som
esse som que acalma
e apavora – agonia vacilante
o som dos teus lábios
a derrotarem-me
esses lábios que já memorizei
sem precisar de lhes mudar a natureza

podemos recomeçar
podemos repousar
neste sentimento
que nos exporta
e reconforta
quando temos esta compressa

pensas que preciso de licença
para viver de novo contigo a tua infância

antes que isso aconteça
antes que isto desapareça
numa porta que se abre
quando se é engolido por um sentimento pouco preciso
amadureço diante de ti
antes que apodreça de amor
e coloco a cabeça no teu berço
sem agredir

já te sei ver
na tua nitidez
sem precisar do silêncio
mesmo quando o nosso sonho tem de morrer

Meus Poemas: vozes de criança

vozes de criança

as mãos que me tocam
são figuras do passado
fósseis
fracturas
falsificações

são filhas e filhos alegóricos
heróis
heroínas
herdeiros
de um horizonte humilhante

a cura para esta doença
esta culpa infantil – uma espécie de comichão interior
é confiar na confissão

a infância nunca pode ser pacífica
e procura sempre esconder
os resquícios depositados no coração

farei descer até mim
um líquido
que darei de beber
à minha nova criança
na nova génese - regeneração
e rodopio pelo chão
a salivar
solta do açaime

as minhas vozes falam entre si
não é preciso ser uma criança
não é preciso ser egoísta para ver a vida distorcida

Poema do dia: Forgetfulness

Billy Collins

Forgetfulness

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

Spoken Wounds

spoken wounds

Meus Poemas + imagem

vozes de criança

as minhas vozes falam entre si
não é preciso ser uma criança
não é preciso ser egoísta para ver a vida distorcida

Poema do dia: Insónia

Hélia Correia

Insónia

Ouço o incêndio, as fábricas. O berço
do suor interrupto. Ouço às vezes quem se ama
onde o amor não há – apenas morre
no clandestino abrir.
Ouço às vezes quem rompe os mapas cerce
e então na noite recupera as loucas
emigrações da história. Ouço crescendo
secamente os filhos no rancor e na linfa.
Astuciosamente recolhendo as vastidões adversas.
Ouço em momentos fartos o entulho,
desdobrada a raiz, fundar o mês da heresia,
a sábia recriação do sumo.
Ouço o arado. A luz. Profundamente
os barcos segregados na propensão do mar.
Ainda quem a medo desagregue
a centenária paz:
- os homens,
onde os ouço, aqui recordo
as origens compradas do terror.
Os homens, onde os ouço, aqui confirmo
suas mãos.

Celebration: Opeth's 20th Anniversary

This year is an important year for metal. Several bands are celebrating the years they've been around, releasing albums, delivering great sonic experiences, breaking through the norm, going against the grain, being original and idiosyncratic. One of these bands is Opeth. Outside of metal, chances are you never heard of them. The truth is they've become a household name in the metal world, quite deservedly so, and sometimes not for the purest of reasons. It's been 20 years now, 20 years, longevity is only a milestone if you manage to keep being relevant, and Opeth certainly are revelant, and are still growing stronger. The band was formed in 1990, hence the 20 years, and their first album was released in 1995, "Orchid" is the title of that album. Till this day, it still remains of one my favourite Opeth albums, 8 albums later. But actually my favourite Opeth albums are, a threesome, "My Arms, Your Hearse", "Blackwater Park" and "Still Life", in that order. All Opeth albums are good, but these 4 are flawless and influenced a whole new generation of bands. And now, 20 years later, we are beginning to see the signs of Opeth's influence in the new bands that are coming out, not afraid of being adventurous with their music, experimental, unconventional. Arguably, "Blackwater Park" revolucionized the way extreme metal music was being recorded, mixed, produced. It was sonic, sound, perfection like never seen before in such a brutal record. And it opened so many doors. Opeth have Steven Wilson to thank for that and also themselves for taking that chance. The thing Opeth are known for is their perfect blend of death metal and progressive music, adding a lot of other elements to their sound as well, including rock, black metal, and jazz. I love this band in a way I will never manage to explain, and I'm so glad I decided to rip "Orchid" that day, some years ago, and just fall into it. Needless to say, I ended up buying all Opeth original albums and cherish them dearly in my collection. And between me and you, Opeth and I, it is love, I tell you, I'm pretty sure. And who can say they've made it through 20 years of virtually no publicity, having to do it all by themselves, release 9 albums and finally achieving a peak, now being in total control of their careers, selling albums, doing DVDs, playing live to the world? And Opeth are successful, and really with metal bands, you can't measure success in terms of money like you do with pop or other types of music, it's about the music, the live experience, the feeling, the expression of one's self. Long Live Opeth. I love you. And this is my meek homage to you. Hope I get the chance to see you live again.

