Randomness #77

Os meus gatos

gostam de brincar

com as minhas baratas.

Autobiografia Sumária

de Adília Lopes

Poem of the day: Challenger

Lyrae Van Clief-Stefanon

Challenger

pretty's just armor
something else

to wear like a dress or a name
not magic like skin

apparel apparent apparently
repellant pretty
don't draw

flies like
honey we just pretend

it does skin is

what draws you don't
believe me

just think skin flick

the winter sky
is not a skin you
might fly right

out

past it but pretty
makes an atmosphere
it's hard to get back in

one hitch one weak

O ring and you are that
white dense
puff of pinkish smoke

too thick for cloud
trailers swerving off in opposite
directions someone not
coming home you believed
lifting off you were

bound somewhere boundless
you will never be that

pretty again

Poem of the day: The Process

Joseph Massey

The Process

Cross-stitched
outside sounds
double the day's

indoor confusion.
How to untwine
noise, to see.

There's the bay,
highway slashed
beneath; water

a weaker shade
of gray than this
momentary sky's

widening bruise.
The page turns
on the table, bare

despite all
I thought was
written there.

The Book I'm Reading: Julius Caesar

Citação do Dia

«Todos estamos sós no coração da Terra

trespassado por um raio de sol;

e de repente anoitece.»

Salvatore Quasimodo

Poema do dia: 5

Alice Vieira

5

a porta entreaberta a prolongar

os teus passos os castanheiros a cidade em chamas

a minha voz a prometer-te uma carta

(prometo sempre cartas a quem se perde

entre o meu corpo e os patamares das escadas

de países desconhecidos)

mas tu já não ouviste ou então

tudo tinha deixado de fazer sentido

e eu a pensar ainda

uma palavra tua e eu serei salva

Citação do dia

«Em algum momento fomos simultâneos

como dois corpos tombando na água.»

José Tolentino Mendonça,

A Estrada Branca

Webmagazine The End of The Road: 2nd issue

Here is the link to my beloved magazine The End of the Road:http://issuu.com/endoftheroad/docs/english_issue_2?mode=embed&layout=http://skin.issuu.com/v/light/layout.xml&showFlipBtn=true

Hope you like it, I certainly enjoyed it.

Metal all the way!

random #67

Fuck it

Poem of the day: Vision

Erica Funkhouser

Vision

With age
mirage
assuages
what the youthful eye
would have studied
until identified—
chicory? bluebird? debris?
Today no nomenclature
ruptures
the composure
of a chalk-blue haze
pausing, even dawdling,
now and then trembling
over what I'm going to call
fresh water.

#78 Happiness is expensive

#99

Poem of the day: If We Must Die

Claude McKay

If We Must Die

If we must die—let it not be like hogs
Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot,
While round us bark the mad and hungry dogs,
Making their mock at our accursed lot.
If we must die—oh, let us nobly die,
So that our precious blood may not be shed
In vain; then even the monsters we defy
Shall be constrained to honor us though dead!
Oh, Kinsmen! We must meet the common foe;
Though far outnumbered, let us show us brave,
And for their thousand blows deal one deathblow!
What though before us lies the open grave?
Like men we'll face the murderous, cowardly pack,
Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!

Os Meus Poemas: encarar o livro de frente

encarar o livro de frente

podia até chorar

por um livro

que estivesse em cima da mesa

a servir de amparo

para as horas em que encaro a vida de frente

estou a ter dificuldades

em acalmar sentimentos

em conseguir viver os pensamentos

que estão a dar passos na minha memória viva

mas de que vale chorar

se as vozes estridentes

vieram para ficar

e as palavras que estão dentro dos livros

correm umas atrás das outras

na minha direcção

para me matar

Randomness #7

Fonte: www.learnsomethingeveryday.co.uk/

Poem of the day: Robert Harms Paints the Surface of Little Fresh Pond

Mark Doty

Robert Harms Paints the Surface
of Little Fresh Pond

Surface the action of the day,

a means of tracing the dynamic,
so that a jitter of blue's
sparked by little coals,

sun a glimmer
of the day's intent. He knows
to trace an alphabet written on water

is to surface the action of the day,

a way of proceeding,
entering into the never-
to-be repeated,

a way of reading
a nearly infinite variety of gestures
legible only to one versed

in surface, the action of the day.

