Joseph Conrad
domingo, 16 de maio de 2010
Quote of the day: Conrad
“The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary: men alone are quite capable of every wickedness”
Poem of the day: Across a Great Wilderness without You
Keetje Kuipers
Across a Great Wilderness without You
The deer come out in the evening.
God bless them for not judging me,
I'm drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe
and make strange noises at them—
language,
if language can be a kind of crying.
The tin cans scattered in the meadow glow,
each bullet hole suffused with moon,
like the platinum thread beyond them
where the river runs the length of the valley.
That's where the fish are.
Tomorrow
I'll scoop them from the pockets of graveled
stone beneath the bank, their bodies
desperately alive when I hold them in my hands,
the way prayers become more hopeless
when uttered aloud.
The phone's disconnected.
Just as well, I've got nothing to tell you:
I won't go inside where the bats dip and swarm
over my bed. It's the sound of them
shouldering against each other that terrifies me,
as if it might hurt to brush across another being's
living flesh.
But I carry a gun now. I've cut down
a tree. You wouldn't recognize me in town—
my hands lost in my pockets, two disabused tools
I've retired from their life of touching you.
Across a Great Wilderness without You
The deer come out in the evening.
God bless them for not judging me,
I'm drunk. I stand on the porch in my bathrobe
and make strange noises at them—
language,
if language can be a kind of crying.
The tin cans scattered in the meadow glow,
each bullet hole suffused with moon,
like the platinum thread beyond them
where the river runs the length of the valley.
That's where the fish are.
Tomorrow
I'll scoop them from the pockets of graveled
stone beneath the bank, their bodies
desperately alive when I hold them in my hands,
the way prayers become more hopeless
when uttered aloud.
The phone's disconnected.
Just as well, I've got nothing to tell you:
I won't go inside where the bats dip and swarm
over my bed. It's the sound of them
shouldering against each other that terrifies me,
as if it might hurt to brush across another being's
living flesh.
But I carry a gun now. I've cut down
a tree. You wouldn't recognize me in town—
my hands lost in my pockets, two disabused tools
I've retired from their life of touching you.
sábado, 15 de maio de 2010
Playlist das próximas semanas: metal para todos os gostos
Estes são os álbuns que tenho previsto ouvir nestas próximas semanas. Já ando a adiar alguns destes há muito tempo, mesmo desde 2008 e 2009. E está na altura de começar a ouvir a últimas novidades antes que fique completamente obcecada com os novos lançamentos deste ano. É bom voltar a bandas que não oiço há bastante tempo, mas que sigo com interesse e ouvir novos projectos que podem vir a ser surpresas positivas.
a) Ramp - Visions
b) Swallow the Sun - New Moon
c) OSI - Blood
d) Isis - Wavering Radiant
e) Vader - Necropolis
f) Megadeth - Endgame
g) Triptykon - Eparistera Daimones
Poem of the day: A Grave
Marianne Moore
A Grave
Man looking into the sea,
taking the view from those who have as much right to it as you have to
yourself,
it is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing,
but you cannot stand in the middle of this;
the sea has nothing to give but a well excavated grave.
The firs stand in a procession, each with an emerald turkey-foot at the
top,
reserved as their contours, saying nothing;
repression, however, is not the most obvious characteristic of the sea;
the sea is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look.
There are others besides you who have worn that look--
whose expression is no longer a protest; the fish no longer investigate
them
for their bones have not lasted:
men lower nets, unconscious of the fact that they are desecrating a grave,
and row quickly away--the blades of the oars
moving together like the feet of water-spiders as if there were no such
thing as death.
The wrinkles progress among themselves in a phalanx--beautiful under
networks of foam,
and fade breathlessly while the sea rustles in and out of the seaweed;
the birds swim through the air at top speed, emitting cat-calls as hereto-
fore--
the tortoise-shell scourges about the feet of the cliffs, in motion beneath
them;
and the ocean, under the pulsation of lighthouses and noise of bellbuoys,
advances as usual, looking as if it were not that ocean in which dropped
things are bound to sink--
in which if they turn and twist, it is neither with volition nor
consciousness.
