IP

Começar o dia com poesia

beatriz j a — Sat, 14 Sep 2019 02:51:00 GMT

Let joy.
Let entering. Let rage and calm join.
Let quail come.
Let winter impress you. Let spring.
Allow the ocean to wake in you.

—Linda Gregg, (1942 - 2019)

September 1, 1939

beatriz j a — Mon, 02 Sep 2019 04:12:00 GMT

May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.

- - -

September 1, 1939

W. H. Auden - 1907-1973

I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.

Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.

Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.

From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
"I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,"
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the deaf,
Who can speak for the dumb?

All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.

Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.

'...pink petals that have never felt loneliness, no matter how slowly they fell'

beatriz j a — Wed, 28 Aug 2019 20:41:00 GMT

The Magnolia Gardens near Charleston, SC

"I am the daughter of Earth and Water"

beatriz j a — Sun, 04 Aug 2019 22:35:00 GMT

I am the daughter of Earth and Water,
And the nursling of the Sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain
The pavilion of Heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams
Build up the Blue dome of air,
I silently laugh...

- Percy Bysshe Shelley, from "The Cloud"

A. Bierstadt

Poesia pela manhã

beatriz j a — Wed, 15 May 2019 05:52:00 GMT

by Louise Glück

'The peace of wild things'

beatriz j a — Tue, 05 Mar 2019 11:50:00 GMT

via Richard Cheatham

"And Still I Rise" - Maya Angelou

beatriz j a — Sun, 03 Feb 2019 20:22:00 GMT

recited by herself

Don’t go far off

beatriz j a — Thu, 27 Sep 2018 18:34:00 GMT

Don’t go far off, not even for a day, because –
Because – I don’t know how to say it: a day is long
And I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station
When the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don’t leave me, even for an hour, because
Then the little drops of anguish will all run together,
The smoke that roams looking for a home will drift
Into me, choking my lost heart.
Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;
May your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.
Don’t leave me for a second, my dearest,

Because in that moment you’ll have gone so far
I’ll wander maziliy over all the earth, asking,
Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

Neruda

Giorgio Vasari, Poetry

beatriz j a — Mon, 07 May 2018 17:12:00 GMT

Giorgio Vasari, Poetry, 1560s, Florentine sala, Casa Vasari, Florence

Spoken poetry - Rumi

beatriz j a — Mon, 07 May 2018 16:18:00 GMT

In my dreams

beatriz j a — Thu, 03 May 2018 21:23:00 GMT

Ezra Pound - about poetry

beatriz j a — Tue, 06 Mar 2018 19:13:00 GMT

“I don’t know about method. The what is so much more important than how.” —Ezra Pound

erza pound, circa 1913

Blue on blue

beatriz j a — Tue, 26 Dec 2017 18:59:00 GMT

From the beginning
the flying birds have left
no footprints on the blue sky.
- Miso Soseki

Lisa Le Quelenec

All you who sleep tonight

beatriz j a — Tue, 26 Dec 2017 04:22:00 GMT

All you who sleep tonight
Far from the ones you love,
No hand to left or right
And emptiness above -

(...)

Vikram Seth

bernard safran

Have you ever

beatriz j a — Sun, 14 May 2017 18:05:00 GMT

Clouds

Have you ever
stopped to listen
to the things
the clouds
are saying
as the rain
pours down
on this earth?
Maybe they had
a bad day,
and only need
a listening
ear.

-JRM

Incompletos

beatriz j a — Thu, 04 Feb 2016 04:30:00 GMT

Who knew that eyes could hunger?
Mine were starving,

(Sarah Spang)

Alan Rickman reads Shakespeare with his amazing voice...

beatriz j a — Thu, 14 Jan 2016 20:26:00 GMT

Big questions

beatriz j a — Tue, 23 Jun 2015 07:19:00 GMT

In prisons, poetry books are so coveted that they are the first to be stolen from the library.

Why does poetry affect us so deeply?

(Pascale Petit)

Poetry, 'Black Privilege' by Crystal Valentine

beatriz j a — Sat, 13 Jun 2015 21:53:00 GMT

The moment

beatriz j a — Wed, 03 Jun 2015 16:59:00 GMT

THE MOMENT

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.

-- Margaret Atwood

Poesia pela manhã

beatriz j a — Mon, 16 Feb 2015 09:18:00 GMT

Self under self, a pile of selves I stand
Threaded on time, and with metaphysic hand
Lift the farm like a lid and see
Farm within farm, and in the centre, me.

“Summer Farm”, Norman MacCaig

Robert Frost - Two roads diverged in a yellow wood

beatriz j a — Sun, 14 Dec 2014 21:42:00 GMT

Lars van de Goor

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

(…)

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

'All perished, all'

beatriz j a — Mon, 09 Jun 2014 04:22:12 GMT

Aleksandr Blok

.........

"All perished, All!..."

1900

All perished, all! The sun, in flame and brilliance,
As did it long before, the years’ circle fulfils.
A sorrow grave deplores the past existence – 
That was so beautiful – under the solemn hills.
And in the black night a white specter-mist 
Waits other shades, the silent one and grievous.

Oh, whitening shade, again you will obtain
Crowds of others, lost of past, entire.
A night will pass, come a long day again – 
Again will rise, in its self-scorching mire,
Sun of the day, the sun of golden fire,
And will again burn the sad hills and plain.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, October, 2002
(from poetry lovers page)

There is another sky

beatriz j a — Sat, 03 May 2014 21:34:52 GMT

There is another sky

by Emily Dickinson

There is another sky,
Ever serene and fair,
And there is another sunshine,
Though it be darkness there;
Never mind faded forests, Austin,
Never mind silent fields -
Here is a little forest,
Whose leaf is ever green;
Here is a brighter garden,
Where not a frost has been;
In its unfading flowers
I hear the bright bee hum:
Prithee, my brother,
Into my garden come!

The Mountain

beatriz j a — Thu, 13 Mar 2014 21:52:38 GMT