IP

“Come with all your shame, come with your swollen heart, I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than you.”

— Warsan Shire

Who knew that eyes could hunger?
Mine were starving,

(Sarah Spang)

(...)

Máscara, sem apeiron nem resguardo...
Perdi as palavras, mas o olhar ainda o guardo.

bja

 da net

And while yes, there are terrorists, rapists, murderers, and oppressors in this world,
We mustn’t forget about the poets, doctors, lovers, teachers, comedians, and artists that repair such devastation.

 by Samantha Schechter via ArtParasites

(...)

I hope our ghosts aren’t eating you alive.
If I’m to speak for myself, I’ll tell you that
the universe is twice as big as we think it is
and you’re the only one that made that idea
less devastating.” 

― Lucas Regazzi

You will never be let down by anyone
more than you will be let down
by the one you love most in the world
it’s how gravity works
it’s why they call it “falling”
it’s why the truth is harder to tell
every year you have more to lose
but you can choose to bury your past
in the garden by the tulips
water it until it’s so alive
it lets go
and you belong to yourself
again

(...)

- Andrea Gibson, Royal Heart

Não abras o livro que não queres ler.

Não o deixes, assim, aberto ao vento

vulnerável

às intempéries da fé

aos sonhos rasgados

(...)

bja

Entra onde estou

sem ti, sòzinho.

As portas cerra

devagarinho

(...)

"Du Bist Dir Ruh", Friedrich Rückert

traduzido po Jorge de Sena

  by janet little

Que sei eu dos nós que rompem

a cadência regular

dos círculos do tempo...

que sei eu que os vejo de dentro?

Vi as colunas sem Tebas

na  cidade que me pertenceu

vivi com os argonautas

Jasão e Teseu eram eu.

(...) 

bja

Saí do canteiro onde nunca estive

A realidade é este descompasso

Não sei fingir o não-cansaço

Não sei alinhar o passo

Com os que são de Março.

(...)

bja

IV. [LOVE AND THE FOWLER]

One day a fowler-lad was out after birds in a coppice, when he espied perching upon a box-tree bough the shy-retiring Love. Rejoicing that he had found what seemed him so fine a bird, he fits all his lime-rods together and lies in wait for that hipping-hopping quarry. But soon finding that there was no end to it, he flew into a rage, cast down his rods, and sought the old ploughman who had taught him his trade; and both told him what had happened and showed him where young Love did sit. At that the old man smiled and wagged his wise head, and answered: “Withhold they hand, my lad, and go not after this bird; flee him far; ‘tis evil game. Thou shalt not be happy so long as thou catch him not, but so sure as thou shalt come to the stature of a man, he that hoppeth and scapeth thee now will come suddenly of himself and light upon thy head.”

(...)

VII. [THE POET’S PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE]

. . . I know not, and ‘tis unseemly to labour aught we wot not of. If my poor songs are good, I shall have fame out of such things as Fate hath bestowed upon me already – they will be enough; but if they are bad, what boots it me to go toiling on? If we men were given, be it of the Son of Cronus or of fickle Fate, two lives, the one for pleasuring and mirth and the other for toil, then perhaps might one do the toiling first and get the good things afterward. But seeing Heaven’s decree is, man shall live but once, and that for too brief a while to do all he would, then O how long shall we go thus miserably toiling and moiling, and how long shall we lavish our life upon getting and making, in the consuming desire for more wealth and yet more? Is it that we all forget that we are mortal and Fate hath allotted us so brief a span? . . .

 via http://www.theoi.com/

imagem da net

Our souls draw to a light within starlight.
And darkness, drawn to light, grows light; our eyes,
Our souls, grow light; and all that near them lies
Is brought within the lustre of their sphere,
Till earth and life grow beautifully clear.

Robert Leighton

My Lovely June.

O come sweet June, my lovely June
The month when first the roses bloom -
A wondrous, colourful display
By sunlight kissed throughout the day,
So chasing all my cares away.

Valerie Dohren

‘The years shall run like rabbits,
   For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
   And the first love of the world.'

But all the clocks in the city
   Began to whirr and chime:
‘O let not Time deceive you,
   You cannot conquer Time.

‘In the burrows of the Nightmare
   Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
   And coughs when you would kiss.

‘In headaches and in worry
   Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
   To-morrow or to-day.
.

quando te dissolverás?)

Luís Augusto Cassas

Pudesse a árvore vagar
E mover-se com pés e asas,

Não sofreria os golpes do machado
Nem a dor de ser cortada.

Não errasse o sol por toda a noite,
Como poderia ser o mundo iluminado
A cada nova manhã?

E se a água do mar não subisse ao céu,
Como cresceriam as plantas
Regadas pela chuva e pelos rios?

A gota que deixou seu lar, o oceano,
E a ele depois retornou,
Encontrou a ostra à sua espera
E nela se fez pérola.

Rumi (1207-1273)

OTRO DOMINGO

Leyendo un libro de Virginia Woolf

Y es de nuevo domingo.

Y la tarde envejece,

y tiene un corazón lastimado de nombres,

herido de renuncias,

y un silencio despierto por anónimos pasos,

pulso gris de la casa.

Y estay sola

                   y leo

un libro:

                   alma

que se desnuda,

que dice del recuerdo,

de la vida que pasa,

de los hombres que existen, a pesar de su historia;

(...)

Elena Martín Vivaldi

LA CANCIÓN DEL CROUPIER DEL MISSISSIPPI

Fumo mucho. Demasiado.
Fumo para frotar el tiempo y a veces oigo la radio,
y oigo pasar la vida como quien pone la radio.
Fumo mucho. En el cenicero hay
ideas y poemas y voces
de amigos que no tengo. Y tengo
la boca llena de sangre,
y sangre que sale de las grietas de mi cráneo
y toda mi alma sabe a sangre,

(...)

Escribir en España no es llorar, es beber,
es beber la rabia del que no se resigna
a morir en las esquinas, es beber y mal
decir, blasfemar contra España
contra este país sin dioses pero con
estatuas de dioses, es
beber en la iglesia con música de órgano
es caerse borracho en los recitales y manchas de vino
tinto y sangre «Le livre des masques» de Rémy de Gourmont
caerse húmedo babeante y tonto y
derrumbarse como un árbol ante los farolillos
de esta verbena cultural. Escribir en España es tener
hasta el borde en la sangre este alcohol de locura que ya
no justifica nada ni nadie, ninguna sombra
de las que allí había al principio.
Y decir al morir, cuando tenga
ya en la boca y cabeza la baba del suicidio
gritarle a las sombras, a las tantas que hay y fantasmas
en este paraíso para espectros
y también a los ciervos que he visto en el bosque,
y a los pájaros y a los lobos en la calle y
acechando en las esquinas
«Fifteen men on the Dead Man's Chest
Fifteen men on the Dead Man's Chest
Yahoo! And a bottle of rum!»

Leopoldo María Panero

Ninguém sabe onde vai nem donde vem,
Mas o eco dos seus passos
Enche o ar de caminhos e de espaços
E acorda as ruas mortas.

Sophia de Mello Breyner Andresen
Obra Poética I (Como uma flor vermelha)

Não, cansaço não é...
É eu estar existindo
E também o mundo,
Com tudo aquilo que contém,
Como tudo aquilo que nele se desdobra
E afinal é a mesma coisa variada em cópias iguais.

Álvaro de Campos