Novo Poema: manter os sentidos

manter os sentidos

quando for mais do que um mausoléu defeituoso
um corpo estranho num casulo

a escurecer
com a dor
de ter de crescer

posso não conseguir
respirar

posso não conseguir
fugir

posso não conseguir
cair
em mim
e manter os sentidos

como conseguiria
se soubesse parar de tremer
quando já não desapareço
na rebentação

quando o estar presa
a uma inocência desprotegida
é apenas mais um momento
de ilusão

Poema do dia: December Moon

Brenda Hillman

a) December Moon

Oak moon, reed moon—

our friend called;
she was telling the pain
what to think.

I said Look. If you
relax you'll get better.

Better? who wants better,
said a moonbeam
under the wire,

the soul is light's
hypotenuse; the lily's
logic is frozen fire—

b) December Moon

Suppose you are the secret
of the shore—a strong wave
lying on its side—

you'd come to earth again

(as if joy's understudy
would appear) & you
could live one more bold

day without meaning to,
afresh, on winter's piney floor;

you say, I've been
to the door & wept;
it says, what door

Random thoughts #14

tell me about the pain

Foto: Capa do álbum "Scarsick" dos Pain of Salvation.

My Poems: Staying Conscious

Just wrote a new poem. Just now.

staying conscious

I sift through my broken pieces,
sip the poison,
shift into something else

I’d better run
before I start feeling conscious

there’s a fire I cannot feed
a nothingness
filled with joy
and I’m standing on a railway
waiting to be found

I’d better speak
before I start shrinking to the size of a drug pill

there’s not enough blood
to keep me alive
I wouldn’t want to take that away from you

I start regretting
the withholding
and
touch
your surface

there’s nothing you can give me
that hasn’t been taken away before
with a stranglehold

I’d better taste the poison
before I take in the pain

and all of this time
I was only
trying
to stay conscious

Poem of the day: The Parakeets

Alberto Blanco

Translated by W.S. Merwin

The Parakeets

They talk all day
and when it starts to get dark
they lower their voices
to converse with their own shadows
and with the silence.

They are like everybody
—the parakeets—
all day chatter,
and at night bad dreams.

With their gold rings
on their clever faces,
brilliant feathers
and the heart restless
with speech...

They are like everybody,
—the parakeets—
the ones that talk best
have separate cages.

Random Thoughts

I see myself in you, poison.

Recomendações Visuais: Mark Ryden

Manus Christi


Fonte: http://www.markryden.com/paintings/index.html

Knowing John Mateer: three poems

I remember it vividly: I once met John Mateer, the poet. He went to my university in Lisbon when he was about to publish a new poem collection about Portugal, Southern Barbarians. It's about time someone talked about our past as colonizers and oppressors. And I never forgot the poems he read to us, probably there were 15 people in that room, most of them weren't even listening to the poems. I was. And I never forgot John Mateer. A white man born in South Africa.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a) Eduardo

You spoke my name in King João Library,

the hall closing in around us, the gilt-lined tomb

of a sinking carrack. According to my translator

in the preamble to reading your poems you envied me:

He is a white African; I am desterrado. I imagined you

asking

how many slaves were transmuted into the gold

embellishments

curling baroque and serpentine around us and whose skin

was used to bind the books entirely? We had hardly spoken

and yet were comrades, sharing memories: I wanted to ask

if back in Lourenço Marques you ever knew Mia Couto.