When my eye nearly failed
—the frail foil-back torn,
wild profusion of smoke-curls,

what I saw was just this:
what he sees on and in water,
by his hand

the action of surface notated,

the rhythm of things
discerned and ridden.

#56

that I would be loved even when I numb myself

Pintura: How They Met Themselves

How They Met Themselves by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1861

Poem of the day: Pericardium

Joanna Klink

Pericardium

Am I not alone, as I thought I was, as I thought
The day was, the hour I walked into, morning
When I felt night fly from my chest where prospect had
Slackened, and close itself off, understanding, as I thought I did,
That the ground would resist my legs and not let them
Break nor let them be released into air as my heart, in its
Muscle, might be released from the body that surrounds it,
Like someone who, placing a hand on a shoulder's
Blade, felt a life move inside an hour and a day
Break from the day the hour meant something more than weakness,
More than fear, and flew forward into the depths of
Prospect, your arms, where you'd been, before me, waiting
For me, the way the body has always been waiting for the heart to sense
It is housed, it is needed, it will not be harmed.

Poem of the day: Spellbound

Emily Brontë

Spellbound

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow.
And the storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing dear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.

Poem of the day: Vertical

Linda Pastan

Vertical

Perhaps the purpose
of leaves is to conceal
the verticality
of trees
which we notice
in December
as if for the first time:
row after row
of dark forms
yearning upwards.
And since we will be
horizontal ourselves
for so long,
let us now honor
the gods
of the vertical:
stalks of wheat
which to the ant
must seem as high
as these trees do to us,
silos and
telephone poles,
stalagmites
and skyscrapers.
but most of all
these winter oaks,
these soft-fleshed poplars,
this birch
whose bark is like
roughened skin
against which I lean
my chilled head,
not ready
to lie down.

*6

Motto of the day: Everything will be ok

Somos Povo

Vamos ler até cairmos para o lado

Poema do dia: Os Adeuses

Tomaz de Figueiredo

OS ADEUSES
Casa à beira do Vez - quem tem, sem ter -
onde passava noites à lareira,
jogando a bisca ou Vieira a ler,
chorando, às vezes... com a fumaceira...
 
Casa onde via bagos lourescer
e escrevia aos olores da laranjeira,
onde cuidou em paz vir a morrer
ao embalo da fonte cantadeira...
 
Casa do Amor, do Sonho e da Lembrança,
do Sempre e das Meninas Tias Velhas,
de falsos com fantasmas, cacaréus...
 
Casa das tropelias de criança
e que não mais há-de abrigá-lo às telhas,
Casa de Avós, perdida casa: - Adeus!

Poem of the day: I Can Afford Neither the Rain

Holly Iglesias

I Can Afford Neither the Rain

Nor the strip of light between the slats, the window itself blind with grief. Nor the bench where the last mourner lingers, the others on to the next thing, leaning into the bar, toasting the sweethearts, gone and gone, their passion and ire softening now into the earth. Nor the bluff above the Mississippi where centuries of war dead rest, where the stone stands bearing their names, the wind of romance hard against it.

Alone in a Crowd

Todos estamos sozinhos, Mariana.

Sozinhos e muita gente à nossa volta.

Tanta gente, Mariana!

E ninguém vai fazer nada por nós.

Ninguém pode. Ninguém queria, se pudesse.

Fonte: Livro "Tanta Gente, Mariana..." da autora Maria Judite de Carvalho.

Limericks

Mankind's civilizations all fan
Common cultural forms for our clan.
We have fears: "Who are we —
Minds, machines, dreams — all three?
Did some natural law plot this plan?"

where art thou?

Literature it is