Poem of the day: I Pack Her Suitcase with Sticks, Light the Tinder, and Shut the Lid

Rob Schlegel

I Pack Her Suitcase with Sticks, Light the Tinder, and Shut the Lid

She used to sit on the forest floor
and I would cut her hair until it piled up
onto the ground, like ash.

Tonight, her name is a leaf covering
my left eye. The right I close f
or the wind to stitch shut with thread

from the dress she wore into the grave
where the determined roots of the tree
are making a braid around her body.

Poem of the day: A Drinking Song

William Butler Yeats

A Drinking Song

Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.

Poem of the day: Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour

Wallace Stevens

Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour

Light the first light of evening, as in a room
In which we rest and, for small reason, think
The world imagined is the ultimate good.

This is, therefore, the intensest rendezvous.
It is in that thought that we collect ourselves,
Out of all the indifferences, into one thing:

Within a single thing, a single shawl
Wrapped tightly round us, since we are poor, a warmth,
A light, a power, the miraculous influence.

Here, now, we forget each other and ourselves.
We feel the obscurity of an order, a whole,
A knowledge, that which arranged the rendezvous.

Within its vital boundary, the mind.
We say God and the imagination are one...
How high that highest candle lights the dark.

Out of this same light, out of the central mind,
We make a dwelling in the evening air,
In which being there together is enough.

the pit

“The dreamer dies, but never dies the dream."

Source: Blogtailors

My published poems: ns

Today is actually a very special day, one in which I share one of my published poems. It's actually the last poem of my collection "Música Morta, Vidas em Caixões". I kinda forgot about this poem for a while because I thought it was a bit dramatic, albeit ironic, but today I was reminded of my own poem by a photo I saw. And I just thought this photo suited the poem perfectly, better than anything else I could find at the time, for sure. So I'm putting them side by side, to hopefully enhance the reader's experience.

ns

law of masks. i'll give you mine if you give me yours.

let's be childish on purpose.

draw your fingers in my hands.
they are yours if you draw them.
let's pretend we know love.

we could watch the damage in other people.
you can abuse me if you find me.
let's play hide and seek.

diddle with werewolves when they sob.

i'll let you be my imaginary friend

if you have a second personality.

let's ask why randomly.

tonight we play with your puzzles and my charades.
i'll share my sins if you play with me.

let's be infantile and kill ourselves.

It's just a broken bone

don't be sad

it's just a broken bone

don't be sad

you're just on your own

Metal Archives [History] - Amon Amarth

So, once in a while, I go through my metal archives and decide to highlight a particular band or a particular album that I think stand out in the history of music, and why not say it, in the history of metal. Today I'm focusing on a very impressive band, Amon Amarth. They hail from Sweden, as so many great bands do, and despite being a hairy viking-looking bunch, their music is clearly made out of love. It took me years to get into this band, I even used to dislike them, as it happens so many times with bands I later come to love. I used to think their music wasn't for me because it didn't have that spark that sent shivers down my spine. Well, things change and so did my opinion when it came to Amon Amarth. I had a close friend who went to an Amon Amarth concert in Lisbon and that got me thinking. "Ok, he likes it, said he had the time of his life at their show, I should try them once again". And then I listened to "With Oden On Our Side", which is probably one of the most important death metal albums of all time, at least for me. But these guys don't play straightforward death metal, otherwise I probably wouldn't love them, they are the melodic kind, my kind. I love when bands go beyond the old formula and explore, which is exactly what Amon Amarth did. "With Oden On Our Side" blew me away and so I decided to listen to "Versus the World", which is a great album title by the way, and I thought that one was even better. To this day, its still my favourite Amon Amarth album, simply because every single song in it is perfect, from start to finish. Its one of the most perfect albums I've ever heard and its so smartly put together, besides the songwriting is absolutely stunning and innovative, no-one other bands sounds like Amon Amarth because they builded their own specific sound through the years and its a trademark sound by now, so no-one can touch it. The thing with Amon Amarth is that they were able to re-invent themselves and still stay true to their roots that made them so extraordinary in the first place. Sure, its the perfect soundtrack to epic movies, viking battles and wars, but its so much more than that. Their music exudes a passion I cannot find in a lot of bands, its brutal, aggressive to the bone, unstoppable, technical, intelligent and I also find progressive elements in it as well. It makes me headbang like crazy, so it means I'm having a lot of fun and want to jump around in excitement because their songs make me feel like I can be free and just enjoy the moment for once. Its extremely tasteful music, that you won't find in many more bands, certainly not in this genre. Very few can have the emotion I find in Amon Amarth, whether because they don't sound as sincere, or as commited, or simply because its not good enough. Then I listened to "Fate of Norns", the third album that stands out from me in their discography. Everyone knows "Pursuit of Vikins", their emblematic song, but this album is so much more than that, the quality is inequivocal and consistent. But what surprised me most with this album was Amon Amarth creative songwriting, they don't need to stray much to have stellar moments and they don't need a lot of musical embelishments to make their songs sound epic. So its in this simple complexity that I'm lost and found again and again. And it's so good to go back. It feels like home. I never have enough of it. And if I never have enough of it, its because it feeds something in me, something that makes me grow as an individual. Something that I feel in my skin. And its a great feeling too. I only feel it with certain bands, its some form of love I'm sure, and a connection with something on a deeper level that I can't quite put into words just yet but that I can feel. And there's also a different thing that comes into the equation, I love playing their songs on the guitar. They are so so fun to play I can't even begin to tell you why. That's part of my love for this band. And by analyzing their songs and playing them is the best way to realise their genius nature. Nothing more palpable than a song to understand the meaning of certain hidden messages the bands are sending. Just try it. Play a song you love, you'll immediately see it in a while new different way because you're touching it, as it were, you're actually touching "your" song, in that moments its yours for the taking. I love touching my songs. I do it all the time... :)