Or that tropical panda Malangatana? Or, maybe, Wopko

Jensma?

(That albino shadow whose gibberish was a blues, whose

saudade

remains a book of photos of The Poet gradually

disappearing

on the beach said to be Maputo.) You spoke

JOHN MATEER into the dark of King João Library

and were closer to my name than I will ever be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

b) The Tourist
They have their hands in his pockets and around his neck.
They’ve pinned him against the wall.
In the public toilets there are no surveillance cameras.

The tourist just off the plane has no witness to his struggle,
no one but himself to testify to his calm,
how he is telling himself, I could have been one of them,
disappointed with the Revolution…

The wall persists, abrasive, against his cheek
as he’s being bitten on the shoulder in this land of AIDS.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

c) The Prostitute
The woman is sitting in the doorway half in the sun.
Her face is hidden. She’s talking to someone out of sight.
Her legs crossed like fat fingers.
Even from here I can see her shins are bruised
and the white high-heels scuffed and dirty.
Though she beckons passers-by they hardly glance at her.

Then she stands up, steps into the humid street.
Her eyes clench against the bright.
Under her black vest her limp, shrunken breasts.
She spots me in the bar across the street and beckons,
insistently beckons me like a long forgotten friend.

Novo poema: Encomendar as Almas

encomendar as almas

coberta de pó
como se da terra saísse
desfaço
o horizonte oculto
que me sai pelos poros

tivesse a minha alma
sido encomendada
numa enxurrada de ossos qualquer
não teria oscilado
para fora e para dentro
de mim
como um globo de cortiça
dorido da queda

já nada há a lapidar
o condão
disforme
da existência
apenas se arrasta
nada me resta
para além da violência

metade do que sou
está morto
de nada adianta lamuriar-se
temer um castigo menor
a minha ferida
é difícil
de estancar

One of my favourite albums of all time: Lightbulb Sun

Those you know me relatively well, will know that Porcupine Tree is one of my favourite bands and probably the most original band in the rock realm of the last 25 years. Of course they experimented with metal sounds too and that made them even more avant-garde. The thing with Porcupine Tree is that they always release ALBUMS. Not singles, not a set of songs, not two good tracks and 4 fillers. Conceptual albums that make history. Most people will never see that in them, and most people will never understand Porcupine Tree's experience. But I'm not one of those people. I cherish all their albums as if they were a golden treasure and preserve them in my original CD collection with great delight. They released more than 20 albums by now, even more so if you count the live albums and other compilation. I'm still missing 3 original Porcupine Tree CDs, if I'm counting well, but those are my least favourite. But I'll buy them eventually. I was lucky enough to attend two very intimate Porcupine Tree concerts in Lisbon. They are an intimate band to begin with, so if you put them in a small cozy venue, sparks will fly. I have no doubt in my mind that these two shows were some of the best live experiences I've ever had and I will cherish those in my memory, it's a shame I can't relive them again. And hopefully, there will be more in the future.

But today I wana tell you about "Lightbulb Sun". This album was released in 2000 and most Porcupine Tree fans won't put it in PT's top list. Well, I do. I think this more acoustic-driven album is a masterpiece and paved the way for later albums like In Absentia, Deadwing and The Incident. You can't love guitars and not love this album. It's just not possible. The level of orchestration and melodic excellence just blows my mind everything I listen to it. And Porcupine Tree will always be a thought-provoking and non-conformist band. I love them for that. And I love them because they can translate that into beautiful, landscapery, music.