A Grave
Man looking into the sea,
taking the view from those who have as much right to it as you have to
yourself,
it is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing,
but you cannot stand in the middle of this;
the sea has nothing to give but a well excavated grave.
The firs stand in a procession, each with an emerald turkey-foot at the
top,
reserved as their contours, saying nothing;
repression, however, is not the most obvious characteristic of the sea;
the sea is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look.
There are others besides you who have worn that look--
whose expression is no longer a protest; the fish no longer investigate
them
for their bones have not lasted:
men lower nets, unconscious of the fact that they are desecrating a grave,
and row quickly away--the blades of the oars
moving together like the feet of water-spiders as if there were no such
thing as death.
The wrinkles progress among themselves in a phalanx--beautiful under
networks of foam,
and fade breathlessly while the sea rustles in and out of the seaweed;
the birds swim through the air at top speed, emitting cat-calls as hereto-
fore--
the tortoise-shell scourges about the feet of the cliffs, in motion beneath
them;
and the ocean, under the pulsation of lighthouses and noise of bellbuoys,
advances as usual, looking as if it were not that ocean in which dropped
things are bound to sink--
in which if they turn and twist, it is neither with volition nor
consciousness.
Novo poema: m.e.d.o – parte II: entre nós
Mais um poema para esta trilogia de poemas que criei. Ainda não sei se no fim será uma trilogia ou mais conjuntos de poemas sob o mesmo molde. Tenho de ver onde este projecto me leva. Mas aqui fica a segunda parte. Nem sequer sei se os vou usar no futuro, mas estou a testá-los.
m.e.d.o – parte II: entre nós
poucas são as vezes
em que arranjamos tempo
para ter consciência
do que somos
para ter consciência
do que é sentir os outros
sem outras pretensões
sem outras protecções
porque o medo
de encontrar um reflexo no outro
é mais aterrador
do que a dor
que sentimos
quando a nossa verdade
desperta
a minha verdade
é a tua verdade
está no teu sorriso
quando não vês
as barreiras
que nos separam
e nada mais há a fazer
para além de estender a mão
a esta nova voz
de uma nova cumplicidade
que rasga o medo
de ser feliz
m.e.d.o – parte II: entre nós
poucas são as vezes
em que arranjamos tempo
para ter consciência
do que somos
para ter consciência
do que é sentir os outros
sem outras pretensões
sem outras protecções
porque o medo
de encontrar um reflexo no outro
é mais aterrador
do que a dor
que sentimos
quando a nossa verdade
desperta
a minha verdade
é a tua verdade
está no teu sorriso
quando não vês
as barreiras
que nos separam
e nada mais há a fazer
para além de estender a mão
a esta nova voz
de uma nova cumplicidade
que rasga o medo
de ser feliz
segunda-feira, 10 de maio de 2010
Novo poema: m.e.d.o
m.e.d.o (parte I)
começo a sentir
as mãos a acariciarem
sensualmente
o meu pescoço
começa o medo
a envolver-me
por entre
os teus
raios de luz
qual alma que esvoaça
do corpo
e se lança
no turbilhão
da vida
começa
a transformação
a recolha interior
o gritar na parte de dentro
aquilo
que desejaria roubar
o sentimento mais primitivo
começa no corpo
a mudar de posição
começa com o medo
a estender-me a mão
começo a sentir
as mãos a acariciarem
sensualmente
o meu pescoço
começa o medo
a envolver-me
por entre
os teus
raios de luz
qual alma que esvoaça
do corpo
e se lança
no turbilhão
da vida
começa
a transformação
a recolha interior
o gritar na parte de dentro
aquilo
que desejaria roubar
o sentimento mais primitivo
começa no corpo
a mudar de posição
começa com o medo
a estender-me a mão
Poem of the day: Ignatz Oasis
Monica Youn
Ignatz Oasis
When you have left me
the sky drains of color
like the skin
of a tightening fist.
The sun commences
its gold prowl
batting at tinsel streamers
on the electric fan.
Crouching I hide
in the coolness I stole
from the brass rods
of your bed.
Ignatz Oasis
When you have left me
the sky drains of color
like the skin
of a tightening fist.
The sun commences
its gold prowl
batting at tinsel streamers
on the electric fan.
Crouching I hide
in the coolness I stole
from the brass rods
of your bed.
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