I recommend you go through all of their discography because it's certainly worth it. They have many more CDs, so just go for it.

e posso esquecer isto

Fonte: Blogtailors

Books I recommend: read more poetry

For poetry lovers and casual poetry readers even, or even for people who never read poetry but want to start reading poetry. For novelists who want to increase their creativity level, screenwriters who want to sound poetic, or painters who want to be inspired. For anyone who wants to be inspired. Read more poetry, original poetry, fake poetry, childish poetry, adult poetry, translated poetry, wannabe poetry, poseur poetry, good poetry, mediocre poetry, forward prize winners poetry, unknown poetry, commercial poetry, decadent poetry, dark poetry, death poetry, life poetry, spontaneous poetry, pathetic poetry, british poetry, portuguese poetry, american poetry, african poetry, latin poetry, australian poetry, european poetry, asian poetry, queer poetry, bisexual poetry, hetero poetry, sexual poetry, prude poetry, free poetry, feminist poetry, libidinal poetry, logocentric poetry, obsessive poetry, armed poetry, convincing poetry, alarming poetry, musical poetry. Just read it. Read more. Read more poetry.

Published by Faber & Faber.

dedo na ferida

Porquê meter o dedo na ferida

se a dor nunca mais pára

como a vida

Meet Don Paterson

Don Paterson

Rain

I love all films that start with rain:
rain, braiding a windowpane
or darkening a hung-out dress
or streaming down her upturned face;

one big thundering downpour
right through the empty script and score
before the act, before the blame,
before the lens pulls through the frame

to where the woman sits alone
beside a silent telephone
or the dress lies ruined on the grass
or the girl walks off the overpass,

and all things flow out from that source
along their fatal watercourse.
However bad or overlong
such a film can do no wrong,

so when his native twang shows through
or when the boom dips into view
or when her speech starts to betray
its adaptation from the play,

I think to when we opened cold
on a starlit gutter, running gold
with the neon drugstore sign
and I'd read into its blazing line:

forget the ink, the milk, the blood—
all was washed clean with the flood
we rose up from the falling waters
the fallen rain's own sons and daughter

sand none of this, none of this matters.

Poem of the Day: My Father's Leaving

Ira Sadoff

My Father's Leaving

When I came back, he was gone.
My mother was in the bathroom
crying, my sister in her crib
restless but asleep. The sun
was shining in the bay window,
the grass had not been cut.
No one mentioned the other woman,
nights he spent in that stranger's house.

I sat at my desk and wrote him a note.
When my mother saw his name on the sheet
of paper, she asked me to leave the house.
When she spoke, her voice was like a whisper
to someone else, her hand a weight
on my arm I could not feel.

In the evening, though, I opened the door
and saw a thousand houses just like ours.
I thought I was the one who was leaving,
and behind me I heard my mother's voice
asking me to stay. But I was thirteen
and wishing I were a man I listened
to no one, and no words from a woman
I loved were strong enough to make me stop.

And Thus is the Spirit of Heavy Metal...

Source: Arch Enemy facebook

Poem of the day: Dependants

Paul Farley

Dependants

How good we are for each other, walking through
a land of silence and darkness. You
open doors for me, I answer the phone for you.

I play jungle loud. You read with the light on.
Beautiful. The curve of your cheekbone,
explosive vowels, exact use of cologne.

What are you thinking? I ask in a language of touch
unique to us. You tap my palm nothing much.
At stations we compete senses, see which

comes first—light in the tunnel, whiplash down the rail.
I kick your shins when we go out for meals.
You dab my lips. I finger yours like Braille.

Read more books than blogs

Meus Poemas: fóssil

fóssil

a angústia
do fim do dia
faz-me perceber
o quanto tudo é frágil
e insignificante.

o que agora sinto
será transformado
em algo pior
quando acordar
noutro tempo
anterior ao Cretáceo
onde nada se sentia
onde tudo era pó sangrento
de sobrevivência primitiva

quem me dera poder voltar
a ser um fóssil
do que sou
do que me tornei
depois de ter conseguido sentir

serei imortal, sim,
pelos vestígios que deixo
os meus ossos

mas nunca serei imortal
por ter uma voz
que ninguém cala
com ameaças de morte

posso até estar aprisionada
mas isso nada significará
para quem me conseguir ver
a 95 milhões de anos de distância

Poem of the day: Wants

Philip Larkin

Wants

Beyond all this, the wish to be alone:
However the sky grows dark with invitation-cards
However we follow the printed directions of sex
However the family is photographed under the flagstaff -
Beyond all this, the wish to be alone.

Beneath it all, desire of oblivion runs:
Despite the artful tensions of the calendar,
The life insurance, the tabled fertility rites,
The costly aversion of the eyes from death -
Beneath it all, desire of oblivion runs.

Poem of the day: XXV

Philip Larkin

XXV

Morning has spread again
Through every street,
And we are strange again;
For should we meet
How can I tell you that
Last night you came
Unbidden, in a dream?
And how forget
That we had worn down love good-humouredly,
Talking in fits and starts
As friends, as they will be
Who have let passion die within their hearts.
Now, watching the red east expand,
I wonder love can have already set
In dreams, when we've not met
More times than I can number on one hand.

It is not love you will find

"It is not love you will find."

Sources: national geographic contest photo

Philip Larkin poem ""XIII"

formas inesperadas

formas inesperadas

a felicidade
assume várias formas inesperadas

a minha

assume apenas uma

a de um poema completo

terminado

um poema

que me diga

o que eu não consigo dizer