I recommend this to all open-minded rock and metal listeners, and everyone on the other side of the spectrum. There's no other band like Porcupine Tree. There are a lot of clones, they were obviously very influential to a new generation of bands. But none of them can ever accomplish what they've accomplished.

Poema do dia: Lost

Stephen Dobyns

Lost

A cry was heard among the trees,
not a man's, something deeper.
The forest extended up one side
the mountain and down the other.
None wanted to ask what had made
the cry. A bird, one wanted to say,
although he knew it wasn't a bird.
The sun climbed to the mountaintop,
and slid back down the other side.
The black treetops against the sky
were like teeth on a saw. They waited
for it to come a second time. It's lost,
one said. Each thought of being lost
and all the years that stretched behind.
Where had wrong turns been made?
Soon the cry came again. Closer now.

Poema do dia: Inheritance

Daniel Johnson

Inheritance

We drank hard water.
Spoke in plain language.

Said what we didn't

with a joke or a look.
One went missing—

let silence drill its hole.
A second fell ill.

We cloaked our mirrors.
Slashed a red X

on the door to our house.
Pass over us, I asked

the raven sky,
or burn in me

a second mouth.

I'm not

I'm not like everyone else.
I'm not.

Without a soul

without a soul

Poema do dia: The Ghazal of What Hurt

Peter Cole

The Ghazal of What Hurt

Pain froze you, for years—and fear—leaving scars.
But now, as though miraculously, it seems, here you are

walking easily across the ground, and into town
as though you were floating on air, which in part you are,

or riding a wave of what feels like the world's good will—
though helped along by something foreign and older than you are

and yet much younger too, inside you, and so palpable
an X-ray, you're sure, would show it, within the body you are,

not all that far beneath the skin, and even in
some bones. Making you wonder: Are you what you are—

with all that isn't actually you having flowed
through and settled in you, and made you what you are?

The pain was never replaced, nor was it quite erased.
It's memory now—so you know just how lucky you are.

You didn't always. Were you then? And where's the fear?
Inside your words, like an engine? The car you are?!

Face it, friend, you most exist when you're driven
away, or on—by forms and forces greater than you are.

Soundtrack: Devin Townsend - Coast

Knowing George Oppen: Leviathan

George Oppen

Leviathan

Truth also is the pursuit of it:
Like happiness, and it will not stand.

Even the verse begins to eat away
In the acid. Pursuit, pursuit;

A wind moves a little,
Moving in a circle, very cold.

How shall we say?
In ordinary discourse—

We must talk now. I am no longer sure of the words,
The clockwork of the world. What is inexplicable

Is the 'preponderance of objects,' The sky lights
Daily with that predominance

And we have become the present.

We must talk now. Fear
Is fear. But we abandon one another.

Recomendações musicais: Devin Townsend - Addicted

If there's an album I was addicted to this year, it was Devin Townsend's "Addicted". And it was surprising to me because I never heard Strapping Young Land or any other Devin's previous projects. But this really is good stuff. And it's mainstream metal too for non-metal listeners. So, I'm suggesting it both to metal lovers and to casual metal listeners or even just usual rock fans. This is a great album regardless of what you listen to and it was definitely one of the best albums to come out in 2009. This is very tasteful music, written by one of the wildest personalities in metal today, a great songwriter which is also a great musician. I really admire him for that. In the end, "Addicted" really is an addiction and so much of what the album is about has to do with it.

Album quote: We don't even understand Something's going on

Poema do dia: The Drone

Alicia Ostriker

The Drone

Get a move on
it says
every year,

day, hour, minute
keep going, keeping
up the good work, go on with

your task, it
never stops reminding me
how badly I am doing it

*

I have to straighten out
my love life first
get that on an even keel

I say, but it says
don’t fool yourself
love lives never get straightened out

they are by nature crooked
get back to work
you don’t have forever

*
Live to you now from the hypothalamus
here it comes again
the drone

at the base of my skull
or the voice of joy singing
duets with her partner death

same old task
gather grief like straw
spin it into praise